My One-Year Mangaka Journey: From Rekindling Passion to Drawing New Worlds

A year ago, I made a decision that would quietly reshape my life: I picked up a pencil and returned to the world of manga.

 It had been twenty-five years—a full quarter of a century—since I'd last seriously drawn anything beyond quick sketches or forgotten doodles. Life has taken me through various creative fields, including filmmaking, writing, and directing. Yet the itch to tell visual stories in sequential art never truly left. It just lay dormant, like a forgotten panel waiting for its moment.

This past year has been transformative, humbling, and exhilarating. I want to reflect on this incredible year as a beginner mangaka, how I reignited a passion from my past, and where this journey is taking me next.

At first, it felt surreal to hold drawing tools again. I began with simple strokes, trying to recreate poses from my favorite manga series, only to realize how much my muscle memory had faded. My first attempts were clumsy—anatomy was off, proportions wonky, and shading inconsistent—but I pressed on. I studied anatomy guides, perspective tutorials, and panel layout theory. Every line, even the crooked ones, became part of my rebirth as an artist. The learning curve was steep, but the joy of discovery made every challenge worth it.

One of the most significant shifts was in the tools I used. After years of working digitally with Adobe products in filmmaking and design, I transitioned to using Affinity and GIMP—more accessible platforms that offered freedom without the financial overhead. I also began exploring traditional tools I had only read about before: G-pens, Deleter ink, manga manuscript paper, and even screen tones. There was something deeply grounding about inking a page by hand, hearing the scratch of the nib on paper, feeling the tactile tension of a brushstroke. It connected me to the roots of manga in a way digital drawing alone never could.

Buying these tools wasn't just a technical shift—it was symbolic. It meant I was no longer dabbling. I was committing to this journey. Each pencil, pen, and eraser became a physical promise to me. I began to carve out time weekly—then daily—for drawing, even when I felt tired or discouraged. I created characters that lived in my mind for years, finally giving them visual form. I storyboarded scenes, experimented with expressions, and revised pages late into the night.

The most surprising aspect of this return has been its emotional impact. There were moments I cried—not from frustration, but from a sense of finally being "home." I remembered why I fell in love with manga in the first place: the ability to capture moments of raw emotion, to tell stories that transcend language, to convey meaning through silence in a single panel.

Now, a year in, I'm still a beginner. I still wrestle with anatomy and perspective. I still hesitate before every page, wondering if I'm good enough. But I've learned to love the process. Growth, I've realized, isn't always measured in how clean your lines are or how fast you can draw—it's in your willingness to keep going.

This anniversary isn't just about looking back—it's about looking ahead. I'm currently building my manga projects. I have stories to tell, worlds to build, and characters who are eager to leap from my mind onto the page. This journey is only just beginning, but it's already given me something priceless: the rediscovery of a forgotten love and the courage to pursue it, one panel at a time.

Starting from Zero (Again)

Relearning how to draw after a 25-year break is no joke.

 Muscle memory? Gone. Technical confidence? Rusted and hesitant. My lines were shaky, and my sense of proportion had seemingly vanished. But despite all that, the love—the pure, childlike joy of putting pencil to paper and watching a character slowly take shape—was still there, quietly waiting for me.

I had to humble myself and start from square one. Gone were the days when I could casually sketch a figure or confidently freehand a pose. I returned to the very basics: drawing stick figures, breaking the human body down into simple shapes, and studying proportions as if I were encountering them for the first time. It was strange to feel like a beginner again, but oddly comforting as well.

I spent weeks doing gesture drawings—those quick 30-second sketches meant to capture movement and energy. I practiced these tirelessly, filling page after page with rough silhouettes and line-of-action studies. I wanted my characters to move, to breathe. That meant training my hand to see what my mind envisioned. Alongside this, I worked on faces, learning to draw them from every angle, understanding the symmetry of features, and exploring the emotions conveyed through even the most minor changes in expression.

Light and shadow became a new obsession. I found myself studying how sunlight streamed through blinds or how fabric bunched and folded over knees and elbows. I practiced shading spheres, cubes, and cones—not for the sake of being fancy, but to understand the form. I needed to train my eyes to see depth again, not just lines. I was no longer just drawing; I was sculpting with graphite and light.

There were frustrating days. Days when I'd look at my sketchbook and feel disheartened. A hand might look like a balloon. A perspective line would throw the entire scene out of balance. I'd compare my work to professionals and feel like giving up before I'd truly begun. Sometimes, I even felt embarrassed—embarrassed that I, someone who had once drawn with confidence, was now struggling through anatomy tutorials on YouTube.

But I pushed through. With every awkward pose and every flawed sketch, I was building muscle—not just in my hand, but in my spirit. I learned to embrace mistakes and view them not as failures but as essential milestones. Each bad drawing was proof that I dared to try again.

And most importantly—I was having fun again.

Drawing became my sanctuary. It gave me space to explore characters I'd carried in my head for years. It permitted me to be messy, experimental, and free. I realized that even though my skills had atrophied, my imagination had only grown. The stories I wanted to tell had matured with me. Now, I just had to train my hands to keep up.

This journey of relearning has been one of the most rewarding creative experiences of my life. I'm still far from mastering the craft—but every day I pick up that pencil, I'm one step closer.

Tools of the Trade: Digital vs. Traditional

When I first got started, I went back to traditional manga tools: pencils, G-pens, dip pens, rulers, manga paper, and screentone sheets. There was something magical about returning to the roots. I didn't just want to draw manga—I wanted to feel it. The smell of ink, the resistance of the pen nib as it scraped across cardstock, the sound of rulers snapping into place for perfect panel lines—it all brought a tactile richness I had missed during my years away from illustration. Each traditional tool carried its personality, from the weight of a pencil to the delicate control needed for inking with a G-pen.

There's a deep intimacy in working traditionally. Every smudge, inkblot, and mistake is yours. You learn patience, especially when waiting for ink to dry, before erasing pencil lines. I even grew to love the meditative act of manually applying screen tones with a blade—cutting, peeling, and carefully pressing them onto the page like an artisan.

But I also knew that to create manga efficiently in today's fast-paced, digitally driven world, I needed to embrace digital tools for their speed, flexibility, and convenience. While I was initially trained in Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator for my filmmaking and design work, I chose to challenge myself by switching to Affinity Photo and GIMP. These programs aren't just budget-friendly—they also forced me to step out of my comfort zone and learn digital art in a whole new way.

Learning new software as an adult artist after years away from the drawing board felt like trying to rewire my brain. Things that once came automatically—such as adjusting DPI or setting up canvas sizes—now require me to go through tutorials and experiment through trial and error. Creating clean line art with a tablet was an entirely different experience from the precision of pen and paper. Digital inking felt loose at first, but I gradually found my rhythm by adjusting brush stabilizers and experimenting with different brush packs.

One of the most significant milestones in this transition was learning how to create my screen tones digitally. It was a game-changer. I combined GIMP's layer effects, handmade halftone textures, and AI-generated images to craft custom background tones. I'd take simple patterns—like clouds, asphalt, or city lights—and manipulate them into manga-style tones that added depth, drama, and atmosphere to my pages. Suddenly, I understood how vital screen tones are—not just for shading but for storytelling. They evoke emotion, guide the eye, and create mood through the subtle interplay of texture and contrast.

This hybrid approach—working with both traditional and digital tools—has become my signature style. And yes, I've done it all on a budget. No fancy gear or expensive subscriptions. Just grit, YouTube tutorials, and the willingness to make mistakes. Relearning how to create manga from the ground up, blending old-school techniques with modern software, has given me a newfound appreciation for the craft—and made me feel like a real mangaka, one panel at a time.

Writing Like a Mangaka: The Screenplay Connection

As a filmmaker, I'm no stranger to screenwriting. I've spent years studying three-act structures, character arcs, pacing, dialogue, and the art of visual storytelling. So imagine my surprise—no, my delight—when I realized just how closely writing a manga manuscript resembled writing for film.

Pacing. Panel flow. Dialogue rhythm. It's all cinematic.

Writing manga is like directing a movie—but instead of continuous motion, you're building a sequence of carefully selected still images. You become the director, cinematographer, set designer, and editor all at once. Every panel is a shot. Every page is a scene. You determine the pacing not by a timeline but by page turns, panel sizes, and silent pauses. It's as much about what you show as what you don't. The parallels to filmmaking were so strong that I began to see manga as storyboarding on steroids.

When this clicked for me, my approach to writing manga underwent a complete transformation. I stopped viewing it as a "new skill" and began treating it like an evolution of what I already knew. I started formatting my short stories into comic scripts. Action lines from screenplays became panel descriptions. Camera angles became panel perspectives—close-ups, wide shots, overheads. The dialogue shifted from actor-driven line reads to bubble-based conversations. Every "beat" in a screenplay is now translated into a "page turn" or a change in layout. I began to think in terms of spreads instead of scenes and transitions instead of cuts.

I leaned into it.

My screenwriting background gave me a solid foundation for visual pacing. I already understood how to build suspense, how to structure emotional reveals, and how to control rhythm through silence and image. I started scripting my manga with the same discipline I used in writing film: setup, escalation, payoff. I mapped out my chapters like scenes and even timed beats like a composer planning a score.

That revelation alone was empowering. It reminded me that while I was relearning drawing after a 25-year break, I wasn't starting from scratch. Storytelling was already in my bones. What I had to do now was adapt that storytelling into a new language—one made of ink, linework, speech bubbles, and panel borders.

My First Practice Manga: I Married a Starclass Billionaire

Of course, theory only gets you so far. The best way to learn—especially in art—is through hands-on experience. So, I decided to create my very first manga: I Married a Starclass Billionaire.

This wasn't meant to be a masterpiece. It was a test flight—a sandbox to play in. I gave myself full permission to make mistakes, to try things that might fail, and to be as over-the-top or cheesy as I wanted. The goal wasn't to impress—it was to learn.

The premise was intentionally grounded and character-driven: a romantic comedy between a no-nonsense American car business mogul—and a 28-year-old Chinese businesswoman determined to prioritize her career over love. In her culture, she's considered a "leftover woman" for not marrying by a certain age and being slightly overweight only compounds the pressure and self-esteem issues she quietly carries. The tycoon, eager to expand his luxury hover-car empire into Earth's competitive Chinese market, sees marrying her as a strategic alliance—but what begins as a cold, calculated move slowly unfolds into something more profound.

The story explored clashing expectations, boardroom drama, and vulnerable moments tucked between corporate deals and awkward cultural misunderstandings. It blended the romantic tension of classic shōjo with a satirical edge on modern relationships and East-West business dynamics. In short, it was the perfect vehicle to test my storytelling chops. And you know what? It wasn't bad.

Sure, there were obvious flaws. My anatomy was inconsistent. Proportions wobbled. Some poses looked stiff, and many of my backgrounds were too simple or missing altogether. My screen tones were either too light or too overwhelming. Sound effects were awkwardly placed. And yet—despite all that—the story moved. The characters had energy. There were moments of genuine humor, cute chemistry, and even a few heartfelt beats that felt, well… real. More importantly, that little practice manga taught me more than any tutorial ever could.

It taught me how hard it is to maintain visual consistency across pages. It forced me to learn how to guide the reader's eye from panel to panel, how to balance black-and-white areas, and how to utilize negative space. It gave me firsthand experience with pacing, scene transitions, and how to stage dialogue for visual impact. I experimented with layouts; some succeeded, while others didn't—but I understood why.

It also taught me time management. Even a short manga requires much work. I storyboarded, penciled, inked, toned, and lettered every page myself. Sometimes, I'd spend an hour perfecting a single panel. Other times, I had to compromise to keep the workflow moving. That process taught me where I need to improve but also where my instincts are strong.

The most significant gift I received from Married a Starclass Billionaire, though, was confidence.

After years of not drawing, of wondering if I still had "it," of battling self-doubt, I had created something complete—a beginning, middle, and end. My characters had come to life, shared their story, and made me laugh in the process. That alone felt like a victory.

And I came away with clarity: "You need more practice. But you're on the right path."

Bridging Film and Manga: A Unique Voice

Looking back, I realize that filmmaking and manga creation aren't just similar—they complement each other beautifully. The film taught me how to tell stories through imagery and motion. Manga taught me how to tell them through composition and rhythm. Where one uses sound and movement, the other uses silence and static frames—but both rely on emotional beats, visual metaphors, and character arcs.

My background as a screenwriter is now a secret weapon. I can write tight dialogue. I understand how to build tension. I know when to zoom in on a character's face or pull back for a big reveal. These instincts help my manga stand out—even if my drawing still has a long way to go.

It's easy to feel overwhelmed as a beginner mangaka. There's so much to learn: anatomy, perspective, backgrounds, tones, composition. But this journey has shown me that we all bring something unique to the table. Something happens to be cinematic storytelling. And that gives me a voice. A style. A way to shape my stories that feels authentic to who I am.