Bushmiller’s Nancy somehow manages to be relatable to me as a woman in my twenties in the same way Clowes’ Ghostworld was to me as a woman in my teens. They both hold a strange place in my heart as comics written by men that have no idea what it is like to be me, but somehow speak directly to my experience.
The emotional transition from relating to the detailed inner life of Enid to the monochromatic punnery of Nancy is analogous to the transition from listening to an entire Bright Eyes album to just needing to hear the Beach Boys sing “Sometimes I feel very sad.”
