Actually, I don’t think it can ever become quite overwhelming enough. Sometimes, when I started to think I might have some inkling what it was all “about,“ I'd deliberately thwart that narrative direction and stir things up until I had no idea what I was doing again. I don’t trust books that make too much sense, because life doesn’t make much sense, and life is always the ultimate rubric. At the same time, a story shouldn’t be utter tangles of nonsense, either, and I have a pretty fair idea of where my stories are going, but only about the same I have of where my actual life is going (which is, for example, much different than where I thought it was when I was twelve years old.) Whatever narrative notions I have, however, ultimately take a backseat to the reality of the drawings as they appear, and the images always seem to have a better idea of that than I do. The greatest books have lives of their own; bad books are wrenched and wrestled and bent into shape in the service of an idea. I learned this the hard way, and the results were always disastrous, if not cadaverous — dissected and dessicated.