This may come as a minor revelation of sorts, but I honestly don't like working in pen and ink very much. I understand pretty well how it's used, and why though I've never had a true affection for it. It just isn't, well, me.
I have nothing but the utmost respect for masters of the medium, J.C. Cole, and his contemporaries. And Windsor-Smith seems to have ink in his soul, as does J. Muth: but me? Well, it's always a trial. The "big black" guys, Toth and the like that can make whole pictures out of great swoops and dots of black ink stun me into silence. I often think that someday I've got to try that and see if I can get close to that way of seeing. There's the reality of it; "seeing". I simply don't see that way, in ink. I see in grey. In pencil. Soft and subtle and silver.
But, for now, ink it is. At least until this book is done, then we'll see something different maybe. The next book may be a whole new thing. I hope it is.