Quick-ish follow-up to Tuesday’s post. The consultation went as well as we could expect it to. Managing expectation is an important life skill and I recommend it to everyone reading this right now. Or everyone in general.
The upshot of things is that my wife will be getting the surgery, barring any surprises, in the timeframe of three months or so from now. This assumes all bureaucratic expectations are fulfilled. This process will require several trips to San Francisco and back (that’s okay, I like SF just fine, though East Bay traffic in the afternoon is murderous.)
I’ll only talk in general terms about the surgery, other than to note that it is actual and literal brain surgery (though non-destructive.) The process is reversible, involving insertion of two probes (since brains are bicameral) to a pacemaker-like device, which should prevent the signals that cause Parkinsonian tremors from actually being broadcast. It will likely mean a reduced medicine schedule (which is good, as any medicines that work on brain functions are rife with unwanted side-effects.) There are minor chances of complication, but taken against possible benefit, the decision is easy. This surgery is not experimental, and doctors have had a very long time to refine the techniques involved.
My wife is one of the toughest, strongest people I’ve ever met. But that does not mean indestructible. She has been through a lot since her diagnosis, and particularly in the last year and a half or so. It is my fervent hope that this brings her a large measure of relief from these symptoms. I’m sure you hope the same thing. I’m looking at this as a positive, but there’s a number of milestones we’ll need to reach (namely waiting out the surgery, but also training and programming of the device and controlling medicine dosage after), none of which is inconsiderable on its own.
In the meantime, I do plan on continuing work, even if I have more important things to think about than fiction at the current moment.
Apologies to all the folks in SF who I didn’t get to see this time out. And maybe not the other visits, either. Schedule’s not my own to control right now.
Relatively quick note here. Which would make for two blog posts on two consecutive days, something that hasn’t happened since, oh, 2008 perhaps.
Today I drive with my wife to San Francisco. Tomorrow we consult with a surgeon regarding actual and literal brain surgery to help alleviate the dual symptoms of her Parkinson’s disease. I say dual symptoms because the medicine used to deal with the symptoms currently creates its own set of problems as much as it clears them up.
We don’t know the timetable for the surgery or her potential recovery period. We don’t know if the surgery will work (though it does, apparently in 80% or so of the cases, at least that’s the baseline we’ve been given.) We don’t know if she will be able to keep working should the surgery prove to be ineffective. We don’t know much of anything other than things are continuing along a path that can not be sustained in the long term, even when you’re talking as something as short as human life.
There is no immediate danger to her health, but the prognosis is always negative with Parkinson’s. It’s a matter of keeping quality of life going so that we have the strength to deal with the bad days.
It’s not that the medicine doesn’t work anymore. When it’s working, you’d be hard-pressed to know that anything was wrong with her. When it’s not, well, it’s not, and that becomes all-consuming.
We will gladly accept any positive thoughts, chill vibes, prayers, offerings to the hidden mistresses of the universe, appeals to the void and plain old best wishes there are to be offered.
Given the year I call out, you all probably know what recent Hot Media Thing (at least on the internet) I’m going to talk about. Yeah, STRANGER THINGS. And I promise not to spend a lot of time on it because I’ve got other things to do. (Also: SPOILERS.)
So let’s start with some honesty. I didn’t hate STRANGER THINGS. I didn’t love it, either. So I’ve violated the single canonical rule of reviewing media on the internet: either you’re writing to tear something down or to venerate it. There is no in-between. Which, of course, is a lie, but is great for driving hits, yeah. You hate-read reviews that you don’t agree with just to see how much you don’t agree with them. You read and disseminate reviews that you support so that they can get more support. This is the game now.
I’m not going to play it. Or I’m going to play both at once. Whichever.
First things first. STRANGER THINGS is not a particularly brave work. Its hook is that it’s talking about things that as a self-identified-geek of a certain age, you were either a firsthand liker-of or you are supposed to be liking them even if you never did or just read about them. I can’t even say it’s a pastiche of one thing, because it’s a pastiche of twenty or so. For those of you not familiar, pastiche is the act of copying a thing without making fun of it. Parody (like MAD MAGAZINE) copies some surface similarities and then goes around subverting things. Pastiche just copies without adding anything. Pastiche’s more-grown-up sibling is the updating, which happens from time to time (and often does no more than point out how certain things only work when in their own time.) So the updating copies surface similarities but tries to scrub out certain (now-unseemly, but certainly forgivable if not expected in its original time – also to point out how reconstructed and mature we’ve become since we first liked those things.)
Continue reading FULL BLEED: 1983 AND OTHER TERRORS
Teased this one earlier this week so I should actually commit to it. Life got in the way for a little while, which is why I’m doing it now and not a couple days ago when it was fresh.
So I was listening to one of those shows that turns up on NPR (yes, I listen to NPR sometimes when I’m driving because there’s nothing else that has even half a goddamned brain) that sometimes has interesting content but has become so beholden to remaking the wonder of radio that I often lose patience before the story is told. Anyways, this one was about failure. And the story being told was not about failure so much as it was about damaged persons.
For instance, the speaker wins a literary accolade and is flown to NYC and meets with agents, gives a talk and is immediately approached by a high-power agent who offers her services.
And the speaker turns this offer down. Not resolutely, but in a non-committal way. A nonsensical way. A way that only expresses a kind of psychic hurt that most of us don’t even want to contemplate ourselves being capable of bearing.
This woman was talking about failure. But what she spoke of wasn’t failure, rather it was the rejection of success, any success. So this is a little misleading and I get irked (something that happens a lot, just follow me on Twitter to see how often.) Now, what she had to say about the heroic journey being a fiction and life not working like that? 100% behind that.
But calling this failure? No. Recognition was baked into this whole thing. Recognition that thousands of writers (and yeah, I’m being specific here) are searching for every god damned day. Yet, she was compelled to turn from it. Again, this is an expression of hurt and not a comprehensible behavior (unless I suppose you have something to prove which I don’t believe the case was.)
There’s a funny cartoon I see on Tumblr sometimes. It shows a little blobby person, and before that blobby person is a little hill with a big jellybean on it marked “Success”, but the hill itself is marked “hard work.” And the blobby person sighs and says something about that being too difficult and shuffling off.
Continue reading FULL BLEED: DEEP WATER
Readers over the last year or so will note a decided edge in my voice, which rises and falls at times but never falls away, not completely.
I want to say that it’s time to put that edge away, but there is no occasion for that, probably because I’m backed into a corner and you never know when a knife is going to come in handy.
What I talked about last summer or so, you know, in that Black Phase post? It’s still here, never going away. The condition does not improve, only can be masked better at some times than others. No, not mine. Mine is all out on the surface, easy to read. Decent degree of skill but no place to apply it other than in my own work which is not what the Market wants.
Ah, if that were the only problem. That I could live with.
Continue reading FULL BLEED: CONDUIT
Little catching up to do here. Meant for this to be a weekly update thing, but I’ve already botched that. Maybe I’ll talk about my trip to the Lush show in San Francisco and how it’s nice to be a grownup sometimes. Of course, you have to put up with a lot of unrelenting bullshit, at which this week has excelled.
Said bullshit often originating from quarters that you have precisely zero control over. And that’s often the most unrelenting kind, because you get to feel powerless over and over again. No, I won’t bore you with the details. I will instead talk about getting back to work. Remember the broken arm? Still broken, still got a plate in there, but I can sit and work at a computer for a couple hours at a time without things getting too bad. Still can’t play guitar for more than a minute though. Something about the angle. Maybe I should play lefty. There’s dumber ideas.
So now that I can sit and work, I’ve had to actually do it. Considering I basically spent all of last year planning things that didn’t amount to much more than plans and dealing with a long chain of personal/family brush fires and *not* actually writing, this is a daunting prospect. Particularly when you’re kissing the Qliphoth half of the time, and that’s some dark, seductive stuff. If you’re weak-willed, you might even get to believing what it whispers to you on those sleepless nights.
Wrestling out of that takes some doing. Like, you get to believing that nobody wants the work that you do (and I could/did make a compelling argument for that thesis for too long.) Nothing will suck the air out of you faster than that. And I’d love to say that this is done and behind me, but I’m going to be smarter than that. It’s there and I just need to know that instead of letting it drive the goddamn bus.
But this week, I actually sat down with my notes for THE FUTURE AMERICA and wrote five script pages for it, really in the last couple days. Earlier this week was consumed by the aforementioned torrent of real life. Hell, last night, too, but only after work had gotten done. So yeah, five pages is not a fucking achievement, I’m aware of that (at my best, I put down seventeen pages of script off of notes when I was writing MURDER MOON). It’s not an achievement, but it’s a start.
Gosh, that sounds like the kind of optimistic note to leave things on. Which is why I probably will keep going.
The plan is to arrange a pitch package with the script pages (and far too much background material) which needs to be boiled down hard and the work of the guys from Estudio Haus to try and sell publishers on the book. Shouldn’t be too hard, given that sci-fi action is a good place to start in comics. Granted, it’s not a natural to be adapted into a cheap TV series so there goes the Hollywood interest. I’m really okay with that. It’d be pretty expensive to shoot as I’m seeing it in my head, and depending on good design to cover up lack of big sets is a pretty bad bet, in my book. Sometimes that friction generates interesting results, but not enough to hold my breath over.
At any rate, the pitch is finished up and in the hands of a capable editor right now. Hoping to learn more about pitching itself, since I know fuck-all about it. Been far too worried about the final product and how to pay bills with it than learning the actual process of selling it. Cart before the horse, that’s me.
I did want to talk about one other thing while I’ve got your kind attention. That thing is fear. See, when you’ve worked for a long time at a skill, one that’s judged subjectively rather than objectively, particularly when it’s a skill that relies on the audience’s ability towards abstraction, well, that’s kind of like being in solitary. You get so you don’t know up from down after a time, go groundless. Especially when you feel like you’ve been treading water for years (this is the part where I remind everyone that STRANGEWAYS, regardless of quality, has yet to pay back its printing costs, much less art costs.) Them’s the breaks. Nobody cares how hard you tried (as reminded by friend Alex de Campi, indirectly, perhaps). The process isn’t the issue. The result is the only thing that matters.
So, yeah, fear. See, since I hadn’t written much of anything more than notes in the past year, I got to wondering if I could even write original stuff. Yeah, it’s dumb. Because writing doesn’t leave you. You might leave writing (like I did) but if you come back to it, things start rolling again. This doesn’t mean that the machine doesn’t need oiling or that the first few batches of work out will be all sideways and misprinted, spindled, folded and mutilated. But the machine starts up again. Which maybe I shouldn’t have been afraid of. Maybe.
Back to work now. I’d say put the childish things, like fear, away, but I’m not sure that I can. I’ll try to keep them out of arms’ reach so that they’re not such an easy distraction. When so much of life is up in the air and the floor seems to be lined with spikes more than nice comfy carpet, it’s pretty easy to anticipate that slice when you come down. Once cut, twice shy or something like that. Sure, I could go all swami and say “Welp, that’s just out of my control and deal with it as it comes” but I’ve never been good at swami and zen just makes my anxiousness, usually disguised as irritability, bubble right up to the surface. I’m allergic to the void and the calm it brings, I guess.
Out of arm’s reach, though, maybe that I can manage.
Nor is this an ask for assistance on this particular front, just a statement of the current situation. My sins against the various avatars of the creative act no matter how you define or name them, are legion. Primary amongst those is the dependence on others to confirm whether I’m doing good work or not. Now I’m not just talking editors or the market, because both of those are whimsical humans and beasts, respectively. Honestly, editors like what they like and if they knew what would sell as opposed to what they liked, we’d only see million selling books from the publishing houses that employ them (or whatever passes for success these days.) But yeah, I’ve sinned.
I’m talking about depending on myself, yourself. I guess that’s what it all comes down to, has to come down to. Cut through the bullshit and that’s what is. You get to save yourself. Sure, some folks are there to lend a hand, but that’s all that is. A hand. It’s not the whole thing, just a step. But the validation that you’re craving, that I’m craving, that ain’t even a hand, not even a step. Easy to think that it is, but that’s a lie. A pretty lie, maybe even thirsty in the desert mirage kind of lie, but still just as empty at the end of the day. The only thing that ends up being real is the work.
Folks’ thoughts about the work, those opinions? Well they’re just that. Remember, the work is there for someone to read, reflect on and maybe bounce something off of. You don’t get to control that as the author/artist/whatever. It’s not yours. Nor is the string of rejection letters, y’know? Or the indifference that the work spawns. That isn’t yours, nor should you or I dwell on it, no matter how strong the temptation, because that’s pure kissing the Qliphoth.
Remember when I repeated the line “nobody cares how hard you tried”? Well that’s both true and false, my sisters, brothers, fluids and non-identifiers. It’s true that world at large doesn’t care.
But you do.
I gotta work on that, still. Believe me, I’m trying.
Yeah, there haven’t been any updates for the last six months by my or anybody else’s reckoning. Sue me. No subscriptions to fulfill, no contracts to honor and who even reads plain old blogs anymore? Gimme that branded content!
So in the time that’s passed, I’ve watched my 48th come and go, tried to keep the kids on an even keel, make everyone’s Christmas wishes come true and held out hope that the new year would be better than the old one (which had some high points, but was marked by a constant and grinding great that they would not). I broke my arm (almost my wrist, which would have been infinitely worse) and had surgery for that, involving me being doped up on painkillers and ice-packs. Now I’ve got a neat scar and a permanent plate to hold my radius together. PT is continuing for that, and the fact that I’m even typing this anywhere near as fast as I used to is a good sign.
I missed both the big conventions I’d normally have gone to (ECCC this week, Wonder-Con a couple weeks before). That’s probably a good thing as my energy and focus level were right in the hole, even way down in it. Which is a bummer, as I like to hang out with people in real life much more than I do on Twitter. But I had stuff to hold together here as well.
My old web host became an intractable mess, after suspending my account for spam operations (looks like a php script got hijacked) and they were less helpful than a box of kittens with regard to the problem. That sucks after nearly ten years of service. Oh yeah, they refused to run a standard https:// certificate and that was the last straw. You don’t just ignore the major (if not imperfect) security standard for the interwebs and expect me to be happy with it. So I had to get a new provider and migrate the files over, which were still infected and thus my account was suspended until I nuked everything and managed to restore things without having to lose all of the stuff here. I may get around to changing the theme here, but first things first.
What else? I’m slowly getting back to work, having spoken with an editor to look over things on THE FUTURE AMERICA, which I’m hoping I’ll be able to have a pitch together for later this year. I really need to get back onto STRANGEWAYS 3, have a lot of lettering (which means rewriting) to do for that. Then there’s the day job which has been largely on hold while I recover.
Oh yeah, and my wife’s condition, which I’ve talked about here, most notably last summer, has continued to worsen. This isn’t a surprise, other than perhaps how sharply and quickly it took place. She’s still working as much as she can (which is too much if you ask me) but has finally acknowledged that the current treatment plan isn’t sufficient to cover things. This means there’s a surgery in our future, perhaps in a month, perhaps three. Unknown at this time, but I hope to find out pretty soon. Given that her condition is Parkinson’s, this means brain surgery. And while it’s as gentle a surgery as one could have there (and is reversible), this is still a situation that has everyone on edge. So things might be weird.
But I’m optimistic about the outcome. We’ve promised ourselves a nice vacation once she’s recovered (and should see s major reduction in both her symptoms and the amount of medicine which she has to take). In the meantime, it’s tough to plan things right now. That said, it’s been hard to plan things for the last couple of years, not knowing how bad she would be on any given day. Yes, it’s that serious. Some days she’s not able to go to work at all or do anything much more than take care of herself and rest. Part of that is the medicine (sometimes it overdoses, sometimes underdoses, never really predictable.) So it’s been hard to figure out what is happening this weekend, much less make big plans other than treading water and keep up the holding action. That’s exhausting.
I’m not saying this out of any sense of self-heroism (I’m not, I’m barely coping) but to give an indication as to how things are.
I’m very much looking forward to her successful surgery and her getting much of her life back. No, it will not be a cure and there are no cures (yeah, single examples of stem cell therapies are promising, but I want to see actual trials, not private clinic proof of concept) but it will be an improvement. Also looking forward to getting back to work and maybe even putting a package together for that DC new talent trawl that they announced awhile ago. Do I have any expectations? Hell no. Is it even a good idea? Who knows.
Nobody knows. All you can do is keep pushing forward.
Forgot to add, in the time I was away, I put out THE HOWLING PIT, which is a little of me peeling back the onion of authorship and writing in the social media age of the internet, happily pointing out logical fallacies and taking away closely-cherished notions of all kinds. You can order it here.
I also had a story of mine, “Chunked”, published in TOMORROW’S CTHULHU from Broken Eye Press. I’d tell you what the story’s about but I already wrote it. You may pull out a completely different meaning. Order it here.
Yeah, I’m not good at listing my successes. I’ll try to work on that.
I was born between the assassination of JFK and the Apollo moon landing. That’s usually how I mark myself by American events. I could get a little more specific, but this covers the bases, both high and low. Granted, these happenings don’t have the punch that they once did. When I was younger, it was smart to have a conspiracy theory on JFK but we for damn sure landed on the moon. Well now we get to distrust everything. Hooray. Good work, dudes. Fight the power.
So I turn forty-eight today. Just close enough to fifty that it looks like inevitability. I know. I probably shouldn’t be revealing my age. Editors at comic companies trying to court younger readers are going to shy right away. Is the joke on me for worrying about it or them thinking that they can get the same methods and books to magically skew desirable millennial male reader demographics? Oh, it’s on everyone. Plenty of humor to go around, just that it’s pretty dark. Like last page of the MAD magazine parody of HOGAN’S HEROES dark (art by the master, Jack Davis and I’m surprised it ever got printed.)
What’s weird is that don’t feel particularly older than I did when I was say, 33, to pick a number. Yeah, the eyes are getting worse, but I know folks who’d be happy to have even my degraded close-up vision, as I can still drive without cheaters just fine. But is all this kidding myself? Yeah, maybe. Though I do drive what could charitably be described as a midlife-crisis car (at least it’s not my favorite color, cherry red). Yeah, there’s an old reference slipped in there to show you how old I am. Classic rock, doncha know.
But the world does catch up and run right past anyways. No matter how much the Boomers and their offspring might want to dilate the present to grotesque proportions. But that’s an old view. Radio and TV still stuck in those modes when the world is being driven by sharable moments in social media like motes amongst Roy Baty’s tears. He’s seen things, you know.
Continue reading FULL BLEED: NINETEEN AND SIXTY SEVEN
Good news. I’ll spare you the kind of entry that I’ve been doing for the last several months. Tell your friends. No serious issues here. Nope.
Instead I’ll talk a little about my experiences going to three different, even very different comic shows in the last month and a half or so. Long Beach Comic-Con (hereafter LBCC), Rose City Comic Con (RCCC) and the Alternative Press Expo (APE). I’ve gone to all of these shows for some time, and they’ve all undergone changes, some more extreme than others.
Let’s start with LBCC, at the lovely Long Beach Convention Center. Originally, this grew out of Wizard’s LA show (which was actually good once). And yes, they called it an LA comic con, even though it wasn’t. But still, they managed to put together pretty good shows. DC would table and bring top-shelf talent (Grant Morrison, for instance, in 2003 or 2004, whichever was the last of these shows). Remember, these were still dark days for comics shows. Marvel didn’t go to these shows (nor SDCC, nor any other show, at least not in a big official standing, sometimes if a merchandiser had something to show, Marvel would have a tiny little presence.) Then there was something of a split between Wizard and the organizers of this show. The Wizard show went to LA (and it was TERRIBLE, often feeling like it was in a venue far too big, drawing people who were only there to see Marvel and DC and Top Cow folks) and the Long Beach crew started their own show.
LBCC has continued along for several years now. I’ve shown there a couple times (once did decently well and once did pretty poorly even after shelling out for a more expensive publisher table). But I don’t know that the show has really improved all that much, and some outside forces are probably working against it. Most notably, the move of Wonder Con (once in SF, once in Anaheim) to Los Angeles. That and the rise of several smaller shows which does split up the potential fan base (Comickaze is apparently making a big run of it too, though reviews on that show are definitely mixed). People are in a position where they can’t afford to go to every show that comes along; they’re having to choose.
One thing you’ll notice at LBCC is there’s a lot of cosplay. A. Lot. Cosplay is fine and wonderful and creative thing and not what I go to shows for. Sorry. I go to comic shows to talk to friends and look at art and junky old comics to take pictures of. Oh and to talk to the cast of LAND OF THE LOST and then be asked to take a picture of them with a tyrannosaurus cosplayer, which yes, did actually happen and was as surreal as you might imagine. Got a chance to talk to Don Glut, who wrote a comic that I read to pieces when I was in fourth grade (a digest issue of BORIS KARLOFF MYSTERIES) and bought one of his copies of said comic digest. Bought a copy of the BLACK METAL OMNIBUS from artist Chuck BB (and it is indeed METALEST). Chatted with friend (and fellow Speakeasy Comics survivor) Josh Fialkov. Talked with Keenan Keller (half of THE HUMANS, alongside Tom Neely). Those were the highlights.
Honestly, there wasn’t much else for me at the show. I’m impervious to the charms of most nerd/geek/whatever merchandise. Variant covers don’t do a thing for me. Cheap trades are nice, but I knew that I was about to head into the belly of the beast at the Last Book Store in LA and would have to be careful because I only had so much room for books. There were plenty of merchants selling things that I wasn’t into, someone selling beef jerky, a malaria charity. You know, the usual? Or not. Just not a lot on the floor for me. That said, there seemed to be plenty of other attendees having a good time. But it didn’t feel like an amazing comic show, not for my purposes. I’ll also be the first to acknowledge that if you’re making a comic show to please me, you’re probably losing money on it.
Next up on the show roster was RCCC, which is a show I’ve been attending/exhibiting with for a long time now. The first ashcan previews for STRANGEWAYS were sold there, so I have a little attachment to the former incarnation of the show, that being Stumptown Comics Fest, which used to be held at the Doubletree hotel in downtown. Back then, it was very much an indie comics show: cheap to get tickets for, crammed full of artcomix and non-superhero fare. I liked it because the crowds were always looking for something to read, not stuff to put up on a shelf or into a toy collection (again, those are fine and wholesome hobbies, but hold very little interest for me). It also helped that I have a friend in Portland I can reliably crash with to keep costs down (thanks Jeff and family for putting up with me, as always).
Stumptown only stayed in the old venue at the Doubletree for a couple years after I started exhibiting there. It moved over to the Portland Convention Center and ran into some growing pains. Going from bustling (and too-small) conference room to a cold and formal (and too big) convention floor did the show no favors, even though it had the same quantity and quality of exhibitors showing there. The tone of the show had changed, which can be death for an indie show. The last one I’d attended previous to this was a solid middle-sized show (or perhaps a big small show is a better way to describe it.) Either way, you could walk around comfortably, go up to Burgerville up the block easily to grab a bite.
Then the folks from ECCC took over. Now this paragraph break and first line are ominous, right? Depends how you look at it. RCCC went from a big small show to a big show in the space of two years. Thirty thousand attendees over the weekend. Try to walk to Burgerville? Don’t. It’s Thunderdome in there now. This is great for the show and attendees, but keep in mind that the infrastructure directly around the convention center can’t really handle it. Not yet anyways.
But that’s not the important thing, is it? How was the show? The show was good to great, depending on who you ask. Well, at least it felt great. The merch side of the floor was very busy. Though I did wonder how the individual science fiction authors selling their self-published books were doing. I never saw big crowds around them. Of course, I notice this since I’m a guy with self-published SF (and other) books, but I tell ya, I’d never show up at RCCC trying to sell just those. Plenty of stuff to see and pass right by (I’m not one for crocheted headwear or intricately-embroidered fezzes). Some stuff that drew my eye (twenty bucks of junky comics which I’ve yet to start really digging through for Intrapanel). An army of full-size R2-D2 replica robots, you know, the usual.
Much more interesting was the creator’s side of the floor, which had a range of top-flight talent from the Big Two as well as middle-tier and full independent creators/publishers. I don’t even want to call it artist’s alley because it wasn’t just a tiny little section, but fully half of the show floor. That’s what comic shows are for me. Talking to Paul Gulacy about SLASH MARAUD. Finding new artists I’d never heard of before. Trading copies of MURDER MOON for horror comics or watercolor dinosaur cards. Getting caught up on SHUTTER and getting those signed. That sort of thing. I’ll throw an shout-out to the programming as well. Solid on both the production and the community/fan side (at least for me).
There is still some work to be done in terms of managing growth. Granted, I don’t think the organizers expected this kind of turn-out for the show (and it was basically inconceivable for the old Stumptown organizers), so that will be something to watch out for. But it’s a good problem to have, at least.
Blew off the Dark Horse party (which I heard was mostly open but might not’ve been anyways) in favor of taking pictures around the Hollywood neighborhood and munching on a fried pork cutlet sandwich (which was superlative) then heading back to the house and working on not one but two ideas that need to be hammered into shape. Seems like an endless process.
Second day was pretty much like the first, though I was actually able to talk to an actual human editor (thanks to Paul for the kick in the pants and Jeff for the introduction) so we’ll see where that goes. I’m not holding my breath. Good advice for me. Went back to the house to decompress and pack then off to a food cart court (which is a thing, and quite a nice one at that, in Portland.) Ordered the viking soul food burrito (potato lefse, meatballs, goat cheese, red cabbage and a little too much gravy) with an actual bottled Coke and that was pretty good. Visited the most amazing video store I’ve ever seen, packed full of old movie props and costumes (mugwumps in the ceiling) as well as a stunning collection of DVDs and VHS tapes for rental. Managed to be almost late for my plane.
Skip forward a couple weeks and it’s time for APE. I’ve been going to the Alternative Press Expo since 2003 or so (at which time, I think it was being run by Comic Con International, who also ran Wonder-Con and SDCC). The show has grown steadily from taking about 1/4 of the venue (the San Francisco Concourse, now demolished) to just about filling it. Of course, it drew a lot of only tangentially-comics stuff by that time, some of which was great (like RE/search publications and the anarchist publishing houses) and some of which was not (lots of indie swap-meet stuff which belongs on Etsy, not at a comic/press show.) But these are part of the charm of the show.
2013 was the last year that APE was held in the Concourse (which is in downtown SF, and is pretty easy to get to, though there’s not a lot of activities for post-con entertaining in the immediate neighborhood.) Last year, the show was held in the Fort Mason Center (and was also the first year that the show had reverted back to Dan Vado’s control, he of Slave Labor Graphics and the creator of APE in the first place.) Last year’s show was fine, seemed to be decently attended (and I got to shake Robert Williams’ hand, so that’s a bonus.) Lots of indie publishers there, Fantagraphics, AdHouse, Drawn and Quarterly and the usual suspects. Like I said, a solid indie show.
This year, APE went back to its roots in San Jose. I joke about the venue itself being called the “Bug Tent,” mostly because that’s what it looks like. I’ve had occasion to exhibit at shows held there (Big Wow in 2009-10, for instance) and the place got awful warm in San Jose late springtime, awfully muggy, too. So I was a little wary. Luckily, the climate control was keeping the weather at bay (and the weather was cooperating, barely cracking 80).
When I got there on Sunday, sorta midmorning verging on noon, the show was just moving along, pretty relaxed. This isn’t unusual for a Sunday show, especially early in the day. Thing is, the crowds never really picked up after that. Aisles were always easy to navigate (which is one of those bad-good things, like commodity prices being too low or unemployment ticking down or the stock shooting up after a company lays off five thousand employees.)
My first stop was to talk with one of my STRANGEWAYS collaborators, Alex Sheikman (who’s really great and has done work for Archaia/Boom on both creator-owned and licensed projects). He’s the only artist actually signed up to do two stories in the third volume, which I’m really trying to get out next year, but I can’t guarantee anything like that anymore. We went over layouts for the second story and picked at the storytelling and generally made it work, which is one of the great things about comics (and something I really don’t get to do too often, as my primary collaborators are on another continent.)
Second stop was with Marty Davis, whose work I’d seen on Tumblr (davischino.tumblr.com) and has just put out his first funny book called FUME (which I haven’t gotten a chance to read over yet, but the cartooning looks *great*.) He even did a brush-pen sketch of me which you can’t see, ever. Well, maybe. And we talked comics and doing the new circuit of shows and that sort of thing. So keep an eye out for his work.
Most of the rest of the show was catching up with friends (of which I had several there; no, really, I have real human friends) and looking over other artists’ work to see if anyone’s up for collaborations or just wants to talk shop. Oh, and I got a copy of DEATH SAVES from Josh Trujillo which I’m looking forward to reading, right after I get through the rest of the giant stack of comics (mostly trades) that I’ve picked up after three shows. Did some early birthday shopping for me at the Last Gasp booth (mostly because my wife probably wouldn’t ever look through a Last Gasp catalog). Picked up a couple cheap old magazines/comix from a dollar bin. Looked into cheap overseas printing for a possible Intrapanel book. I said *possible*. Don’t get all exercised.
Unfortunately, the only publishers at the show were Slave Labor and Valiant, which seemed a little strange. Sure, there were plenty of self-publishers there, but that’s a different beast (and before you get all mad, remember I’m a self-publisher, too.) But there was no Fantagraphics. No Oni. No AdHouse. No Drawn and Quarterly. No RE/search. No a lot of what I go to APE for. Now, I know that the Comic Crossroads Festival had its inaugural show the same weekend, and maybe folks were stopping in Ohio on their way to NYC. I won’t argue that move. Publishers have to choose where their books are best going to play. Especially in indie comics where every reader counts.
That all said, it sure seemed to take the wind out of APE’s sails. But then so did the fact that it was back in San Jose and couldn’t pick up a lot of the SF-based publishers/creators who weren’t willing to drive down. Making the transition to a new venue 50-odd miles away is never an easy proposition. And maybe next year there won’t be as much competition for publishers to showcase their works. That’s the other end of things. You’re not just competing for attendees, but for vendors. For a long time, APE was about the only game in town and now that’s simply not the case. But then for a long time, aside from SDCC, Wonder-Con and APE (and slowly, ECCC and Stumptown/RCCC) were the only game in town aside from hotel-sized local shows.
The convention game has changed a whole lot since I first started selling ashcans of STRANGEWAYS at Stumptown back in 2007. Conventions have really become a sort of second distributor up against Diamond, especially for back-of-the-catalog independent comics publishers/artists. Yeah, it’s an expensive proposition and sometimes you don’t even make table much less profit, especially with just one or two books to sell. But it’s still a way to get hooked up to readers who want physical books as opposed to digital comics. And now there’s booths where people are announcing/advertising their Kickstarter campaigns without even a product to show (not a path I’d take, myself, but I’m a weirdo.)
Ultimately this year’s APE wasn’t that great a show. It went fine for me, and I’m glad I went. But it wasn’t a big show. Most of the vendors I spoke with indicated about the same thing. There were some sales made, but had to work hard for ‘em. I think people like Last Gasp and Stuart Ng, storefronts with a large catalog to choose from, probably did okay (especially since Last Gasp was premiering a new James Jean import book from Japan that weekend) but I didn’t get that feeling from a lot of the smaller publishers. I’m not even going to make a guess as to what the future holds for the show or offer a weaksauce “We’ll see” last line. Things have changed so much that doing so would be foolhardy at best, stupid at worst.
Will I go again? It’s more likely than me attending another LBCC (or another Wizard show, which I did this summer in Sacramento and wow was that largely a bust but for a couple highlights). But it’s not an event that I’ll be looking forward to as I have in the past.
That being a thing that pretends to be another thing in order to find itself some benefit. Doppleganger, mimic, cuckoo, what have you. A thing that pretends to be another thing. Like the dog in Carpenter’s movie of the same name.
It’s tough to pretend to be a thing that you’re not. At least it is for me. And I got paid pretty handsomely to be something that I wasn’t for several years, or rather to write material that really wasn’t me. I did the best I could, which was pretty good, I thought, even though I didn’t get my name on it (but the checks cleared.) Then the job came to an end, which is probably for the best even though it stabbed for awhile.
A long while. Honestly, too long, but I’m coming to understand that now. This is something I’ve allowed to interfere with me since the beginning of the year. Doesn’t help that it’s been a bad year, again, for reasons outlined in the BLACK PHASE earlier this summer. Staring at a birthday next month, with all the attendant physical reminders of participating in the Only Game in Town, my wife’s health issues are precisely what they are, and a looming sense of real failure. How real is up for some debate, but when you’re down in the hole, it all looks deep, dig?
Which was one of the reasons why I took some vacation this last couple weeks. I know. Vacation. Pure selfish decadence. Five days in Los Angeles, capital of the West coast and dream-city that’s loomed large in my imagination since I could imagine. Glitz, glamor, Uber cars from here to there.
Or, instead, walking solitary around Broadway in DTLA, pre-dawn on a Saturday morning when it was already muggy and sweat-close before the sun could grace the blue tile of the Eastern Columbia building. Yeah, you dodge piles of excrement that are too big to have come from any dog, but you get to see razorwire silhouetted against the Rialto marquee and crawl right up against the molded concrete fantasia of the Mayan Theatre without anyone bothering you or fighting to get a shot clear of humans.
It’s funny. I was watching the BOSCH premiere and beginning to grit my teeth at it, when I got to a scene of Bosch and lady cop drinking in a nostalgia bar and him bemoaning the fact that “Old LA is disappearing” and I swear, I punched the stop button and closed the window right then. Got tired of the lies. ‘Cause the bones of old LA might be harder to find but they’re right there for anyone who gets out of their car and takes a walk. It also helps that I’ve got no patience for Connelly, I suppose. But that’s who and what I am. Can’t be a tulpa and pretend to be something else.
Got to see a lot of friends while in LA as well and realized the degree to which I’m isolated up here. This isn’t a woe is me. You’ll know those when you see them. This is just a fact that up here there’s not a lot of people who are, well, weird in anywhere the same neighborhood that I am. LA, luckily, is lousy with those folks. And it’s good to talk with them, to be reminded that you’re not the only one who isn’t quite figuring out what’s going on, struggling for a little recognition and maybe being able to sell enough books (or records) to keep the home fires burning another month. ‘Cause those folks? They can’t be anything than who they are, too. They’re not pretending.
Pretending is exhausting sometimes. All the time. You get to thinking about how best to blend in and what happens when the jig is up. Maybe that’s why I’m bad at it. Probably. And like I said, I’ve got enough that’s exhausting in my life (say hello to my two kids, who I love very much but if I have to break up another five and three year old-style tiff between them I’ll punch a wall) to have to worry about this. I can’t be anything other than what I am. I can’t do anything other than what I can. These aren’t even sub-Berra (RIP) tautologies, but they still work. Like Popeye, there’s some yams lying around and that’s what I can do.
Flipside of that is I’m the only guy who can do them. Good, bad or otherwise. Love it or hate it, and those are not things that I have any control over, my work is mine. The writing, the photography, Intrapanel, Identify 9 (and that’s just the creative stuff — not to mention the actual work: husband, father, owner of an increasingly neurotic dawg, Mr. Mom). All that’s mine.
And for too long a time, I was trying to be someone or something else. Trying and not really succeeding. The life of a tulpa isn’t one for everyone and it sure as hell isn’t for me.
This is not to say that the work I’ve done in the last year is bad or substandard, just that there hasn’t been a lot of it (that’s visible — doing so much development work that nobody gets to see) Even that was all under the shadow of “I’m trying to do it like this so it will get accepted” and that’s one of those toxic and seductive thoughts that you put on and somehow are unable to so easily remove. Worse is that you trick yourself into thinking that it’s nice, that you might even belong in it, all the while it’s threadbare and cold comfort when you actually need it.
None of this is heroic or self-hagiography. This is something that shoulda been self-evident years back, but I fought and fought and bitterly fought. Maybe it’s simply growing up? Or is growing up the ability to suck this up and go ahead and keep the tulpa-coat on? Suppose compelling arguments could be made for either one. But this stuff is a process, and when you’ve been down in the hole as it were, the crawl out is slippery. And sometimes you gotta take a break from yourself.
So back to LA. I went and didn’t pretend to be much of anything for five days. Went to a comic show (not a great one, sadly, and probably the last time I come down as anything but a pretext to visit LA again), sat and talked with friends, avoided open-mic comedy, got stuck in traffic, walked the 6th street bridge before it got demolished, ate too many chilaquiles, bought too many books, got stuck trying to get around cars in the Hollywood hills, drank coffee and flipped vinyl in Atwater Village, drank bourbon at a hipster bar in Los Feliz, stared at neon and razorwire, tried to map a place that didn’t exist (that being Smoketown), talked strange LA with friends while a Russian dude and his girlfriend did coke at the table next to us, and generally took a break.
But it’s back to work now. And back to trying to make things work. The trying and not succeeding wears. (Yes, just completing the work is a success in and of itself and my family thinks I’m a good writer, but neither of these pays the rent, or for artists to do pages.) Still, I’m trying to be at peace with my own limitations (assuming they are even such). Like I said above, I can only do what I can do. Can’t be anyone else. Gotta give a fuck about that, even if it’s tough to get anyone else to.
Just look at the sales on “The Black Mass Variations,” right? Well actually, don’t. Though I wonder what the other options are? The Howling Pit or indifference from paying markets. Pretty sure that submission to zero-pay markets aren’t going to do much to convince other outlets that my stories are any better. The CV doesn’t sell the story, you know?
Pitch development for THE FUTURE AMERICA and MY WINGS ARE BLACK continues, as in getting pages drawn (which means they need to be scripted—and choosing a sequence to illustrate the whole thing is crazy hard). And DEPARTMENT OF LIGHT AND SHADOW. And I really need to finish rewriting RAGNAROK SUMMER sometime. And the day job, which is difficult for completely different reasons. And everything else.
And everything else.