The smell of deep purple

Written January 2014 - Never published.

This new year's day was met with a sense of determination and no small amount of pique.

The preceding years lay spent and depleted like inert uranium rods giving off only trace memories, and nothing more.

I don't put much significance to new years supertistions. I've always believed that the days are yours to do with, or do without. The hold no more practical magic than that which we imbue them. So this new years meant nothing to me.

Accept, they did hold the promise of seeing my parents. The two most important people on this planet, responsible for my existance, for good or ill, they have wrought the man who types these words, and they are my corporeal tether.

I love my parents. I love them with a reverence and understanding of a man who is not only a parent, but a human who has made enumeral mistakes in life and in parenting. I love my parents in the way that an alcohlic loves his sobriety, in that they've been through the same fire of the blood and the ruin of bad decisions. And I love my parents with the love of a child who realizesd that without them in my life, my life would have been so much worse.

This is the clarity the new year brings. The singularity of being enlightened by age, wisdom, and geography.

Also, the rush of realization that there are things that need to change, and they need to change for the good of my family.

I've discovered that my knack for turning phrases was an elaborate ruse my smarter self played on my waking self. That the delight in putting words ogether was always a plan to be a writer. Yet my smarter self knew that my waking self is a petulant ass who would rebel instantly and being told what to do, or what it should be. The swell of personal satisfaction that would come from woeing a woman with words, was just a remedial writing class my smarter self created. And the companionship was the reward for a word well written.

It continued in various ways, ways that wpould let me practice this craft, get better, stronger. And in a moment of inspiration, on the heels of news that would normally have shut me doown, I discovred that in order to cintrol anything I create, I would need to generate the source. If I wanted to control the way a movie would look, the way a television show would eveolve, the way a video game should be played, I would need to create it it myself.

With the wild eyed fervor of a newly appointed dictator, I saw that my future needed to be shaped by my own hands. That I wanted - no, that I demanded complete, all encomnpassing control of my work. And if anyone wanted my work, they'd agree to my terms, or kiss my ass. Respectfully.

The Dark Phoenix rises... And C2E2 love!

"Warm vapor rises from the cryo-pod. The first warmth the exploration vessel has experienced in a long time. The vapors volume increases, filling the cryonics bay, as the first of many activation lights blink at the darkness.

A baritone hiss breaks the silence as pressure from the pod's opening slices through the silence, as the cryo-pod opens. His eyes open, and his chest rises and falls. The air is old, but it's cold and clean, and he breathes it in greedily..."

Ok, thats enough of that rather long metaphor. I used it to illustrate the rise of my consciousness and drive after an abysmal showing at C2E2. After not completing my book in enough time to have it with me as I strolled the floor, I opted to go anyway and salvage what I could.

I'm so glad that I did.

I would be a boarish lout, if I did not mention the handful of people who took the time to show kindness, well intentioned and enlightening advise, and even a hug.

In chronological order...

I met with Jim Zub. This guy is the grand mentor of mentors, to those of us breaking into comics. I've never come a cross a larger repository of exceptional advice. The guy's a peach too. Friendly, generous with his advice, and direct, without being the walking personification of the male phallus. He was awesome and I was blown away at being able to get a face to face with the man. I'd buy a chewing gum wrapper if he wrote a haiku on it. He's that good!

I know I'm not the only person who's been so deeply engrossed in a particular comic, in my case it's Starbrand and Nightmask from Marvel. And the two guys that caught my attention were Dominike "Domo" Stanton, and Greg Weisman. "Domo's" art on this book is sick!, It takes me back to the time when Marvel tried to "new-up" its universe, and one of the best things to come out of it was Starbrand. Domo is an awesome cat, with an easy smile, super humble and very patient with a leviathan-sized fan, geeking all over his table. And, he hipped me to who Greg Weisman is, and you have to be incredibly humble to divert attention away from your art, and "big-up" your writer. Domo is a stand-up guy and an incredibly artist.

Then I met Ariela Kristantina. I started following her on DeviantArt back in 2014, and then on Facebook. And she is a monster! Her artwork is blisteringly good, and her technique is deceptively elegant, as evidenced in her work on Deep State, to her work on InSEXts with Marguerite Bennett, published by AfterShock Comics. It's filled with grace and energy, just like the artist that draws it. She's also one of the sweetest people I've met this side of Kelly Sue DeConnick. A couple of weeks before C2E2, I posted an image of homemade beef jerky on my facebook page, and she actually liked it (full disclosure, I'm always stoked and flattered that people I follow and admire, follow ANYthing I post...it's the fanboy in me) , and I mentioned that if she's ever at a convention near me, I'd bring her some.

And as luck/fate/fortune would have it, she was at C2E2 this year, and I promised I would make some and bring it to her. And I got a hug out of the deal as well...score! She a wonderful person, a part from being an amazing artist. And she's a beef jerky fan too!

Justin Jordan is an immensely talented, humble as pie, and surprising kind of guy. He's the kind of guy, that if you met him in high school, or at a shared workplace, you'd wind up being fast friends with him. He's the epitome of affable, which is something that can not be said of many people. However, I've yet to meet a wholly ignorant professional at a con, so in that regard, he's of a particularly excellent standard. I've been following his career since the first announcement of his Luther Strode series to his John Flood series, now to his Strayer series also with AfterShock comics, and since then, he's consistently produced work that will make him one of the greats of our generation.

It stuns me, sometimes, how truly cool comic book professionals are in real life. Case in point - Scott Hepburn. Scott was a dude. A complete and total class-A nice guy. Sitting at his table, just chilling, and did not get freaked when this grizzly bear sized fan, called out his name (laced with complimentary expletives), from the middle of the aisle. His incredible work displayed to the side, he graciously looked at my work, gave solid and insightful critiques, and made me envious of his place in The RAID Studio. He was sitting directly by Francis Manapul who was cooling out drawing, a few tables down was Ramon K. Perez, and further down, was Marcus To (away from his table at that time), and these guys are very friendly, scary talented, and well-deserved of their accolades. One of these days i'm going to get these guys to sign my baseball, and hopefully throw in a visit to the studio...fingers crossed.

Last but the exact opposite of least, was Skottie Young. Skottie Young has the kind of career that anyone breaking into comics would sell their life's possession just to have a single iota of the acclaim. He did it the old fashioned way... he was on his grind! He kept his head down and just did exemplary work. And the word exemplary is not lightly used. With his work on The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, he garnered accolades that include the New York Times best seller list, and an Eisner Award...the man is a beast! I went to C2E2 wanting to salvage my plan to have a book to show, so I brought my first self published comic Drag along, and gave it to him. On the final day of C2E2 he took it and told me at the first chance he gets to read it, he will. There's nothing on earth that forces a man to do anything, and out of a genuine regard for his fans, he chose to do that. He is, in my book, the very best in the field, both personally and professionally.

So, my goal to have another book to peddle at the convention was a total failure. But from failure, if you're honest with yourself, a lesson can be learned. And the lesson I took from it, was that if I want this, this dream of being in the comic book industry, creating good and solid work, meeting people who I admire and who motivate me to do the best I can, and be the best I can, I need to follow the example of these remarkable people. I need to put my ass in the chair, keep my head down, and focus on creating work that I'm happy with, and is deserving of the attention of someone like myself. Someone who love comics, and respects their place in the literary firmament, and will except nothing short of amazing. I am a fan, who dreams of being a creator. And that's not a bad way to live a life.

The dark phoenix rises, and gets his ass to work.

Watch this space...

Joyce Carol Oates: Twitter suffers from “lynch mob mentality”

Joyce Carol Oates: Twitter suffers from “lynch mob mentality”

Don't call it a comeback!

There are lots of different reasons to jump to the conclusion, especially given the preternatural and prolonged period of inactivity on my blog, that I had thrown in the towel and given up.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Though my apparent dormancy may seem like inactivity, it in fact was strategy. I've immersed myself to my nose and ear holes in that which can only serve to make me better. Now I could say that I've been steeped in creating killer robots to find, and torture my feckless former supervisor. Which is a complete, yet delicious, fantasy.

Or I could say that I've been battling bureaucracy in all its myriad and stultifying incarnations, but that would be both lofty and far more excitement than was actually had.

I could say that I found love and had been cocooned in its rapturous embrace, made languid by its sweet words of everlasting kisses and adamantine fidelity. Lost in its promise of sweet and blissful eternity rolling from one gold dappled cloud to the other, laughing like school children with a dirty secret. But that would be far too Dickensian for my tastes.

No the reality of it all is that I've been writing and writing and drawing and writing...etc. I've been preparing for my first comic book, both written and drawn by my own hand. It's been a long time coming. I wanted to be as good as I could be before debuting my first endeavor. I didn't want it to be a freshman effort even though its being created be a newbie.

Stay posted...more to come.

The Search for Imaginary Magic

Sometimes the eyes are not the windows to the soul.  Sometimes they are only the portal were life and our version of reality pours through unfiltered. Until our mind converts it by use of perception into a version of reality that scares a great many people.  Sometimes your eyes are radio receivers, devices that were created for one purpose, and inevitably become the vehicle for that which they were not designed.

There are some, in whose shoes that touch the earth, conventional wisdom tells us is firm and consistent, but in truth to those chosen few it’s merely an affirmation that perception is the only thing that makes anything real.  A concept that men of great letters, have never and will never come closer to the truth, the real truth.

These people, who burn brighter than any dying star, who see shapes and music, colors and sound, a motion instead of words, their trust is a brilliant unrelenting form of truth.

And their filters do not work.  Eroded by the constant stream of glorious input and knowledge, the barriers and stops lay pieces.  And this unabated flow can be intoxicating.  To have all the knowledge that will ever exist or has ever existed flow into your mind and create images and ideas that no one has heard or seen before.  Voluminous tornadoes of intelligent thought, concepts that would give the lay person a bout of the screaming Mimi’s, but to you it’s like watching the pageantry of god’s creation in your head, constantly.

It can be wonderful.  And because of its unending nature they can keep you enthralled for hours.  A view that only you can see, with all the true reality that exist outside of your head.  But for only uniquely yours.  Our imaginations are great things.  They allow us to tap into our non-blasphemous grasp at creation on a grander scale than what our hands can do.  On a scale that our words, and our voices, could never manufacture.  One can create an entire world, populated by creatures, and forms of human life yet to evolve. Verdant fields filled with the unique vegetation that yield both food, entertainment, and depending on the particular mind and hand, great danger.  With this mind you could create universes.  Galaxies and civilizations that will do exactly what you design them to do.  That’s glorious!

There can be no light without the dark.  There’s no consideration for light existing on its own, without end, a perpetual blaze, in tones a white hot yellow red and blue.  And conversely, and all of its deep indigo blackness, immortal darkness is equally inconceivable.  But it’s the dark that we find most are to deal with because it’s the dark that causes the most problems.  No one thinks about the dark until the light gently and regrettably passes away, after a period of elation and wonder at the things our minds can do.  When the darkness seeps, ebbs and flows over its only then when we realize that the duality of our lives as seekers of imaginary magic that it’s perceived as a double edged sword.

The doubt we all feel at the moment when the darkness, which is actually the downside of being who we are and how we are, is that the light will never shine again.  That’s a white wall for a ride itself from loss and retreat to a place that out of logical we should know where it is.  The light belongs to us; it is ours to hold, to manipulate, and the bend to our will.  It only stands to reason that it being of our possession that it would be ours to find so is never lost.

But like most things in the possession of human beings this light does not belong to us.  We merely tap into it, coexist with it, are in partnership with it, but it does not belong to us.  It is the same partnership we share with the darkness, or the downside.  It does not belong to us either.  We’re not slaves to it.  Yet it will descend upon us, with razor sharp quickness and an indeterminate duration.  I know of no other impediments, or cautions to this type of existence.  And on the whole by perceived that their lives are and are richer for it and for it being, simply being.

But the rapture, the unmitigated less of being an individual who sees magic and the following a snowflake, or sees the divine source tree of air as it pushes against objects with little substance enough to hold themselves against the wind.  There not words enough to describe the happiness of being able to perceive a world in terms that excite and electrify your thoughts.  And knowing that those thoughts, if given purpose and a vehicle or medium in which to exist into our waking world, I don’t have the words for that.  I am not as intelligent as I would love to be, to be able to describe that feeling you get when you draw a picture.  When you take one basic element, and apply it to another, and create an image that captures someone’s attention.  Paints itself on their consciousness, and lives with them for the rest of their lives.

Or to create a story, of peoples and things.  Of locales and experiences, which our readers allowing his mind to be open, and infected with the idea of that you’ve created and that idea generates more thought.  That magneto of an imaginary experience has now become the engine that drives ours and others imaginations.  And that tiny component becomes their possession.  They own that.  This something given freely, from a creator of the need to create, as a guest openly accepted and forever held.  Who would not want a life like that?

Who would not choose to be a creator?  Who would not choose to marvel and the myth of legend and think of in real but only recently faded memory.  Who would not want to know that centaurs, and griffin’s actually trod the earth, enter natural selection and simply lay extinct in the earth.

Indeed with any beloved thing, there’s always going to be a light and a dark.  There’s always going to be the up and down, the converse and the contrary.  And in most cases you have little sway over the outcome of which will be the most prominent.  Your will over this force of nature that lies within you has no other master than itself.  Yet it does not rule you, nor should it be allowed to.  Yet in some ways it does.  It wraps its tendrils around your pleasure centers and never let’s go.  This tight loving embrace it has over your brain is one that it is not willing to relinquish because it knows what you want from it.  It knows that you want to create hopefully with the creation enlighten those around you.

Yet at the time of creation others are not in the equation.  Each word, each daub of paint, each stretch of your fingers and your arms as a part of the symphony of creation.  It’s this incredible alchemic dance that your brain does with your extremities and from this dance is the birthing an astral entity.

This entity, untethered by anything terrestrial, is free to enter any open soul, any alert and functioning brain, and live there, or not.  There are some who are not receptive to anything new.  And reject this entity.  Not being the lesser for the rejection, only separate from those who are.  And there’s no shame and that, no recriminations, no shunning.  Merely a time of waiting until an entity that they find pleasing and acceptable comes to them.

So be pleased to be as seeker of imaginary magic.  Lives most do not choose, but in time and with care choose not to live without.

It's tough being a fanboy...

Popular culture can be an interesting place to spend your time, whether it is movies, collectibles, comic books (my particular favorite), and even obscure plushy toy knickknacks. The time spent engaged in enjoying these particular activities for some is time well spent. We find a certain amount of enjoyment through the possession of these items, the amassing of these items, and even the imagining of the process it took to invent these items. It is a way for adults to return to that pleasant childhood environment where imagination was the only entertainment that we needed, to up lift our spirits or transport us to a place that we didn't have to be bothered with the world at large.

I think that's why, in particular, being a comic book fanboy is something I'm both proud to pronounce, and excited to be a part of. But it ain't easy being a fanboy.

Fanboys are a rare breed of pop-culture enthusiasts. Our fetish of choice (and I call it a fetish not in any sexual way, but in of the traditional sense collecting an item that matters greatly to us), is an ever evolving form of storytelling. For most that don't know and I will not hold myself up as an expert in popular culture, but I do know a great deal about comic books, comic books are the beautiful alchemy of the written word coupled with glorious illustration.

And when it is done right, the confluence of colors shapes, and form, along with how even the words/symbols being what they are, turn what most consider an ordinary book into an interactive piece of art. And it is when comic books, at their best become transcendent. If you can get a brilliant writer, and a brilliant artist, with a brilliant idea orchestrated in such a way as to create a true emotional response from its reader, you have a thing that is quite possibly beyond the description of words.

And it is our love of this medium, these and those who create treasures for us, that we can sometimes lose our perspective, and our ability to see boundaries. In short, we lose our freaking minds.

At an annual gathering, throughout the country, at various times throughout the year there are comic book conventions galore. And the frenzied fanatical fans that attend these conventions, bursting with the overflowing congress of love that we all have, we can sometimes lose sight of the fact that the people who write and draw these things we love, are actually very much like us. However we've lofted them to a status where they are now rock stars, and or pop-culture icons, and justly so. These men and women create dreams for us on paper and they work very hard to do that. They spend countless hours formulating ideas, battling deadlines, feeding their families, spending time with their families, in order to meet weekly, or monthly deadlines to get us our visual crack on a regular basis.

This is their job, and is a job that they have taken willingly, but they still have lives, and they have to live them. And they have to live them free of the sometimes overbearing love that we give them. No, I'm not saying that they should not be loved, for what they do. I'm not saying that they are not deserving of our adoration and admiration. In point of fact, I'm saying they should be truly admired and, we should be grateful for what they do for us.

What I am saying is, that that love should not come in the form of a large slobbering dog that pounces upon their chest looks than from head and neck, and then have us sit on their lap and ask them to tell us a story written especially for us and only us.

I know it's hard to contain oneself when you're excited, you find yourself overwhelmed with the flow of adrenaline, and maybe even a little bit of dopamine, when you see your favorite comic book writer, or artist at a convention, and all reason and rationality evaporate as quickly as free snacks in the food court. Like most of us who attended, the convention, we've gone to panels we've seen artists and writers talk about their upcoming books or their past books, and we ask them questions of a dizzying variety about obscure points in their career.

We bring our favorite issues, hoping that they will be signed, and that we will be able to share a significant and intimate moment with someone who wrote a story that touches or made us think further than we thought we were able. Or share a laugh, become friends, trade recipes, and maybe even if were lucky hold hands walking down the concourse.

And of that scenario we really should only hope for a polite discourse, a handshake and a smile. And of course a signature.

t happened to me, I had a particular moment, where I walked up to Robert Kirkman, Rob Liefeld, and Shawn Martinbrough, and had them sign a baseball. That baseball is now one of my prized possessions. I was nervous, and sweaty, and a loss for words in front of these men who have written stories I have deeply enjoyed. And was dumbstruck.

All 3 graciously signed the ball, all 3 were kind and generous men, and I was delighted to find out that they're basically comic book fanboys just like me. The only difference between them and I, as they did the hard work wrote the stories put in the years and got the job they wanted. I'll be there soon I still have dues to pay.

The reason why I thought I needed to write this particular blog about fandom, is that I see a great many fans personalize their love of both the book, and those who create the book and become personally vicious towards those who created it. A level which I find disturbing. Disturbing in the sense that if you truly love the medium that you have immersed yourself in, you must take time to remember the humanity behind the creation. The level of practice, and sacrifice, and diligence that these individuals have placed in their work is and should be a matter of high esteem. And any level of personal criticism leveled at their personalities, or how they feel, and what they say about a particular non-comic book topic, is a bit like sniping.

Taking long-distance potshots at an attractive target, only to soothe your own particular pique over the story arc of a particular character, or your opinion about the implausible and inaccurate environment that the story was set in. These are aesthetics that only the writer and the artist should be privy to. We're not supposed to be a part of the process as fans. We can voice our opinions intelligently, passionately, and with as much enthusiasm as necessary. But to have a disagreement escalate to the level of throwing hot syringes filled with personal bile, is a lot like buying any product, not liking it, and sitting outside the door of the inventor of that product, waiting for him to come outside so you can stick a sticky dorito cheesy finger in his face. Telling him you didn't like what he did, you want him to change it, and that's that. And walk away, ass clenching tightly behind you.

I have to say my position is a bit biased. My writing career is just starting I have aspirations just like any brand-new comic book writer, but I am a fan. I have read comics all of my life. And will continue to, until I am a wizened, toothless old Crone, pinching the bottoms of my plump yet appealing younger nurse. Comic books saved my life, and it is my hope to return the favor to anyone else who reads anything I write or draw. I don't believe that I can do it any better than anyone currently working, and I have no plans to change the industry and turn it on its ear. I just want to write good work, that people truly enjoy, and feel as though the money that they sacrificed in order to eat in another bowl of Ramen noodles, and instead bought my comic book.

That's it. I love the industry, and I want to be a part of it, a contributing part that just wants to do good work for good people.

That's why it pains me to see fans lambaste, or the artists that they admire. Or the writers that they admire and find meaning in their words. It pains me to see writers and artists have to defend their aesthetic choices to fans who, however deeply they feel is justified, to not only attacked the work but attack the integrity of the artisan who created that work. Although a comic book is a collaborative effort, it is not a community effort. And nor should it be. If the storyline it is not to your liking, or the interplay between one character and another character, isn't something that's flipping your switches, you vote by not buying that book.

Or if you're a devoted fan you write the letters column, letting them know that what they're doing isn't working for you, and… well, you know how this works.

The creative team will come together to make assessments, the marketing team will check the profit of the book, and then they'll make a decision. But you vote whether you're going to buy the book, or whether the book does well, based on how much money you put down. If you put nothing down, that book will show in its sales, and you won't have to worry about it anymore. But don't attack the people who write it, don't attack the people who draw it. Yes there are terrible artists, yes there are terrible writers, and the best way to let those people know how terrible they are is by not buying the book. Eventually the publisher will get the hint and they will find someone hopefully better to punch you in the face with a hot new idea, that makes all of the hairs on the backs of your neck, and even your ballsack stand on end until you read the next issue.

And it is tough being a fanboy, were pitched between adulation, and the desolation of waiting for our next issue. Left were own devices like a virgin on prom night hoping to get laid by the hottest chick in school. Having her touch us all over getting us excited to the point where our eyeballs literally would will burst out of our heads. Only to be met with her telling us not right now in a month I'll give you a little bit more. To which we reluctantly, yet happily say yes I will wait and hopefully in a month's time you will give me something that will make me want to smack my relatives, and forsake my house, because it is just that damn good.

I truly believe this is the life of the family. And it's not a life that week had forced on us it's one we chose willingly. No one showed the comic book of our hands and told us to love it, we picked it up on our own chose to love it, and at the time we chose to love it without reservation, or even the hope of reward for loving it. We love it without measure, without restriction, and with endless hope.

Reading bad books, and the paths to wisdom.

Being a writer I have learned through countless hours of reading, advice from every writer I could find on the Internet, from Harlan Ellison, to the YA Rebels on YouTube, to Stephen King, that in order to be a good writer one must read. And read as much, and as frequently as possible.

Now with being dyslexic, it makes reading a bit difficult, and at times challenging. But I do, and I read authors that I both admire, and believe I can learn something from. My favorite types of reading are detective novels, science-fiction fantasy, I've even read Bukowski, and not to impress or seem pretentious but because the man's personal philosophy and his personal history are incredibly interesting and filled with the most basic human need to be both recognized and left alone. The oddest and sweetest dichotomy I think men of the 20th century could have. The man is brilliant, depraved, brave, and one of the more honest writers I've read.

That being said…

To read a bad book, is very much like asking someone, and paying them, to roughly beat you about the ears, neck, and shoulders for an undetermined amount of time. And the level of brutality involved in the beating, varies upon the degree to which the writing is bad.  And it is the type of beating that leaves you flinching whenever you reach for another book. Unless it's a book from a writer that has never let you down, and even on his worst day will write an entertaining book that you will put your hard-earned cash in the palm of an eager bookseller.

It is my sincere hope, that the amount of bad writing that I create will only be seen by me, and then promptly deleted, and my hard drive erased beyond all recognition, so no trace of it will have ever existed.

 But I realize that I may not be at all able to control that. I will sit here and try to write the most accurate depiction of what I see in my head, trying to remove myself from the process and just let the characters do with they need to do. I can be as persnickety precise with my punctuation, diction, structure, plot, and all of the other things that are actually in my control, and still pump out crap book. Not intentionally crappy mind you, but a book that a person will pick up, read the 1st 5 pages, sniff to see where the excremental smell is coming from, and put the book down and never buy it. From all I've read it seems the one bit of advice no writer can ever give you is how to write a bestseller, or how to convince the reader to buy your book.

Being a writer is a crapshoot, in fact being an artist in any medium needing commerce to survive, takes the dice and throws them blindly. Which is another realization that I've only recently come to, write for love. Write for the love of writing and creating, and the knowledge that you are doing something that you were meant to do, not an occupation or job of work.

So, I have absolutely no problem paying my money to any writer whose book I've read. Whether the book was marginal, or bad, or utterly excremental (I hate to use a word twice, but it fits each time), I will read it I will take what I can from it, and I will try not to make any of the mistakes I might find therein. And I will also endeavor not to steal any of the best pieces, at least not intentionally.