SAN DIEGO COMIC-CON 2001

I went to San Diego with forty-eight completed pages of the Lump, in sharpie.

Elizabeth was so great. She was enjoying herself so much at the con. She would offer to wait in line for me, so that I could go listen to a panel, or go take notes at a panel while I was in line for a portfolio review. She was so willing to try and help out, since she knew how important all this was to me. She loved people-watching. She kept talking about how, Look, there’s a place for everyone, that they can go and feel like they belong.

ONI Portfolio Review

Watching all the reviews ahead of us, we saw they were quite kind and tried to give meaningful, helpful advice. The editor (who I would later learn, as I got into the industry better, was James Lucas Jones) looked over my stuff, and tried to give positive feedback of what he liked, and make criticisms of things to work on. He said some of my figural forms looked awkward to him. He signaled out a panel of two characters pointing at each other and shouting. I told him it was my John Woo homage, but he didn’t even smile. He suggested I might take some figure drawing classes. When we left, he suggested, if I wanted to leave a package, he could keep it with his files. I started to get a package together, but was thinking about how I’d seen him take packages from everyone. I said something along the lines of, “Would it really do any good to leave this with you? I mean, you don’t really look at these packages, do you?” Because even though he was very courteous and polite, and willing to take the time to do these reviews, I just imagined this vibe that it was easiest, and assuaged hurt hopefuls, to offer to take something, but that he wasn’t going to be looking at any of these packages again, except to throw them out. And he kind of looked at me, like he was taken a little aback at my asking, and he answered something polite that basically told me, No, it won’t really do any good. The moment I asked, I realized what this could mean. It could mean, even if I do look at these packages, I’m sure in the hell not gonna bother to look at anything you leave me … now.

Valuable lesson. This industry is so tiny, you better be as polite as you can to everyone you meet, and say, Yes sir, to whatever they say. Because they’ll still be there for the rest of the time you’re still trying to find work. So whether you’re a prick or they’re a prick, you won’t be getting in so long as they stay in the industry, and they’ll remember you.

As if I didn’t make myself into a big enough moronic asshole in the eyes of Oni Press, I asked something about sending submissions to them, and when to expect to hear back. And I was just trying to be funny, and did an impression of a stalking psycho, saying, “Why didn’t you write back??!?” But the editor shrank back and winced, with a glaze of fear in his eyes, like he thought I was going to jump over the table and grab him. I smiled to show I was joking, and he smiled with relief, finally getting the joke. And I left, thinking to myself, Good work, Chris. Now I can look forward to never getting work for Oni Press.

Darkhorse Review

Darkhorse recommended going to a seminar they held before getting your portfolio reviewed. Randy Stradley gave a lot of information I found very interesting and helpful. He said you have to have two of three things to make it in the industry. The three things are 1. Being able to work fast, 2. Being a nice guy, and 3. Being a good artist. He said if you’re a nice guy, and you’re really good, but you’re slow, you can still make it in comics. If you’re not that good, but you’re fast, and and you’re nice, you can make it. But if you’re an asshole, and you work slow, even if you’re hot shit, no one will hire you. He pointed out, like every editor I’ve spoken to, that editors are just doing their job, and if they say something you don’t like, don’t take it personally. Just look for a different editor that nurses you and appreciates or understands your style. If you get pissed and snap at them, or if you argue with them about their critique of your work, they’re going to remember you. And they’re going to remember you were a prick, and it won’t matter if your art gets better over time. The industry is way too small to be an asshole, and it will come back on you. There are only so many editors, and once you’ve pissed a few of them off, you’re just shooting yourself in the foot, because they’ll be around, and also they’re all friends with each other, and it will be no trouble at all for them to prevent you from getting in.

While waiting in line for my portfolio review at Darkhorse, we befriended a very sweet young seventeen-year old named Dash Shaw, who had come out from the Midwest. And he was very talented. His art looked great, his stories were quite sophisticated. From the sound of it, he’d flown out to this big con for the first time, hoping to just come out and land work. I sympathized with his hopefulness, now that I’d had a few years of portfolio reviews at Wondercon.

We bumped into this kid later, and you could tell he was beginning to feel that familiar portfolio review despair. However, he had gotten a good sign from Oni. They had given him a special “secret business card,” which he was told to copy and affix to the outside of a submission envelope, and send a package to them in the mail. The implication, in my jealous mind, was that Oni received all these submissions, and just tossed them all into the garbage unopened, laughing with mirth … UNLESS the envelope contained the secret signal card identifier! THEN they would know it was okay to open up this particular package and consider it. I didn’t get a secret signal card like this, and so I knew they were definitely not interested in me. Of course I already knew that!

I saw a horrible thing waiting in line for my Darkhorse review. It was a maybe late-twenties guy with a big stack of papers … obviously a script. He was up at the table, and we watched him sit nervously down, make his pitch, get a couple words of advice, shake hands, get up and walk off. And obviously, even though I couldn’t hear a word, the editor had told him how hard it is to get into comics as a writer, how no one really looks at your stuff, how he wasn’t planning to look at the guy’s stuff, and on and on, like we’ve all heard and had to bear.

But the horrible part was that then his wife and two very little kids came up to see how things went, and they were all so obviously hopeful about their guy becoming the comic book guy, and they were all standing there giving him big hugs. Sweetest saddest thing, knowing what he must have been going through.

I actually enjoyed my Darkhorse review with Phil Amara. I loved his Nevermen with Guy Davis, although I didn’t realize he had written them until after the review. He was kind and sympathetic, and seemed to like my work all right. He gave me his contact info. I sent him more stuff and emailed him, but I never heard back from him. I wondered if he was even still working for Darkhorse.

DC Review

DC was also giving portfolio review panels. If you wanted your portfolio reviewed, you were required to go to the panel, and listen to their hour presentation of what they’re looking for, and what to expect. Then, at the end, they gave out lottery tickets for the privilege of a portfolio review, later in the day. A lot of kids went three days in a row, and had to listen to that goddamn presentation three times, and still didn’t get their winning lottery numbers for the review (I should hope DC would finally let them have a review, at that point just out of pity.)

I actually found the talk helpful. Mark Chiarello gave this talk. I was familiar with and admired his artwork. He discussed the kinds of submissions they want, and the format they want it in. It put things in better perspective, seeing the people who would give reviews. Like Darkhorse, he said they were editors, and their day jobs are editing and getting books ready to print, not looking through the stacks of submissions they get every week. Sure, they could look for new talent, and they might even find someone great (You never know. They might). But it’s easier, and more efficient and reliable if they just hire artists who have done professional work, whose work they know, and whose work ethics they already know from experience that they can rely on. Why should he hire an unknown artist who does a nice sort of Simon Bisley style, if he can just hire Simon Bisley. He said that every convention, he finds a dozen artists with potential, and maybe half of them he gives contact info to, and maybe three of them he thinks might really be good to work with. But that doesn’t mean these three are going to get work. Because it depends on how many books are available month to month, and it depends on if these new artists would be good for the book in question. You just never know. The bottom line is that it’s a tough industry to get work, but keep pushing, and keep calling, and keep trying. And don’t be a jerk, and don’t get impatient, because that will just insure you never get work.

So we listened all the way through the talk, and then they passed out tickets for the reviews. If you got your ticket, you were assigned an hour time block, during which time you’d go to the DC booth and wait in line again, and then they’d look at your stuff. What a goddamn pain in the ass, but of course we went along with all this bullshit, because it’s all we could do. And who could blame them for making you jump through hoops, because they’re swamped with all these hopefuls, and just trying to offer a sort of courtesy to a mob of talentless morons who are never going to get jobs from DC anyways .

At my allotted time, I went down to the portfolio review line, and was told there were two editors. I chose a Vertigo editor, because obviously my stuff isn’t really superheroic. So I waited in line, started to show my stuff, and this editor began telling me to pay more attention to detail. Obviously, he wasn’t particularly interested in my style. He looked through maybe three or four pages. Then he stopped looking, and kind of suggested I work on this, and I work on that. He recommended picking an object each day to draw, and fill a page with that object each day. Draw clocks one day. Draw couches the next day. It’s a great exercise, I agree, and I think about it whenever I’m looking for objects to fill my panels with. It’s good advice, but I wanted to show him some examples of objects I put into some other pages. I began to turn through my portfolio, but he wasn’t interested anymore, and he wasn’t even looking. He just literally shut my portfolio, with my hands still in it, and shooshed me on my way. I found his review hurried, uninterested in what I was trying to do, and not very helpful, and I was so pissed.

On a sudden whim of naughtiness, I went to the opposite side of the DC booth, where the other editor was reviewing. I unfairly pushed to the front of the line, because my slip of paper said I had to be there within a certain hour, and my hour slot was just about up. And never mind that I’d already gotten my review. I sat down with Alex Sinclair, who I learned was a colorist for Wildstorm. I thought to myself, “This guy isn’t even an editor. He’s just a colorist. What the hell am I getting a review from him about? How the hell could I possibly land work from a colorist? What a joke! What bullshit!” But he was so kind, and it turned out, he was making his way fast up the Wildstorm ladder. So I take it all back, colorist portfolio reviewers! My apologies!

He really looked at my artwork and tried to give me helpful advice. I showed him the first few pages of “The Lump” that took place on the freeway, and the sequence where Lance DeLaney follows Moe Beckett to the Body Barn. I felt Alex really wanted to help me. He really took time to listen and look at my work.

I told him I had tried sending my work to the DC offices, and never heard anything back from anyone, not even a form letter. He gave me his email and told me to send him a copy of my stuff, and he would get it onto the desk of an editor. What a kind gesture. I did as he said, and he told me he did what he promised. I of course still never heard back from anyone, but it always meant a lot to me that he was willing to do this for me.

Overall, I felt pretty good about my portfolio experiences. I learned a lot, and got plenty of good advice to consider for the next year. And I met people, who I assumed would be back again the following year, and I could show them how I’d continued to work, and hopefully also improved. It would be a long-term struggle to get in, but I’d keep trying, and now I had a couple ins, small as they were.

When I met Elizabeth, she had just gotten out of a serious, long-term relationship. Her boyfriend was a good guy, but he always said he wasn’t sure if he would ever want to get married. E finally decided, I can’t wait for you to decide what you want or don’t want, and she broke up. She decided from now on, any relationship she was in, she would give the guy two years to decide if she was the one he wanted to marry. She decided, a person should know within two years if they want to spend their lives together or not. That’s enough time to get to know who a person is. So when we began dating, the clock began ticking.

While we were down in San Diego, the two-year alarm clock would go off. As the trip approached, I was getting really excited and feeling really close to her, because I had picked out a ring and knew I would be proposing down there. It was kind of dirty, but I chose to wait until the last minute, because I thought that would make it a little more special, to be away on a trip for the proposal.

But she was getting irritable and upset. She knew I knew the ultimatum was coming, and she was convincing herself to break up with me. She thought, “I hope this guy doesn’t think I’ll break my own rules. I gave him two years, and I love him, but I can’t wait for someone again.”

We headed out to the airport to begin our trip. I had my little portfolio with the first forty-eight pages of “The Lump.” I’d shown the first twenty-four pages to editors at APE, so I knew how the portfolio review worked. I knew what to expect. And I knew that this was the biggest convention in America, and that there’d be plenty of publishers to show my work. I planned to approach DC and Darkhorse for sure, and then maybe just see who else was there. I thought I’d also approach Oni, maybe Fantagraphics and Top Shelf, and look for Caliber, who I wouldn’t learn until later had gone out of business.

On the drive out to the airport, Elizabeth looked over our flight schedule and realized she’d misread it, and that we’d already missed our flight. Great start for putting her in a bad mood, for a vacation she was already gearing up not to enjoy, since she was going to have to break up with me. I, on the other hand, am thinking, ah, who cares? So we missed a flight? I’m in love, and I’m going to ask this girl to marry me.

After checking in, we caught the next flight, which actually wasn’t much of a wait. We got to San Diego, took a bus to our hotel, and realized our hotel reservation had been for a month earlier. Somehow the wrong day had been reserved. They scolded us for requesting the state worker rate (Elizabeth works for the state, but the woman at the desk demanded she know if E was doing business this weekend.) We were finally given a very small smokers room (we don’t smoke, and Elizabeth is allergic) that reeked of cigarette smell. To allay the reek, they gave us an anti-smell spray in a janitor-style spray bottle. We would spray it in the air, and on our bed covers and pillows, and then our bed covers and pillows would be soaking wet with the smell of fake-flower not quite overpowering cigarette smoke.

We walked through town toward the convention. It was a cute town, and we found a restaurant for lunch. Elizabeth wasn’t particularly excited to be down at the convention. She thought maybe she’d go to the con for a day, and then maybe go to a movie or go shopping or get her nails done, or try and find something to pass the time for the rest of the weekend. Originally she envisioned reading or watching tv at the hotel, but now she knew the less time she could spend there, the better.

We got to the con, and E took my picture arriving at my first “big” con. At least, my first big con with her. My first big con, understanding the industry now, and legitimately making a pitch as a comics artist.

I’d been told about this convention. I’d been told there was nothing like it, and it was just the biggest thing you’d ever see, and you could find any old comics you were looking for. And before this year, that was pretty much the only reason I would go to cons; to find and buy old comics. And so the appeal of San Diego wasn’t so big for me, because I was able to find plenty of the comics I was looking for at my local conventions. And furthermore, all the local conventions tended to have great deals, where people were always dumping comics for 50% off, or for a dollar an issue, or fifty cents each, or a quarter. And it sounded to me like even though you could find anything at San Diego, you wouldn’t find it for the great deals I’d been finding them. So it just sounded to me like an expensive trip, buying an expensive airline ticket and really expensive hotel, and then maybe you’d find some books you couldn’t find at home and they would cost more than if you ever did find them at home.

But this year, I wasn’t really looking for comics. I was looking for work. So that made it worth it to give the convention a try.

It felt just like the Wondercons I’d been to before, except that it was ENORMOUS. It would take ten or twenty minutes to hustle from one end of the hall to the other. People were in mobs, everywhere. Everyone was dressed as Superheroes or manga or Alien or Terminator, or weird make-up, or just costumes you don’t even recognize. But all the costumes were REALLY GOOD. And really crazy. It was just SO HUGE.

There weren’t just a bunch of comics bins, like the conventions I was used to. There was every kind of toy you could imagine, and all kinds of videos, and t-shirts, and people selling posters and mugs and bobble-heads and models and original artwork. There were video games lying out everywhere for everyone to play. Everyone had enormous displays. There were huge Superman displays and Batman displays and realistic life-size models actors for their latest movies. EVERYTHING was SO HUGE. It was like the ultimate fantasy of a ten-year-old boy, selling everything he could imagine he really needs in his wildest dreams.

As we’re spending time in the hall, Elizabeth is enjoying herself more and more. The whole atmosphere is so stimulating and exhausting and bizarre. There is such an odd and huge mass of people. Elizabeth joked that it made her realize, whatever kind of person you are, there is a place for you somewhere. There is an ass for every saddle.

So by the end of the first day, Elizabeth had such a great time, she can’t wait to go back. She isn’t interested in getting her hair done or going shopping any more. She wants to hang out in the convention, and people watch. And observe the sheer insanity of it all.

That night we went to a nice Thai Restaurant, and having been on our feet all day, trudging for miles, we’re both exhausted and ready for bed. We had a nice dinner, and afterwards I told her, Hey, why don’t we take a walk down by the water.

So now she thinks something fishy is going on. Could it be…? Why would he want to go down to the pier if we’re both so tired? So we walked down, and I’ve got a ring in my pocket that I’ve had for a couple weeks, and I’m trying to look for a nice place I can propose since I’ve never been down here before, and it’s dark, and there are kids everywhere, down for the convention.

Finally we find a nice place over by a pier that seems quiet enough, but it’s kind of in the dark. I pull out the ring, and right then a mass of maybe a dozen kids comes walking up. I quickly and embarrassedly propose without even getting on my knees because I’m so embarrassed, and Elizabeth says yes and we hurry off away from the kids. She puts the ring on her finger, and it’s huge, it’s way too big. She could probably fit two fingers in it. And she keeps trying to get a look at it, but she can’t see it because it’s so dark. The only lights or lamps are in the ground by stairs and along walkways, so people know where to walk. Elizabeth is holding her hand down against the ground by these lights to try and see what her ring looks like.

And we get back to our smelly hotel and go to bed, and right outside our window for some reason there just happens to be a block party going on, with rap music blasting on enormous speakers, and a DJ having people participate by clapping and yelling. And we go to bed, engaged. Having gotten engaged at San Diego Comic-Con International, of all places. What fucking nerds. How embarrassing. To this day, I’m ashamed when people ask how we got engaged, especially if they’re comics nerds like we are.

By February 21st, 2000, working on a script, I had also written a proposal for “The Lump,” and even sent it to Vertigo Comics. I of course didn’t get any form of response. With all this continued lack of interest for any scripts I tried to show, describe, or send, I started thinking about drawing. So I pounded through and finished 24 drawn, inked, lettered pages completing “The Lump #1,” (the first of an envisioned three issues, and the story portion which ended up being the first two of six chapters in the later-redrawn and extended, published version). This I mailed myself, certified, on January 19th, 2001. The package also contained finished scripts for issues two and three, which completed the story. That’s practically a year it took me, between sending out a proposal, completing the scripts, and finishing the first issue. That’s a long time, but to my credit, I drew the first issue twice, once as 8 1/2″ x 11″ fully-realized layouts.

So now I had the first chapter of the Lump, twenty-four pages, and a convention to show it off. San Francisco’s APE.

Talking with friends, I had been told there are tons of indie companies who I should talk to, and try and see if anyone would publish my stuff. At the con, I realized, sure, all these people are “self-publishers,” but they’re not really “publishers.” It became clear they were all basically just guys like me who drew a full story, but then they took money out of their own bank account to print their own stuff. They’re not looking for people with stories and art. They can’t even afford to print their own stuff. So walking through the convention, I found myself passing by pretty much everyone there, and looking for companies that actually put out a number of books by a number of different people. I was familiar with all the names of the bigger companies. I also looked for a few other companies, who it turned out had gone out of business. I just assumed they must be based on the East Coast, and kept looking for them at the next few conventions.

I spoke with a nice younger-looking guy with Fantagraphics and left a package with him. He said they don’t look at work at conventions because it’s too crazy and hectic, but that if there’s a self-addressed envelope included, they will respond to the package. I would later learn this kind fellow was Eric Reynolds.

Also at this convention, I spoke with Slave Labor. I asked about getting a portfolio review, and someone pointed to the person I should speak with, who was busy. I waited and checked back, and finally this person said, Come on, let’s just do it now. He gave a kind, thoughtful review, and basically said I need to vary my line quality. He knew I was using sharpies, and thought I should be using brushes or pens. This was Dan Vado who gave me this review.

Fantagraphics actually sent me a rejection letter for the package I had left with them, which I very much appreciated. They hand-wrote a little note that, although they thought my art was just okay, they thought the story was good. They recommended I submit it to the Xeric Grant. I was encouraged by this small act of kindness. I had heard that if an editor takes the time to send more than a typed form letter, they saw a little something in your work.

I had also heard of the Xeric Grant from a friend, and it sounded like a very generous opportunity, but I had no interest in self-publishing. Although this letter probably planted that first self-publishing seed…

Jaime and Mario Hernandez were there. I listened to an interview they gave. What fascinated me was their description of each having their own projects, and deciding to end Love and Rockets to do their own things. But sales on all their individual projects paled compared to their Love and Rockets books. They attributed it to name recognition, especially from bookstores, who would see the “Love and Rockets” name and just order a few books. That’s why they decided to bring the book back, in its new, smaller format. But within the pages, they all just continued to do their individual projects. It got me thinking about an umbrella title, which I could use for years and years. A title that could epitomize any story I might want to tell. Daniel Clowes did it for Eightball. I eventually decided I liked the name, “Tabloia.”

I went to Oni, but they were too busy and not doing portfolio reviews. I was intrigued that they seemed to be a young, hip company, and their work seemed most like what I was doing, since they had just put out a film noir-looking book, Whiteout.

I showed my pages to Scott McCloud. I considered him the sort of Guru of How To Draw Comics. I don’t know why. He politely flipped through, and seemed to enjoy two sequences. For the three of you out there who have read my comic, “The Lump,” it was the Lindsay-Lance exchange through the chained-closed door, and the Morelli-Gomez exchange in the police station with all the blinds. He recommended trying to add more texture to images. I explicitly remember him discussing this topic in his book. Somehow, I expected more comments and advice from him.

I was too intimidated to try and go to Top Shelf or Drawn and Quarterly.

I felt I was well-treated by everyone, despite basic rejections. I appreciated Slave Labor for taking time to look at the work right there and speak with me. Maybe I was getting used to the process now. Just the same, it was frustrating, not really knowing how to approach companies, or how to try to get work, and afraid to try.

I recognized Brent Anderson wandering around, looking at all the indie books. I had met him at a local Sacramento convention, and a local Sacramento store signing. I stopped him and introduced myself, and mentioned I was having trouble getting anyone to look at my stuff, and he said, “Well open it up. Let’s see it.” And he took the time to go through my work, and give me some words of encouragement. He gave me more attention than any of the editors at the con combined, and it was very empowering. He talked about his latest book, a hardcover, self-contained Green Lantern story, that Bill Sienkiewicz would ink. He and Bill used to share a studio, and he told me how Bill’s work at that time looked a lot like Neal Adams’s work.

He asked if I knew what caused Bill’s art hitting the stage that it became “Sienkiewicz.” I told him I assumed it was drugs, similar to how the Beatles reached that place when their music really reached new heights. Brent said that Bill didn’t do any drugs, and that drugs were not what caused Bill’s art to blossom, as far as he knew. I felt pretty embarassed blurting something inappropriate out like that, but he continued his story.

Brent had told Bill, if you don’t want to look like Neal Adams, start looking at a LOT of art (something I learned in art school from Wayne Thiebaud), and incorporate ALL your favorite artists and styles into your comics work. According to Brent, Bill’s next comic was the issue of Moon Night where Bill’s art really began becoming its own, I’m guessing around number fourteen, but it may have been later.

Brent kindly gave me his contact info and asked me to send him my stuff, so he could look at it in greater detail and offer some advice. I thought he was so kind to give me so much of his time, and to be so friendly and talkative and supportive. It was a great, important gesture for me, and I really appreciated it. And especially that it would come from an established artist, whose “Astro Cities” were such a hit.

I had almost finished my first comic book script, an impressive seven issue (175 page) story called “Limbo Cafe,” and as I’ve felt I often give up and don’t complete things, so I didn’t complete this. At the time my friend from art school, Damon Thompson, had said he would draw Limbo Cafe, but it was unrealistic because it’s too big a commitment, not to mention his schedule had become too busy just trying to graduate from U.C. Davis. On top of that, I couldn’t get any comics companies to look at my scripts, and I didn’t know any other artists, and 175 pages was too overwhelming for me to comprehend doing myself, so my interest in the project began to wane, and other ideas started floating around in my head. I had been seeing images of a body found on a freeway with someone else’s head sewn on it, and of a grave-digger who was an innocent victim of circumstance. That really made me laugh when I thought of it, for some reason. Maybe it wasn’t quite as funny in execution…This was “The Lump.”Due to my limited options, and it being a significantly smaller project (originally slated at 75 pages) I grew increasingly intrigued (or resigned) to draw this particular story myself. But 75 pages is still a lot, and I didn’t want to get too bogged down “wasting time” with drawing. (I slyly envisioned going to portfolio reviews as a ruse, using the time it took editors to look at the pages to pitch my story. I’ve generally felt I’m a much better, more confident writer than artist.) To keep the pressure lower, I made the decision to draw amateurishly simplistic artwork. I rationalized to myself, people will like the interesting combination of crude artwork and often graphically disturbing medical and horror descriptions. And I never did get graphic or explicit with the artwork, even in the end.

I had of course read Scott McCloud’s Understanding Comics and Will Eisner’s Comics and Sequential Art at this time, both of which were great. But the advice I found most helpful was Dave Sim’s title pages for Cerebus on how to self-publish (Which I believe are collected in a comic he titled “How to Self-Publish.” The advice that really made sense to me was, don’t get bogged down. If you draw a shitty drawing, don’t fix it, draw another one and make it better as a result of what you learned. And keep drawing and drawing and experimenting and learning, and after about one or two hundred pages you should start to get a feel for it, and get a rhythm for it. That made sense to me.

Now I’ve read a lot of comics, and sometimes, especially in larger bodies of work, an artist’s vision doesn’t seem fully realized when s/he begins the work, and the characters and the feel of the book completely evolve over time into something different. And of course that’s what eventually happens with all artists, because they grow and learn while they work. But I wanted to try and at least minimalize this as best I could, so I began sketching out the characters over and over, to try and get a feel for them. I published a number of these sketches in the Lump Trade Paperback.

When I thought I was getting into a rhythm and understanding of who would be in the stories, I did some layouts of panels, then of the pages (also published in the trade). This I began in pencil, and finally filled in with sharpies. I was most interested in trying to use blacks to define the shapes of forms, rather than get all bogged down with perfect renderings. I liked the idea of a clumsy, thick, consistent line quality where foreground and background alike were treated with equal width. I thought it would make an interesting artistic experiment, because even the thick-line artists I loved (notably Mike Allred) would use thin lines inside the thicks for detail. This artistic experiment failed, as you can see with these early sketches. But most of all I enjoyed trying to give a feeling of depth to a two-dimensional piece of paper, with thick blacks, thick lines, and a little white poking through, and nothing else.

I knew I wanted a dark, film-noir-style world, and wanted to use as much black as possible. I found that in pencil my compositions worked okay, but when I filled in the blacks, they were often heavier than I anticipated and felt crooked to the eye. This took some experimenting with, so that many of my early sketches were covered with black, then re-covered with white-out, then blacked back in again, until I could reach a balanced feel.

I did the pages of the story in order. After five pages like this, I felt confident enough of how the blacks were working, and stopped inking, content to see the layouts in pencil. And this I continued for twenty-four pages into the story. Again, these were all sketches on 8 1/2 x 11″ typing paper with sharpies, and I kept going because in my head this would ensure the art wouldn’t change over time. The original concept was for the story to be told in three 24-page issues, so this was the first issue completely sketched out.

I decided I was ready to begin the “actual” comic. This I did on 11×17″ Bristol, but I continued to use sharpies. Interestingly, the lines no longer seemed as thick, since I continued to use the same thickness of marker, but the pages had become twice as big. Also, I quickly found that the proportion of width to height was different on typing paper than on bristol. On the typing paper, each panel was much wider. Not only that, but as I redrew my layouts, faces changed expression or proportion, and often I was happier with the original sketches than the “actual” pages, or at the least they were both different. And even though the artwork did evolve over the course of these twenty-four pages, I would just copy the evolution all over again going through the pages. And worst of all, not only was the art crude, but the compositions were depressingly so. Some I would change from my original sketches as I went, but often not making the pages any better. I just kept plugging away through those 24 pages I had already sketched, and making the best of them I could. Overall, I still found myself reasonably pleased. Maybe since I didn’t know any better. I rationalized that I WANTED simplistic art and compositions.

I shopped these pages to APE-Con in San Francisco, and most editors of indie publishing companies felt the art was so-so. So I went home and kept plugging away.

I decided I had an all right feel for the book by now, and just went for it with the following 24 pages, without preliminary sketches. And now I was two-thirds finished.

Taking these pages to my first trip to San Diego’s Comic-Con and shopping it to editors, I became very intrigued by Alex Sinclair’s suggestion to try a few four-page stories, just as exercises. They’re not such a big commitment, but they still force you to tell a story with a beginning, a conflict, and a resolution, and practice narrative storytelling. This gave me a break from “The Lump,” and before I’d done a couple Dr. DeBunko and a couple Dick Hammer stories, I was beginning to re-visualize “The Lump.” I had met Dick Ayers at the Con, and we began collaborating on Doris Danger stories as well.

Also, I’d met Sam Kieth, and he, like everyone else, was saying how it’s tough to get published until you’ve been published. He said he would talk to editors who wouldn’t look at his work, and then he’d mention he was published, and they’d suddenly look at him and say, “Oh, disregard everything I said. Let’s see what we can do for you.”

Up until this moment, I REALLY didn’t want to self-publish. I knew it would be all this extra work, and I wanted to just focus on the writing and the drawing. But when Sam suggested it, I guess it finally just sunk in. I guess that’s what I’m going to have to do.

Now I was thinking, “The Lump” is a horror story, and has a noir sensibility, but more than that, it’s a story of our pop-culture’s fascination with horror stories. And I realized I wanted to use more photo-reference with the characters involved. If all the characters are stereotypes of these genres of stories, I should photo-reference these types of characters straight out of the movies I’m referring to thematically. I made a list of all the characters in “The Lump,” and who I would want to play them, if I had access to all of history’s actors. And of course most of them came from the ’30s horror films or ’40s film noirs. Even with photo reference, I decided to keep the same use of black, and thick lines, but I switched to brush and ink, which all the editors said I should use instead of sharpie, and with which I found myself clumsy and inarticulate. I found pages felt more frantic and stifled with more panels per page, and experimented (when I was brave) with some compositions. Although most of them, once I had an image in my head, it was hard to break free of.

Partially because my skill wasn’t good enough, and partially because I did try and alter people somewhat (giving clean-shaven actors mustaches, or baldness, for example) almost none of my drawings wound up looking like the actors I had in mind, and certainly no one mentioned once the stories came out that they recognized who the characters were supposed to be (except for one). But by now, this was my third time drawing these damn pages, and I was ready to get them out in print.

There’s something about this industry. I don’t know what it is. But all of us who have read comics and love comics get this idea in our heads that if we come up with a story idea that we think is good, we can become a comics writer. Maybe we think it’s an easier industry than film or literature to get into. Or maybe we think it’s a lower art form, and therefore we have a chance at it. We think we could write a story as good as all the published comics out there, and the companies will be wining and dining and fawning all over us and begging us to let them start using our stories. And maybe we think we’ll be successful and make a fortune.

I remember how hopeful I was, that Oakland, CA Wondercon in April 1997, because I thought I had a decent story, and I’d shown it to friends, and everyone was so impressed. I had my scripts for the first three issues of Limbo Cafe. I did not bother putting together a submission package. I somehow had it in my head, I would be able to just walk up to DC, and ask for an editor at Vertigo, and tell them my story idea, and maybe leave a script with them if they weren’t blown off their feet right there. Then they’d spend a few minutes reading my script and see how good I was. I’d immediately get that phone call, and I’d be on my way with my comics career.

You know, you kind of know it isn’t going to work that way, but you build things up in your head. You want it to happen that way, because you work so hard. And you put in so much time, and you think, I’m a nice guy, so you just kind of hope, Now it will all pay off.

I’d gotten a fortune cookie the night before, and I remember it made me even more confident. I can’t remember now what it said, but it was something along the lines of, You will try a new business venture and become successful beyond your dreams, or A new career will bring new fortunes, or something like that.

I went up to DC, and I asked about a Vertigo editor, and they said, you may want to talk to Axel Alonso if you’re doing a crime or horror style of Vertigo, or Julie Rottenberg for more of a fantasy Vertigo. Julie was busy at the moment, so I walked right up to Axel. I was shocked. I knew his name, and hers. I knew what books they did, and I couldn’t believe I was dealing with them. It’s amazing how accessible all your comics heroes are at comics conventions. You just walk right up to all these names you know, and there they are, and they talk to you just like that.

I tried to pull out my script submission package. He said editors can’t really look at written submissions at cons, because it takes too long and too much is going on. So he didn’t look at anything I had. I tried to give him a package to take with him, but he wouldn’t take it. He said he would just lose it at the con, so he recommended I send it to the DC offices. He told me how many submissions they get every week, and it’s not easy to go through, but they do occasionally hire new writers.

Looking back, I’m pretty sure he mentioned the Gangland anthology they had just put out or were about to put out, and a young newcomer they took a chance on named Brian Azzarello. You history buffs and Azzarello fans can look that one up.

Axel recommended, “You need to be able to sum up your story in a quick sentence,” and he was ready to send me on my way. I asked if I could give him my catch line. He obviously didn’t want to hear it, kind of paused like, “How is the best way to handle this?” Finally he said, All right.

So I thought, okay, here we go. This is it. Comics career, here I come. Prepare to be dazzled.

“It’s about an atheist who dies and finds himself in a Christian afterlife.” Another pause. Then he began telling me how they deal with that premise in Garth Ennis’s Preacher, and they’re doing it a little in the Sandman books. And he sent me on my way. It occurred to me, when I make a pitch like that, people probably assume I’m a judgemental, prissy Christian preacher planning to proselytize some moralizing tale of how Heaven kicked that stupid atheist’s ass down to Hell, and he regretted it while he burned and suffered for the rest of eternity, and boy did he wish he’d been a Christian, amen.

It seems like Darkhorse had been at this convention in the past, but maybe they weren’t there that year, or at least I didn’t go talk with anyone. And Marvel, it seems, was never at this convention. So I didn’t know who else to try and go talk to, so I didn’t really go anywhere else.

I found a time when Julie Rottenberg was available, and she was much sweeter and gentler, and tried to give some general advice on how to structure story proposals and such. She spoke with me a little longer than Axel, but basically said the same things. I had planned to spend the entire weekend at this show, but realized I had nothing left to do after that first day, a few hours in, so I gave my second day pass to someone I saw coming in as I left. A crushing, devastating weekend.

Looking back, I’m very aware that Axel was perfectly gentlemanly, and a real sport to be out there looking at the scripts and giving advice to morons such as myself. But when you’re this close to it, if feels really devastating.

I didn’t realize how upset I was until I got home and got in an argument with my girlfriend, who’s an artist, and six years older than me. She pointed out that being an artist is awful sometimes, because we want it to work out, but then you just get dealt these real-world blows that put you in your place. But if it’s what you love, you’ll just keep doing it anyways, and working harder at it, and maybe someday it’ll go somewhere, and maybe it won’t, and you’ll either keep trying because you love it, or lose interest. It was a painful lesson, but so nice that she had been through these same rejections, and could show me that it’s just part of the process. So I kept writing, and waited for the next cons.

The next year I brought my scripts again, but wasn’t really interested in pitching things anymore. I didn’t have the strength to get a bunch more rejections. I went to DC once more, and there was Alisa Kwitney, who I knew edited Sandman. Wow! Amazing. You just walk up, and they’re friendly and courteous and there for you, and they treat you like a person. It’s unreal, the access that the comics industry gives you to its stars. You couldn’t do this with your favorite singer or actress or sports star. There’s nothing like the comics industry that I know of. No other “celebrity” medium allows you such contact.

This time I approached with a doomed attitude. She was very sympathetic and sweet, and basically just nodded an ascent to my “You’re not really looking at any scripts, are you?” She said, it’s really difficult to read scripts, but if I can get it in comics form, it’s easy to flip through a comic and get an idea of the story, and of the writer’s storytelling ability. She said what’s most important is that a writer shows he can tell a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. It sounds really stupid, but you’ve got to have an idea. What is the story, how does it start. And it’s got to go somewhere, and keep you interested going there. And it’s got to resolve itself. She said a lot of new writers come up with great ideas but don’t know how to finish them. A lot of older writers can write a story just fine, but they can’t come up with ideas any more. You’ve got to be able to start, middle, and finish it.

The seemingly least helpful advice most everyone seemed to give was, If you want to be published, you should have a published product first.

The conundrum here is, how do you get published if you have to be published first? But many artists in the industry either self-publish, or began with a small company, and slowly worked their ways up. If you have something in print, it shows commitment (with time, money, or the faith of someone else in your work), dedication (to plow through and actually finish and get into print the project), storytelling (because if it’s in print, it has to be a full story, or at least a full chapter), and a nice package to display what your work is capable of, the overall quality, and the consistency of the quality. It’s a much better sample of your work than a few drawings in a binder.

Eventually, my attempts at shopping Limbo Cafe petered out. Having collected and read a stack of “story submissions guidelines” packets from different companies, I changed my plan of attack.

Submission package guidelines are all basically the same, regardless of the company. Include a cover letter, with the big picture. Follow this format when writing your script. Give a short story proposal. Give some short character descriptions. Give a few page sample of your script. Make sure your name and contact info is on each page. Make sure you include a stamped, self-addressed envelope if you want a response (this was before everyone had an email). I was ready for action.

April 16, 1998, I sent myself a certifed package of ten story proposals for Vertigo-type stories. I did this to prove that I had come up with these stories on or before that date, in case there was any question of copyright ownership. All the stories were ideas I eventually planned to tell in Limbo Cafe, the story I’d been trying to shop to DC. I planned to start shopping these short stories to DC or Darkhorse, and see if they would be less overwhelmed by short proposals sent in the small, minimal format that they recommended in their guidelines. I reasoned, if they liked one of these stories, then while I worked with them and built a relationship with my new editor, it would be easy enough to get them excited about the whole Limbo Cafe series. (Ah, innocent naive moron!) I think I probably took some of these to conventions but never showed them to anyone. I did, however, send a few of them to DC. I fantasized about sending them to all the editors, a new one every week, so that hopefully one of the editors would have to take note. I sent a couple, never heard from anyone, and got too intimidated about sending more, or even bugging anyone at any other comics conventions. I began to think about new stories I wanted to tell.

December 2, 1998, I was maybe a minute late witnessing an accident on the freeway, but as we drove by, I saw the body that wound up on the road. Losing momentum with all my old stories, I began to get a new idea about a body found on a freeway with someone else’s head sewn on, and I was beginning to think about drawing it. If I drew it, I thought maybe that would be something to show editors, and while they looked I could pitch my story, and even if they didn’t like the art, they’d have to listen, and maybe they’d realize what a good writer I was…

I’d been to a few Wondercons in Oakland, but always just to go buy comics. I remember thinking at previous years, seeing some big names I might have liked to have met, but never taking the time to actually try and meet people. I think the first year I went (looking at the catalog), Mike Mignola and Will Eisner must have been there, but it never would have crossed my mind to find them or try to meet them. Maybe a year or so later, I learned Garth Ennis would be there. I planned to go listen to his talk, but started going through old comics bins earlier in the day, and finally decided I had way too many boxes to go through, and I’d rather look for old comics than hear Garth Ennis speak.

When I had just gotten out of college, I got my hands on some little pamphlet listing a bunch of comics that were “hot” at that time. It listed Hellboy and Madman, which I thought looked intriguing, Sin City, which I was already interested in, and a bunch of other more mainstream (mostly Image) junk that didn’t catch my eye. So I had noticed Mike Allred at a con. I kind of quickly glimpsed at some of his art he had out, and it looked nice. He didn’t really seem to have anyone at his table, and I was so tempted to go up and meet him, but I hadn’t read any of his work, so I shied away.

I did stumble onto Berni Wrightson one year, who I thought was really friendly. I was with a friend, who actually got a sketch from him. He visited with us for some time about his fan club he was starting, where he would send out little promotions and updates, and if you signed up, you’d be a lifetime member.

Brent Anderson had done a signing at A-1 Comics not long before. When there were signings at A-1, I would always be there, because there would also be a sale on back-issues, but I never went to meet artists. I was still at this sale when Brent was getting ready to go, and he initiated a conversation with me, because he saw what a big stack of junk I was buying. Soon after, he made an appearance at the local Sacramento Sac Con, and I visited with him more then. So now, when I saw him at Wondercon, I went over to say hello. He was always very friendly and talkative.

Once I accidentally found Dave Stevens. I got up the gumption to approach him, and my opening line was that I’d seen him on a Betty Page documentary. But he just kind of scoffed that the documentary was a few years old, and he got up and left, as if I’d said something he’d heard too much of. Who knows, maybe he had to get to a panel or use the restroom or something. You never know.

I had seen Tim Sale, usually drawing and looking pretty busy. I had seen Matt Wagner just walking around, and I went, Wow! Guys are just wandering around everywhere! Once I saw Tim Sale showing Matt Wagner color copies of his Superman book, which wouldn’t be out for a few months. That was really fun for me, to watch an artist look at another artist’s art.

I don’t remember going to many panels during these early years of my convention-goings. However, I did sit in on a 1970’s DC War panel. For some reason, the only person I remember being on the panel was Russ Heath. Did it have Robert Kaningher? Was Kubert there? I honestly don’t remember. In fact, the only thing I remember was them talking about “the big four.” I ascertained through the repeated reference that these were four comics DC published, of which, I assume, “Our Army at War/Sgt Rock” was included.

Another early Wondercon memory I have is of sitting in on a Battlestar Galactica panel. I don’t think I would have done it, but a friend wanted to see it. It was Richard Hatch talking about how he’d basically been trying to pitch Battlestar Galactica to filmmakers and television ever since it had been taken off the air, and he was finally getting close to making it happen.

It seems like this was probably five years before it actually did manage to get back on the air, and I don’t know how it did or how long it lasted once it made its return. Looking back, I realize how everyone is just struggling to make it in their market, and it’s just so difficult to follow your dreams, but we all try…

I also sat in on a Len Wein and Roy Thomas “horror comics” panel. They discussed various 1970s Marvel books, which I thoroughly enjoy. They mentioned the Frankenstein and Dracula novels.

By chance, afterward, I was coming out of the bathroom, and they were both going in. My friends and I were visiting in this area when Len came out. I told Len how great I thought it was that they came to the Bay for this con. Len said he’d be happy to do it more, if we’d only invite him. That never occurred to me that big-name comics folks would be more than happy to come out to our neck of the woods if only we readers demanded it. What I didn’t realize back then is that “invite” means pay for the flight and hotel, and maybe the dinners and wine, things like that. At the time, I thought he was just saying, if a fan like me says, “Len, we’d sure like you to come to this convention next year,” he’d pack his bags.

I had recently read some critical analyses of the Dracula and Frankenstein stories. So I tried to sound scholarly and interesting and talk with Len about how both stories are about man’s desire to reproduce. Dracula is about sexual and reproductive fears, with the sexualized vampires reproducing through the act of drinking blood (thereby bringing into mind sexually transmitted diseases as well), and Frankenstein is about a male trying to create life without a female in the mix. Both stories are about monstrous, horrific creations of life.

Somehow, instead of sounding smart and beginning a fun and engaging discussion, I managed to start off my conversation with, “You guys got it all wrong,” or something like that, which put him on the defensive for no good reason, and made me out to be a real unexpectedly jarring asshole. Len was polite, and quickly answered my claim, and then Roy came out of the restroom, and the two left.

That night, after a long day at the con, a friend and I went to dinner, and I was sharing my story about vampires and Frankenstein, and I believe blabbing how Len and Roy had gotten it all wrong, and then my friend said, Wait a minute, isn’t that Roy right behind us?

And I looked, and sure enough, there was that whole gang, sitting at a table clearly close enough to hear me still eager to not let up on being such an asshole.

2001 is the Wondercon I made the big move and tried to go up to Tim Sale while he sat at his artist alley table. I had really enjoyed his art in Batman’s Long Halloween. He had just started doing Daredevil. He was doing sketches for everyone, and I stupidly made some comment about how he was doing all the Frank Miller characters. What I meant was that Frank is so great with his noir sensibility, and now Tim was following this great history, first with Batman, and then with Daredevil. But I assume, now, that he thought I was implying he’s some bad Frank Miller hack wannabe, because he was really cold and untalkative toward me from then on, like he couldn’t wait for me to beat it. I asked for a sketch, and he did a quick two line little scribble and sent me on my way. I felt so ashamed. I was afraid to face him again.

I talked to John Van Fleet, who I thought had some nice original art.

While looking at the art of George Pratt, some moronic comic-book geek there said, (now, in retrospect, I imagine him as an ugly, braces-wearing moron with a nerd lisp) “You should say excuse me if you cut someone off.”

“Excuse me?” I asked. He was upset because he was shyly gawking from a distance, and I walked up to the table in front of him. I apologized profusely and left, and was disappointed that I didn’t have more time to talk with George Pratt, embarrassed that such a stupid confrontation would happen in front of a cool artist, and a little upset that no one came to my defense, including myself, and told this moron to settle down because he’s a moron.

So these were my few, early, first experiences trying to meet comics artists. Nothing particularly exciting, and it was often stressful and unfulfilling or even humiliating for me in the end. I didn’t know how to say things to these people, so I mostly just kept quiet and looked at them from afar. But I was learning to be careful, or at least try to be aware, not to say stupid-ass things that will piss them off and make them think I’m an annoying moron. Because who wants their idols to think they’re an annoying moron?

I had grown up in South Lake Tahoe, and the closest they had to a comics shop was the local supermarket. So growing up, if I wanted to find any comics that didn’t come out that week, I would have to drive an hour and a half over the mountains to Reno, which had a mall with a Walden Books and a rack of graphic novels. I wasn’t even aware of comics shops until high school. I found one two hours over the mountain to Sacramento, Sunrise Blvd’s “Comics and Comix.” The selection wasn’t especially cutting-edge, but wow, I could find issues of Marvel Team-Up with thirty-five or forty cent covers, and they only cost two or three bucks!

Through high school, I had slowly weeded down my comics buying list to only Frank Miller and John Byrne books, and by college I’d given up on John Byrne. I tried to keep buying Frank Miller and Bill Sienkiewicz, but neither of them put out very many books, so the next thing I knew, I wasn’t buying comics anymore. This lasted from roughly 1990 to 1995 (my leisurely five-year art degree from UC Davis).

After college, with no more homework, I was looking for things to do besides watch three movies a day, and I found myself popping into comics shops, pretty much for the first time in my young life. Now I lived in Sacramento, and I found a half dozen comics shops all around me. I had completely missed the ’90’s Image bubble, and now stores were all on the verge of going out of business, so everyone had comics for half off or twenty-five cents or ten cents. And I found myself going home with a stack of fifty or more comics every time I went to a comics shop, and going to comics shops once or twice a week. A lot of the books that were so hot during my childhood eighties weren’t hot any more, and it was fun to pick up these books I previously held such a reverence for but had never read or seen.

I went to a small local convention, the Sacramento Comic-Con, where I found a ton of back issues. I thought it was great, and I started going to this quarterly convention … quarterly. Then I heard about Wondercon down in the Bay Area, which is only an hour or so drive. I went there, and thought it was a pretty fun gimmick how all these big name comics artists were there, but it didn’t interest me much more than a fun glimpse at people’s badges to see if they were artists or writers whose names I recognized. I just kept buying comics, and not really spending more than cursory walk-by time with all the artists. Certainly not speaking with any of them.

There was a small comics shop, The Comic Box, next to where I worked, so I found myself popping in each week to see what books were coming out. I befriended the owner, Paul Martin, who had had a Punisher story published for Marvel, and had been paid for a Thor story that never saw print. He had a number of friends who began showing up in print as well, including Tomm Coker, Keith Aiken, Melvin Rubi, and later, C.P. Smith.

I’m ashamed to say, the first time I started thinking about writing comics is when Paul told me Tomm just happened to get put on an issue of Wolverine, and in the issue in question, Wolverine fought Magneto, and during the fight, on a full page splash, Magneto used his magnetic powers to wrench Wolverine’s metal skeleton out of his body. The result of this happenstance assigning of Tomm on this one issue was that Tomm received a royalty check that either bought or at least put a down payment on his new house.

But take heed, fans! This story was a fluke, and I’ve heard nothing like it since! THERE’S NO GODDAMN MONEY IN THIS INDUSTRY! Don’t be lured by the dreams of celebrity fame, or by the exciting superheroic tales of fortunes to come… like I did! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. It’s a life of misery and despair!

HOWEVER. I heard this story, and thought…That would be fun to write some comics.

I was getting excited, at that time, by two things. Same as everyone else in 1995. Neil Gaiman’s Sandman comics, and the X-Files. My first brainstorms for stories involved wanting to tell all kinds of horror stories, and have a host like Tales from the Crypt. But I quickly got more interested in the host than the stories I planned for him to tell. I wanted a quiet, intellectual host, and I began to imagine Tom Virgil, who was an atheist who had died and gone to a Christian afterlife. And the premise stemmed from a “Bible as Literature” class I took, when the Professor asked his students, “Think about your own beliefs, and ask yourself if there’s anything a person could say to you that could convince you to change your beliefs, or if there’s anything you could see. Most likely, even if you can come up with some outrageous proof, and then you saw it, and it disproved your beliefs, you would still find rationalities to ignore the evidence. Because we’ve all spent our lifetimes giving ourselves reasons to believe what we believe, and that’s just what we believe.”

So I pictured Tom Virgil being confronted with this Christian afterlife, with all the evidence right in front of his face. Standing in clouds. Angels with wings and halos. The Gates of Heaven before him. But he held his ground and refused to believe in a Christian afterlife. He just said, “Look, I’m an atheist. I just don’t believe in this stuff.”

And I came up with this entire universe of Heaven and Hell, and earth and Limbo, and all these denizens in all these places. Probably enough fodder for forty or fifty issues of comics, I naively imagined.

It’s obvious now, of course, looking back, that I was ripping off all the metaphysical ideas and story structures and universes and themes of Sandman.

Not quite ditching the horror-host scenario yet, I pictured an initial story arc of seven issues (twenty-four pages each), which would establish the character. Then I imagined follow-up issues going into different stories with different characters, each with their own story arcs, and with my Tom Virgil character as the “Tales From the Crypt”-style host. Again stealing from the Sandman, I imagined some story-arcs as six or eight issues, some only one. Some characters would come and go in later stories, appearing, disappearing, and returning over time.

I did a shitload of Christian research. I read and read and read about Christian beliefs. I started writing, and initially had no interest in drawing. I was too busy writing and researching to spend extra time drawing. I spoke with religious friends, acquaintances, and strangers, and made them read my script. I sent my script to a friend’s father, a Christian scholar, and got a couple letters of reply and encouragement from him. I spoke with a Christian theology professor at UC Davis. I made all my friends read the stories, and we all got into lengthy religious and artistic discussions. I wanted advice from everyone.

Each time I finished a chapter, I would send it to myself, certified mail. I was told this is a simplistic way of proving in court that you had this idea at a given date, and is cheaper than getting an official copyright.

I began jotting down all my pages and pages of notes early in 1997. I began writing the script for issue #1 on Tuesday March 11, 1997. I worked on it that Wednesday, Thursday, Sunday, and had a finished first draft on Monday March 17th, although I re-read and re-edited a lot afterward. I mailed myself the completed scripts for issue #2 April 14th and #3 April 21st. After that is anyone’s guess, because I stopped sending certified mail copies with the dates I had completed each chapter, and I never completed the big finale of number seven.

Three issues was a good bulk of writing for Wondercon, so I felt confident that I had a decent, smart, well-researched, well-written, and interesting story. And heck, all my friends said they thought it was smart, well-researched, well-written, and interesting. It was time to go to the comics convention and DC and shop my stories.

While in the middle of writing all these convention experiences down, we took our trip to the Orlando Mega-Con. Naturally we had to hit Disney World while out here, and being in this atmosphere for some reason got me reminiscing about my youth.

My original plan with this diary was to limit it to convention experiences, but what the hell. Here’s a little childhood history. I’m finding I’ll have lots to talk about besides just the conventions. There are all the emails I’ve sent to artists, phone calls I’ve made to and gotten from artists. There’s just generally my experiences self-publishing. There’s the whole creation of the art process. Why limit myself? Here are my experiences with comics from my childhood.

WHEN THE CAREER WAS A GLINT IN MY EYE…

My Mom says what an amazing artist I was from a very young age. Kids around me were drawing round circle heads, MAYBE with eyes, and hands sticking right out of the head, and I was drawing Superman flying through the air, with his cape flapping in the wind. I used to love drawing Star Wars. I drew Kiss. And I drew Marvel superheroes, because I had a Marvel activity book with all the characters in it. I could spend hours staring at all those pictures. Who were all these interesting characters? The pages were black-and-white…What color were they?

I also had a DC Justice League Treasury Edition that fascinated and confused me. For example, why were there two Supermans, Batmans, and completely different-looking Flashes and Green Lanterns?

When I was in (I’m guessing) first or second grade, for some reason all the kids were drawing a stick-figure style Star Wars rip-off that we all called “Hats in Space,” the name of which I assume was partly stolen, in attempts at humor, from the Muppet’s “Pigs in Space.” I don’t know who started this whole phenomenon, but naturally it stemmed from our intense love of Star Wars, and we all got into it. The idea was to draw different kinds of hats flying through space, shooting at each other with laser guns and blowing each other up. They were easy to draw, but fun to imagine. I remember kids were getting sick and staying home with chicken pox, and we’d draw “Hats in Space” get-well cards. Then I got sick with chicken pox, and while I was home, I received “Hats in Space” get-well cards.

So the first comic I can remember drawing, that my mom actually kept all this time, was my fleshing out of the rich “Hats in Space” mythos. Early on with this project, I exhibited one of my continual bad artistic habits; I got into it maybe a dozen pages, and never finished.

At this age, my parents enrolled me in a cartooning summer school course, which I really enjoyed. I think that’s probably where I learned to do flip cartoons. My dad would give me his old business cards, and I’d draw on the backs of them. For hours, I’d hold a previous card up to the sliding glass door, tracing onto a new card, from one image to the next, moving the picture slightly. Then repeating the process for the next card. After a stack of twenty cards or whatever, you grab the side and flip them, making a “movie.” I’ve managed to keep all these. Most of the early ones are Star Wars or Shogun Warrior rip-offs. The later ones are all rip-offs of Frank Miller Daredevil-type fight sequences.

The next comics “project” I can remember was also in elementary school. This was a combination of Disney’s Condor Man film, The Pink Panther (films, not cartoons), and the Disney (Goofy) Super-Goof comics that the local shoe store gave away when I bought a new pair of shoes. It was the whole reason to buy shoes, to get excited about shoes. My character was Superstooge, a bumbling hero who fought the silliest villains I could come up with, including a fat rifle wielder who fell down every time he shot off his guns, Dandruff Man, a cat burglar, a knife thrower, and…well shoot, that’s all I can remember, and none of them are that funny, now that I think about it. I probably did at least twenty or maybe forty pages, and one day I just tossed it in the garbage. What in the hell was I thinking? That was my history that I threw out. To this day I regret it. I kick myself.

Later, I wrote a sequel to Superstooge, with a bunch more characters, including Arnold Schwartzenegar in his briefs and a cape. And I did maybe another twenty or forty pages, and then I threw that out too. ARGHH!

It’s because I’ve thrown out so many things like that that I’ve become such a hoarder now. I’m afraid to get rid of anything anymore.

I did keep the “movie poster” I’d made for the story, though, (because of course I imagined this story was so good it would become a blockbuster) as well as a flip cartoon of the movie’s film credits. I even wrote a theme song on the piano, and other songs for the different characters. All instrumental.

It wasn’t until sixth grade that I actually started reading and collecting comics. But in sixth grade I got into it with a vengeance.

Since my mom was encouraging of my drawing, when we went to the airport or supermarket, she’d see me looking at the comics, and ask if I wanted one. I usually said no. But in sixth grade I said yes to Daredevil #207, and I loved it so much, the next trip to the supermarket, she picked up another Daredevil, a Thor, and a Captain America. And that was that.

Soon I came up with a superhero comic of my own, and actually wrote and drew about five issues worth (a hundred plus pages!). It was called “Shockwave,” about a superhero from another planet who could shock people.

In my typical fashion, after five issues, I looked at them all, and rather than continue on, I decided I could redraw and rewrite them better. I redid the first issue, and then never touched the project again.

I did another maybe five pages of a Frank Miller-style ninja character.

Later, I also attempted to redo my Superstooge character, which my mom finally pointed out I’d been spelling wrong all this time, but either I thought it was funnier, or I was too lazy to fix it, so I left it. Super Stuge.

And the last comic I remember doing before college was a James Bond-type of French spy, which stemmed very directly from a spy roll-playing game that had just come out, and was itself a rip-off of James Bond movies. I started a story and maybe got ten pages in, then abandoned it. But later, in high school, for an English project, I wrote and completed maybe a ten page story that I was very proud of. If nothing else, because I was able to complete it on a deadline.

Into high school, my comics drawing petered out, and I pursued more serious “literature.” Namely, I spent hours writing a Dungeons and Dragons Sword and Sorcery “Lord of the Rings” rip-off fantasy book. I wrote about 250 pages of this awful thing before it petered out. I was probably about halfway into the story I planned to tell. I tried to pick it up again in college, and even majorly reworked it as I went, but by then I kind of realized it maybe wasn’t so good, and kind of moved on to other things.

What I want to point out here is that all my projects as a kid were just rip-offs of comics or movies or books that I enjoyed. Because you have to start somewhere and learn and grow. If you look at my published work, you’ll see how far I’ve come. Now I’ve got a rip-off of the X-Files, a rip-off of Jack Kirby-style monster stories, a rip-off of DC Comics’ Dr. 13, and a rip-off of Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer. And just wait until you see all the rip-offs I’ve got in the works next! So you see, with hard work and persistence, I’ve managed to hone the rip-off skills I’ve been developing since my artistic beginnings!

I think all my projects had such high aspirations that I just lacked the time or commitment to ever finish them. I remember in college hearing that Leonardo da Vinci rarely finished his projects. It was like, for him, just finalizing the visualization of the project was enough. That’s why his sketches are so fascinating, often more so than his paintings to the critics. It’s like he lost interest once he completed the visualization stage. That was his art. That’s what drove him. I could relate to not feeling driven to complete things. Does that make me a modern-day da Vinci? Not if you’ve seen my art.

It wasn’t until I graduated from college that I began thinking of comics as a profession again. But of course the first project I came up with, Limbo Cafe, was so huge and overwhelming, I abandoned it, unfinished. After that, I was afraid of jumping into something again, and not finishing it. That’s why, reading Dave Sim’s “How to Publish Comics” spoke to me. He advised to keep working. To push through and actually finish. To know that your first hundred pages won’t be that good, but instead of fixing each one, just move on to the next one and try to make it better. And once you do a hundred or so pages, you should start to get more comfortable. You’ll start to get in a rhythm.

Because that puts you far, far above all the clowns below, who only get one page done, and work on it for years and years, and keep showing that same page to the same editors, year after year. Sam Kieth told me the exact same thing. Starting out, that’s what he had done, getting hung up on one page. Finally the editors told him, isn’t this the same page you showed me last year? That was the kick that made him realize he better move on. But I’m getting way ahead of myself. All this is another story for later…

Other than an occasional email to friends over the years, sharing something funny or interesting that happened at one convention or another (valuable historical material indeed), I didn’t begin writing any of these experiences down until the plane ride back from Baltimore’s convention, September 17th 2005. At that time, I thought it would be fun to start keeping a journal, as I went to different cons and met different people. It wasn’t until February 2006 and San Francisco’s Wondercon, that I realized I would also like to go back and document all the past I could remember, before it got too far into the past.

One memory would lead to another, usually faster than I could get them all down. I’ve managed to keep way too much of this fresh in my head. I guess with a life dream of making comics, and meeting all my comic book heroes in the process, every event feels like such a big deal. It’s like I’m in Junior High again, and things matter. And it all feels so important. (To nobody but me, just like in Junior High…) I find I can chart the chronological time by relating it to the work I completed each year, and the associations of who I showed it to at what conventions.

I plan to post all this stuff chronologically. I had a seven or so-year backlog worth of experiences. So all that past material isn’t so much a diary. It’s technically my “memoirs.”

Everything that’s happened from September 2005 and on is an actual diary entry, even if I don’t post it on the day. I have written, and will continue to write, as soon as I can after every event. Hopefully, if not on the flights home from the cons, (on this great new laptop I’m loving more every day), then the week I get back.

Naturally, there must be plenty of inevitable hindsight vision, romanticizing, and possibly mistakes in these events of the past (such as the actual year at Wondercon I first met Sergio Aragones, for example — since I’ve spoken with him every year for at least five years). But when you meet your idols like this, even if you forget the dates, the memories stick with you. Everything they said was so important and amazing to hear…

BLOG WARNING

Please read carefully before continuing on to Blog!

This diary was written solely as a means to elevate myself in the eyes of potential fans, and wow them, regarding my role in the industry of comics.

These are my own reminiscences and opinions and versions of these experiences, people, and conversations, to the best of my knowledge and memory and ability, or as described in romanticized terms to make for a good story.

I know I can’t get quotes word-for-word, so I just do my best. Know that anything in quotes isn’t necessarily an exact quote. I’m just trying to capture the sense of what I think people were trying to say at those times. Or what makes for a good story.

Sometimes I’ll write something down, and then remember something else about it later. Some nuance I forgot to mention. Or I’ll have different feelings or thoughts about something that happened, after I’ve had time to think about it, or see the results or consequences. Or some event that hadn’t seemed important at the time, I’ll realize later actually was important to me after all.

Of course, over time, as you tell or think about a story over and over, you just keep subconsciously working it over in your head, and it starts getting to be better or more entertaining as you do. So how accurate is a diary or memoir, anyways?

Last of all, it’s hard to get a tone or attitude across in text. Please assume at all times that my tone is of utter enjoyment, awe, pleasure, and gratitude toward this great industry and everyone who makes it up.

If you can live with all that, then read on, dear reader!

Chris
So here it is, for your reading pleasure. Hope you get a little pleasure, and not just a bunch of reading.

 

1. Introduction by Rob Oder

What true American hasn’t dreamed about living the prestigious, celebrity life of a comics artist? SEE FIRSTHAND! At last, someone has bravely allowed unprecedented access, through his vigilant, informative (often blatantly exaggerated, romanticized, and sometimes grossly inaccurate!) diaries, into this secretive, lucrative, and enviable industry! Thrill to the action and suspense! Enjoy!

Rob Oder, Editor-in-Chief!

2/25/06, in an Orlando hotel for MegaCon

The deeper I try to wedge my tiny little emasculated wedge into the comics industry, the more I realize how much I don’t really want to do anything except talk about comics. I hope writing a blog about the experiences of trying to make comics will be a healthy outlet for this unhealthy, annoying, obsessive behavior.

Ever since I started really pushing to make my way in, maybe over the last seven or eight years, I’ve gone through what seems to be the usual laughable, humiliating, fun, frustrating, sad, pathetic, exciting, or absolutely hopeful or shattering experiences that I suspect all the other fans or aspiring professionals have gone through.

We’ve tried to meet or write to our idols in the industry. And sometimes it’s been amazing, and sometimes it makes us wish we’d never met them. Sometimes it’s harder to appreciate their art after, and sometimes we love it more than we realized, once we get that glimpse of who they are.

If we read comics, we’ve all thought we had a good idea that would make a good comic at one time or another, and maybe we’ve tried to share it to artists we admire and look up to. Maybe we thought or hoped they’d say what a unique and amazing idea it is, and how smart and clever we are, and how much they want to draw it for us, but they never did.

Then there’s the communal, necessary experience of waiting in a goddamn portfolio review line and having our dreams shattered. Or if we’re lucky, maybe we’ve felt that spark of an editor or artist liking our work, which is usually followed by the disappointment of seeing the spark peter out before our eyes over time.

For some of us who pushed harder, there’s the experience of finally landing a professional job, or if you took my route, resorting to self-publishing, and receiving the first reviews you get, and the first sales numbers you get, and the kinds of people you meet when you’re on the other side of the table.

But, unlike so many self-publishers, I’m lucky enough to have a day job where I can work a basically part-time schedule, and make enough to help me finance this habit that is not much better than crack or heroin. Unlike so many self-publishers, I’ve managed to amass a staggering role call of pin-up contributors, including my two personal, most absolute favorite, living artists. My books so far contain, or are soon to contain, pin-ups by Dick Ayers, Mike Allred, Thomas Yeates, Sam Kieth, Bill Sienkiewicz, Irwin Hasen, all three of Los Bros Hernandez, John Severin, Steve Rude, Ryan Sook, Tony Millionaire, Ramona Fradon, Mike Mignola, JH Williams III, Herb Trimpe, Peter Kuper, Peter Bagge, Dave Gibbons, Simon Bisley, Russ Heath, Sal Buscema, Al Feldstein…

And for every pin-up I’ve been kissing myself to have gotten, I’ve approached (I’m guessing) another three of my favorite, most respected and cherished artists.

That’s a hell of a lot of stories I’ve got to tell about a lot of fascinating, great, amazing artists, goddamnit.

There’s the memorably audacious Steranko, who demanded I take off my tie while addressing him. He also told me to shut up while I was talking to him, boomed joking insults about my masculinity, and told me that if my wife is the girl of my dreams, I must sleep on a lumpy mattress. I found him hilarious, and I also wondered if he would make me cry.
There’s the experience of trying to get Russ Heath to commit to a pin-up. After pestering him for a year, I finally got him to agree to a commission and a price. I sent him a check he never cashed, and then after months more, he told me he’d been hired for a prestige-format limited series for DC, and said he’d be busy for another year. From when he first agreed and told me to contact him by phone to work out details, it took three years to finally get something in my hands from him.

There’s sitting next to Simon “The Walking Party” Bisley at a convention and wondering if I’d survive his chair-tossing and shouting and stomping and pencil-and-notebook-throwing, and a few months later, having dinner with him and growing to be so fond of him.

There’s all the experiences of meeting or emailing all my heroes in the industry, and sometimes, every now and then, not only getting some really fucking amazing artwork by them to publish in my books, but just pinching myself at how welcoming this comics community can be.

I’m beginning this blog after seriously trying to put a book together and going to conventions to shop my project for seven years, and then self-publishing for a year and a half. I’m still a nobody. I still lose money, usually thousands of dollars, every issue I put out. So I’m still just another one of you, out there. Some of us have gotten our work published, or published it ourselves. And it’s becoming apparent to me, that even if we do, we continue to struggle, and to work our goddamn asses off and love this goddamn industry (and despise it) more intensely than ever.

So I’m still a nobody, after all these years. But after all these years, I’m a nobody who my idols are beginning to know. And they know my name now, and hang out with me at the cons. And a couple editors are beginning to know me too. I’m like the ultimate tag-along-er. And you never know what’s gonna happen from here… But every convention, I’m having more and more fun, and collecting more and more fun stories to share.

May 2005, my wife started emailing her friends some of our comics experiences, after we went to England, to the Bristol convention. I realized I wanted to do it too, and better start before I forgot everything.