HOW TO BE A COMIC BOOK WRITER:

 

Step One: Develop an oppressive fear of abandonment.

 

 All great myths of the modern age are forged in the furnace of familial separation, and yours should be no exception.

  Fear of loss is the common language of every animal.  It’s the reason characters like Spider-Man, Punisher, and

The Gotham City Batman resonant so strongly with folks.  If you want to be as accessible to the general public as your favorite masked avenger, it would behoove you to

 take a page from the nineties, and do your very best to have the most troubled childhood possible*. 

 

For anecdotal reference’s sake:

 

  As a result of being abandoned by my biological father at the tender age of before-I-was-even-born, I grew up in a

“Section Eight” federal housing project in the Chicagoland area, wherein monthly rent was adjusted on a sliding scale,

relative to the monthly income of its tenants.  My saintly mother paid a sum total of sixty dollars (with utilities).

 

  Imagine, if you will (and you will) what caliber of people populate an apartment complex wherein rent is sixty dollars

a month.  Go ahead, get that mind’s eye a-blinkin’.    

 

 Does it conjure up images of rat-tailed Nascar fans in confederate flag T-shirts (sans sleeves) and monochromatically clad

young ruffians utilizing chunks of pavement to hammer handfuls of rusty nails into planks of wood with the intention of

homicide**?  Spot on, young go-getter.  You’ve got deduction skills that would rival the Scientific Method Man, himself! 

Consider yourself afirst rate Junior Awesomenaut! 

 

  Needless to say:  I wasn’t allowed to leave the apartment unescorted for any reason, for fear that I would be eviscerated

by one of the countless, feral latchkey kids whom shambled around the grounds like criminally neglected ghosts.

 

 So, I stayed at home with my mom and read comics (old FANTASTIC FOUR and DETECTIVE back issues my step brother left

behind, a handful of TALES OF ASGARD and THE ADVENTURES OF SUPERMAN uncovered during one fateful Thrift Store

excursion, every collection the local library accidentally ordered, thinking it was a GREAT ILLUSTRATED CLASSIC).  We read

 them until our eyes bled, and all the “BWAH HA HA!”ing and “HAVE AT THEE!’s” ripped our vocal chords to shreds.  And

then, Gosh dang it, we read a little more.

  Because, well, let’s face it:  even if our lives weren’t at risk whenever we set foot outside, neither of us had anything else to do.    

 

  I was so consumed by self-loathing for having frightened away my father that I sought parental approval above the

validation of my peers; and my mom was a miscarriage-surviving, two-time-divorcee whose inability to stay blissfully

wedded made her the family outcast who wanted nothing more than another human being to tell her he needed her.  All we

had was each other, and a mutual, crushing fear that someday we’d both die alone.

 

  When , in my sixteenth year, she decided to dip her toe in the romantic waters once again, she committed wholeheartedly

and elected to transport us both halfway across the country to try her luck with an overweight, ponytailed juggalo she had

gotten to know through phone calls, and over the internet (three guesses as to how that worked out). 

 

  Torn from my school system, smattering of friends, family, and D&D fellowship members, then plopped, literally in the

center of the dessert, my lifelong fear was finally realized.

  Finally free from any social tethering whatsoever, I began my love affair with reading and writing the most depressing

B&W comics in the entire world.

 

  And you know what?  I probably wouldn’t have written word one, had I not suffered all of the aforementioned.

Before I moved (read: “was dragged, kicking and crying”) to Arizona, my loftiest ambition was to someday manage a comic

book store.  All of the hate, and the sadness, and the “I’ve faced my worst fear and come out better looking and tougher

than ever before” arrogance I funnel into these books is what seems to resonate with everybody.  No one is interested in

the ideas of a sheltered mama’s boy from some Illinois suburb; but the idea of a brokenhearted young intellectual from

the land of Cowboys and Shamans has conjured up enough romantic intrigue in the comic reading public to make me,

literally, fifteens of dollars.

 

  So, let’s recap: 

  Lesson One – Develop an oppressive fear of abandonment, wake up sixteen (or so) years later to find your worst nightmare

a living, guffawing reality, then dig your thumbs into its eye sockets and hold on until you hear the death rattle.

 

*That being said:  If you somehow manage to mature to adulthood without developing any justifications for lifelong

depression, fear not!  Obstacles to unhappiness such as uncannily supportive family members or God(s) given comeliness

can easily be omitted when recalling your sordid tale to the underground “comix” media.

**Actually happened. I have a copy of the newspaper clipping in my childhood scrap book

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