BLOG: Notes from Shangri-La (2.0)

Silver Age comics legend Murphy Anderson passed away. 

I've written before on some of the early influences that pulled me from comics reader into comics fanatic into comics creator and one of those influences was Anderson's work on the cover of an anthology of DC sci-fi comics, Mysteries In Space. Which is excellent. 

He drew Buck Rogers in the late '40s.

He inked Curt Swan's Superman.

He co-created Zatanna. 

He designed Adam Strange.

Very sad.

Thank you, Mr. Anderson, for inspiring kid-me.  

So. Gamergate. 

Let's talk about that for a minute, shall we? 

I worked at Microsoft for many years, and all of that time was spent working on video games or with people who make video games. I’ve been out of the business for almost a decade, and I’ve been much happier for it. It was an environment I found creatively stifling and emotionally exhausting.

That said, and despite the nearly endless stream of subhuman behavior I encountered, I never thought I’d find myself compelled to type the following:

IT IS NOT OKAY TO THREATEN TO KILL PEOPLE. 

IT IS EVEN LESS OKAY TO THREATEN TO KILL PEOPLE SIMPLY BECAUSE A) THEY HAVE DIFFERENT BODY PARTS AND LIKELY WILL NEVER LET YOU TOUCH THEM OR B) BECAUSE THEY SAY THINGS THAT MEAN YOU MIGHT, MAYBE, HAVE TO REEVALUATE YOUR OWN UNBELIEVABLY AWFUL BEHAVIOR AND STOP BEING A MISOGYNIST JERK. 

Anita Sarkeesian is a spot-on, insightful commentator on video games, and because she’s a feminist, one of the “Gamergate” knuckle-draggers threatened to murder her and commit a "massacre" if she gave a talk at a university. So, GamerGate-ers, if you think this idiot is in any way admirable:

He's not, and you're an asshole. He's not standing up against—and this pejorative makes me incandescent with rage—“social justice warriors” (aka human beings that generally believe we should treat other human beings like, y’know, human beings). He's a criminal. He's a bully, and a thug, and if this is the only way you think you can get your point across, then your point is invalid and not worthy of consideration.

Period.

Full stop. 

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, I envy you. Others have summarized the situation far better than I can. You should read about it, and I’m sorry you have to. 

I knew/know many women in the game industry. All are hardworking, creative, highly intelligent, and have unique points of view.  I have a strong, independent, intelligent wife. We employ many amazing young women at our store. I have nieces for whom I would take a bullet for. The thought that they might be threatened with rape and murder because of an opinion they hold on games or comic books is unacceptable. Just like it is for your sisters, and wives, and mothers, and daughters. 

And yeah, yeah, us poor, marginalized menfolk, we get bullied online, too, by all those awful feminists with their "independent thought" and all that. Sure. Whatever.

It's different for us, gentlemen. Men, in general, do not live under constant threat of sexual violence, and, while I've had some knock-down arguments online, I've never had anyone threaten to rape and kill me as a result of it. 

If we agree that this is unacceptable behavior, that's great. But that's not the only thing that needs to happen. It needs to be decried—by voices other than the victims—and it needs to be purged from our culture. If you sit by and watch it happen and say nothing, even if you think it's wrong, you're still part of the problem. 

And if you disagree with the basic premise here, you should feel free to ignore me, never buy my books or artwork, and write me off, because you and me? We have nothing to say to each other. 

A few weeks ago, Dynamite Entertainment announced "Feary Tales," a Vampirella miniseries supervised by current series writer (and acclaimed novelist) Nancy A. Collins. 

Vampirella: Feary Tales is an anthology book, with each issue containing a couple stories by various writer and artist teams. 

The first issue comes out in October (spoooooky timing, huh?) and I'm pleased to announce that I was invited to return to the Vampirella fold to contribute an 11-page short story for issue #5. 

That story features probably the grossest monster-critters I've come up with yet. 

As the issue's release date comes closer, I'll post details. But be sure to check out issue 1...

After several months of hard work with very little downtime, my wife and I will be leaving for Las Vegas tomorrow morning; I plan to embark on a quest to find the world's most perfect mojito. And I am fully committed to the task. 

So, there will be some radio silence for a few days. 

In the meantime, I've done some site updating; you'll note over yonder on the left: the FICTION & NONFICTION link. 

I haven't written a ton of either, to be frank, but links to the published stuff can be found there. Among the fiction entries are direct links to my Google+ page where I have been posting short fiction. I hope you'll check them out. 

I hope to be doing more prose in the next few years—the announced-last-year Athena Voltaire fiction anthology from Dark Horse is still making its way toward completion; my story is done and approved, and I'm very happy with it. 

One final note: Congratulations to Greg Rucka, Rick Burchett and Eric Newsom for their successful Kickstarter for their excellent webcomic, Lady Sabre and the Pirates of the Ineffable Aether. Swashbuckling sky pirates, flinty steampunk lawmen, and various and sundry forms of derring-do—worth every penny. I am especially pleased because Greg is a dear friend, who sweated bullets over every second of this process. Well done, my friend. Well done. 

And a signal boost is due to Neal Bailey and Dexter Wee for their Kickstarter, supporting their webcomic, Cura Te Ipsum. Please consider supporting their endeavor; they consistently produce a quality story, and it is worth your attention and certainly a few bucks. They're a little over halfway to their exceedingly reasonable target with 22 days to go as of this writing. Help put them over the top. Please? 

Thanks!

On 5 November, right before my birthday, my cat Twitch died. It's been a day shy of one month since it happened, and I'm still having difficulty with it. This has felt like a season of loss on a number of fronts: my paternal grandfather is suffering from the effects of advanced age, which has created difficulty for my father; several close friends are undergoing significant personal upheaval; projects I wanted to do well have not been the professional boon I'd hoped; my runs on several series that I've had extended tenures on have ended.

The last few months have forced me to say good bye to a lot of things. So, forgive me the rank sentimentality; it's been a sad time. 

Twitch wasn't young; my best reckoning puts him at between 18-20 years old. He was a shelter rescue, and the shelter had no exact record of his age. But he's been part of my life for almost two decades, and his absence has been keenly felt.  

Before adopting Twitch—so named for his dual habits of shaking his tail like a rattlesnake when he was happy, and for his tendency to smash catnip toys into his face like a lunatic—I'd never had a cat before. At the shelter, it was a toss-up between Twitch and a massive orange tomcat (probably 10 years old) that had become a favorite of the people at the shelter. I chose pretty wisely, it seems. 

We brought him home, and he ran around like a lunatic, exploring everything, climbing up the wooden support beams in our upstairs loft and crouched in the rafters overhead, which soon became his favorite perch. 

I was reluctant to let Twitch run around outdoors, as the neighborhood we lived in was plagued by inattentive drivers, so we leash-trained him. He was not overly fond of the leash, but he did tolerate it for many years. 

On one of our daily walks, we bumped into two small children and their mother, who recognized him as "their" cat, "Mittens." (Twitch was polydactyl, with both "thumbs" and vestigial toes between the thumb and the main part of his paw.) It seemed that our decision to leash-train Twitch was a good one; the mother told me that they had been forced to give him up because he had a habit of chasing—and catching—the school bus.

After leaving Pennsylvania and settling in Washington, Twitch continued to thrive. I'm not given to anthropomorphizing animals, but he appeared to intuit when my mood was low or if I was ill; when my first marriage ended, he wouldn't leave me alone, quietly perching near my shoulder when I sat on the couch, or sitting next to my computer when I worked at my desk—places he had ignored prior to the upheaval.

As recently as October, he seemed to know when I didn't feel well, always making a point of "checking up" on me, patrolling the area where I sat or napped on the couch. 

Up until the last couple weeks of his life, he still played with toys (tail twitching with pleasure), still vocalized a specific, chirping purr when he saw either myself or my wife, still demanded his "fair share" of the bed. 

That morning, he seemed fine. A little tired, and with advancing age and a thyroid burning out and requiring daily medication, but otherwise good. We'd had to relocate him to the downstairs bathroom, as he'd been having issues finding his litter box in time, but there'd been few mishaps for several days so we were contemplating restoring his bedroom privileges. 

But quite suddenly, he became disoriented; hungry, but unable to swallow his food. A look in his eyes confirmed to my satisfaction that he was just too tired to hold on any longer. My wife made the vet appointment, and I was getting ready to say good-bye to my friend of nearly 20 years. 

I hopped into the shower, and Gabrielle wrapped Twitch in a favorite bath-towel and snuggled with him on the couch. Within minutes, and with typical stubbornness -- he hated car rides, and the vet was about an hour's ride away -- he began to fail. Gabi and I held him as he quickly and painlessly passed away. 

He was a great companion, with a scrappy, robust personality. He was funny, and stubborn, and scrappy, and grouchy, and adoring, and mischievous, and affectionate, and playful. For several months, because he required daily medication, he'd been a part-time store cat, bunked a few days a week (mostly in my office) at my wife's comic book shop so we could take care of him. He'd patrol the store, collecting his due affection from staff and customers, and my store kids adored him and treated him like their own. (The joke was one them, of course; Twitch adopted them, not the other way 'round.) 

For almost 20 years, Twitch was a constant presence in my life, and a good pal, and I miss him terribly. 

I've finally returned from San Diego, CA., where I attended Comic Con International. As always, it was overwhelming, colorful, overwhelming, entertaining, and overwhelming. 

Typically, I fly out a couple days early to spend time with my friend, Jeremy, and leave a couple days after the con to avoid overcrowded flights. Tends to work out great, but also means I haven't seen the inside of my own home in over a week. 

Some highlights of the show this year: I finally got to meet Ande Parks, a terrific writer (his Union Station is a must-read true-crime graphic novel) whom I've bantered with several times via Twitter, saw a dancing robot, met and spoke to Dirk Benedict at a local burger joint, sat in a replica of Kirk's command chair from Star Trek, got very close to a display of various movie and TV Batmobiles, met artist Giovanni Timpano, drank several mojitos, saw dolphins frolicking in the surf while my wife and I swam in the Pacific, and managed to acquire for myself one of the spiffy Comic Con exclusive SHIELD Helicarriers.  

Here's some photo highlights of cool swag and convention niftyness. 

I realize I haven't updated over here in almost a year -- lamenting my 39th birthday -- as I rapidly approach my 40th. 

(In happier news, for my 40th birthday, my amazing and awesome wife has arranged a killer trip to Las Vegas, and my first issue of Flash Gordon should be hitting stands at about the same time.)

Yesterday, I completed writing chores on my 14th consecutive issue of Red Sonja, making this my longest run on a title to date. 

It's been an interesting run, which began as the editor asking me for four issues as fast as I could crank them out. The result, "War Season," ran from issues 51-54, and by the third installment, it was clear that I would be continuing on the title for a while. Issue 55 became an epilogue, and is in many ways the focal point for my entire run. 

The upcoming run, "Echoes of War," is a sequel of sorts to "War Season," and I'm once again reteamed with "War Season" penciler Walter Geovani. 

I'm pretty excited about it. "Echoes" ties up a lot of loose ends, and a theme has emerged about the consequences of drawing the sword, putting a capstone on the whole shebang and leaving me poised to push the character in a new direction (though what direction that is, I'm still not sure). 

Coinciding roughly with my 40th birthday has made it feel (to me, at least; your mileage may vary) like I've accomplished something. The stories are very much me, the kind of book I like to read, and am quite proud to have written. Hopefully you've enjoyed them, too. 

In the next few weeks, I hope to post an annotated "scriptbook" of "War Season" and its epilogue, with subsequent arcs being included as they make their way to trade paperback (pending approval of the publisher and license holder, naturally). 

So, I turn 39 tomorrow.

I tend toward the maudlin around my birthday, starting exactly 10 years ago. That transitional boundary between my 20s and 30s left me a little shaken and sad, and the subsequent push toward 40 hasn't been one I've accepted gracefully.

In my professional life, I've always felt a sense of running out of time, of racing the clock, coupled with the omnipresent dread that the stories locked away inside me won't be told in time.

(No, it isn't pleasant, thank you for asking.)

At times like this, I tend to look back, take stock, remember the things that have been lost in my strangely permeable memory. (Wholesale sections of my childhood are just gone, and I've always had difficulty remembering the chronology of events during times I found particularly traumatic. It's all fog and shadows.)

Those memories come back in shards, suddenly and with startling clarity. One such memory:

It was fall, edging into winter, in upstate New York. I was a freshman in high school (late '85, or thereabouts), and it was the beginning of a happier period of my life.

I had been "adopted" by the school librarian -- often I was allowed to remain in the library beyond the allotted permissible number of "study periods" one could spend there. I think Mrs. Gardener -- the librarian -- recognized that I was something of a loner, and I would lose myself for hours in there, reading voraciously.

That particular late-Autumn afternoon, she suggested a book to me: "Deathbird Stories" by Harlan Ellison. I'm not sure why, and I'm honestly a little shocked that our provincial little school library even had it on the shelves. Walking home, through the local "recreational" park (a couple of tennis courts, an unpleasant artificial "lake" for summer swimming, some kids' playground gear), I stopped at a favorite haunt: a particular tree that I used to climb, on a windswept hill.

It was my favorite place to sit and read in the summer. So, despite the gathering gloom, (limned by the oddly golden, thin light that autumn afternoons-moving-on-to-evenings that characterizes the Adirondacks and that chilly season), I adjusted my scarf against the biting wind with, and hauled myself up into the branches.

Settling back against the cold bark of the tree trunk, I cracked the cover of "Deathbird Stories" and read "The Whimper of Whipped Dogs."

A transformative moment, for sure. Blistering, rage-soaked prose, a ghastly tale of inhumanity in a lightly fantastic cloak. Eye opening. 

There's something about Ellison's work that always transports me back to that cold day, the coppery Autumn sunshine, the biting wind. It is a melancholy memory but also powerful; that sense, upon reading those words, of the power could be packed into words on the page.

Not a bad moment to look back on. 

Recently, my mother sent me a lovely gift—an Amazon Kindle—as a staggeringly early birthday present. 

I've long been intrigued by the notion of electronic books (one of the first personal publishing efforts I attempted was to develop, along with my friend Tim O'Brien, dice-and-paper roleplaying game books specifically for .PDF release), and have been considering a Kindle or Sony eReader for a while. 

(I rejected the Nook out of hand; my one experience handling one in the store was not successful; the test unit didn't work and the form factor didn't appeal to me at all.) 

I've used the new Kindle pretty heavily for the last week, and it's a damned nifty device. 

The unit is compact and comfortable to hold (though the inclusion of a semi-rigid case has helped), and the display is easy enough to read. The type size is adjustable, though the option to change the font to taste would seem a logical option, especially for typography nerds like, well, me. 

Battery life is considerable, particularly if you turn off the wireless access when not downloading/synching files; I wouldn't mind the option to toggle a backlight, though the design aesthetic of the Kindle would find such an option anathematic. Barring that, a lighter default background (the screen is essentially a pale grey, not dissimilar to that of a 1980s digital watch) would help improve contrast. 

Overall, the form factor is great, though I have some quibbles with button placement; I'd prefer the "next page" and "previous page" buttons beneath my right thumb, particularly when using the rigid case. I am frequently hitting the "home" button which resides where I'd find the "previous page" button most convenient. 

My biggest gripe with the unit is Amazon's ridiculous inability to allow me to "gift" a Kindle book. 

Each Kindle has a unique e-mail address, the ability to receive files (via wireless networks or Amazon's own Whispernet apparatus), and the user maintains control of who can and can't send files. 

There's no way, currently, to, say, order a Kindle edition of book for my Mom (who also has a Kindle), and have it delivered to her electronically; one must purchase a gift certificate, send THAT, and then the recipient redeems it and downloads something. 

The inability to order and deliver specific content to the Kindle seems like a gaping flaw in the design. I can order and deliver an ink-on-paper book as a gift for someone via Amazon; why is it harder to instantly deliver a digital book from the same place?

---

At the outset, while I see the value of digital content -- be it webcomics, ebooks, or other such items -- I was concerned that a Kindle or other e-reader would become a toy I'd grow disinterested in after prolonged use.

I'm happy to say that's not the case; I've read more fiction in the past week than in the prior two months.

Also, my family and a friend all have registered our Kindles to the same account, which means we have an instant electronic book club; one can append notes to the text, sync them to the other readers, and create instant discussions or the spine for a more concrete discussion later, which has to be the feature I find the most compelling.

---

Naturally, it also has me thinking about mobile devices and comics. The iPad is an intriguing toy, though I find it less satisfying to use than most Apple products; Amazon provides a pretty effortless system for disseminating content to their device (as my bank account, suddenly depleted by my clicking and downloading books with abandon); there's no good, centralized place to download comics; each major publisher seems intent on backing their own horse, meaning, inevitably, users being forced onto multiple platforms for viewing their comics, or one side or the other losing the race and becoming the digital comic equivalent of the Betamax. 

(Or, HD-DVD, for you whippersnappers.)

I doubt the iPad, in its current incarnation, is the ideal medium for digital comics (as its really a crippled laptop with a touchscreen), but I'm eager to see what people do with that format, that concept. 

Interesting, to say the least.  

Tomorrow, the final issue of The Shield is on store shelves, a fact that is both a relief and not inconsiderably melancholic. 

From a purely technical standpoint, the pressure of a monthly book under my byline pushed me pretty hard, and one major outcome of it all is that I'm simply much faster than I used to be. (Issue 7 of the series, for example, was written in one, five-hour sitting, and is probably my favorite of the whole run.) 

I'll miss Joe Higgins terribly, because he's exactly the kind of hero I have always wanted to write. His heroism is pragmatic, intelligent, and unironic; in many ways, Higgins is the kind of person I would like to be, and -- quite honestly -- am not. 

Which brings me to the real stars of the show: the art team. 

Marco Rudy is a profoundly talented illustrator; cheerful, engaged, communicative, and boundlessly enthusiastic. And the fact that he's so young leads me to one inescapable conclusion: Watch him closely.  He's a major talent, and he's going to be a huge star in the comics field, very soon. 

Mick Gray is one of the first inkers -- along with Klaus Janson -- whose work I could identify on sight, when I first started paying real attention to such things. His work with Mike McKone (on Punisher War Journal) was eye-opening, and when I learned his clean, crisp, unbelievably-precise line was to be applied to Marco's pencils on The Shield, I literally danced for joy. 

Art Lyon -- who also brought his talents to JSA Vs. Kobra -- is also a treat to work with. We've only spoken a handful of times, but his investment in the stories we were telling was clear. Art brought a lot to the book -- all those crazy computer screen heads-up-display images in the Shield warsuit? That was Art. -- not the least of which was his fine sense of color and light, his willingness to experiment, and his enthusiasm for the project. 

Thanks are also due to Cliff Richards (who stepped in on issues 4 and 8 to give Marco breathing room for the final push of the series); Wayne Faucher (who contributed inks), Sal Cipriano and Randy Gentile (who ably lettered the book); Richard and Tanya Horie (who also contributed color art); Francis Manapul and Sami Basri for their lovely covers; Brandon Jerwa, for his excellent Inferno and Fox stories; Greg Scott, Michael Gaydos and Michael Avon Oeming, for drawing them; and of course Rachel Gluckstern who kept our feet to the fire.

Too often, comics are perceived as a one-  or two-man operation, but that's rarely the case, and if you enjoyed The Shield, it was because of all these diverse talents working toward a shared goal. 

For that, you all have my profound thanks--my fellow creators, and those of you who shelled out your hard-earned cash to read Joe Higgins' adventures. 

There's a bakery near where I live; it is very small, open at odd hours, and is perhaps a little shabby.

It makes, hands down, the best bread I've ever tasted. The husband and wife that run it—transplants from West Seattle who moved out here to the middle of nowhere to be near what I assume are elderly family members—are intelligent, kind people, and they excel at their job. 

Furthermore, it is clear that they love what they do. 

The bakery -- wi-fi equipped! -- makes a damn good cup of coffee, outstanding pizza and sandwiches, and it is always warm and welcoming, with the scent of fresh rosemary baking into lovingly hand-crafted rustic artisan bread. 

Catch them at the right moment, when the bread is just coming out of the oven, you are afforded almost indescribable pleasure: steaming hot rosemary bread, with just a touch of butter that melts deep into the slice. 

---

There's a movie theater in the town where I live. An old building, dating back to the 1920s. The screen is kind of small, but the sound system is amazing. A digital projector system was added a couple years ago. 

They make fresh popcorn, and have reasonably priced concessions; the theater shows reasonably first-run pictures, for not a lot of money. 

The woman that runs it does so as a labor of love; it was her first job as a teenager, and a few years ago, when the theater was run nearly into the ground by the manager hired by the town (the town owns the theater, it turns out), she and her husband convinced them to let her fix the place up. 

Despite flooding and occasional break-ins, the theater has been gradually improved. There's a long way to go -- there's some weathering and wear on the ceilings, the seats are old and a little threadbare. 

But it's a lovely venue to watch a film. Dark, filled with the aroma of popcorn, with good sound and decent picture. The building bleeds history, from the handpainted decorations on the ceiling, to the gorgeous  chandeliers. The doors at the entrance are solid, good wood, with polished brass pushbars that literally gleam.  

Often they host concerts; last year, my wife and I saw Pearl Django perform Hot Club jazz for a measly ten bucks per ticket, a show that lasted almost two hours. 

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There's a coffee shop in town. It caters to the local agricultural community, with unusual hours (7 am to 3 pm). It's not fancy, but its warm and the waitresses know everyone. 

The food isn't fancy either: standard diner fare, a touch overpriced. 

But the portions are huge (there's one burger that I swear is almost as big as the plate) and they make astonishingly good hash browns. 

Coffee is rich and dark and delicious, and it comes in plentiful supply, for a dollar. (I write a lot here; almost every issue of The Shield was written at the Corner Café.) There are regulars there, mostly senior citizens arguing politics and local current events; a retired science teacher-turned-local musician drinks his coffee and balances his checkbook, or argues arrangements of classic rock tunes with his bandmates. 

Until last year, an elderly woman -- clearly in the throes of dementia -- would wander in, argue with the waitresses or the former owner, or say inappropriate things to other patrons. 

But every day, the owner (who sold the Café a few months back, with the proviso that the current staff be kept on) would make sure she got breakfast and lunch and a large glass of orange juice. 

Never once did I see money change hands; he just took care of her, because it was obvious her people weren't. 

---

There are treasures all around. even in places like where I live: rural, desperately poor, geographically isolated, yet there are these small, unassuming gems, pockets of kindness and warmth and welcome; there are special places. 

Look around. 

Find some of your own, and enjoy them deeply. 

Such treasures rarely last; the economic downturn of the last year has taken a toll here, as — I suspect — it has everywhere.

There's an edge of sadness to the bakers, who are trying to make a living in a community that is suffering from record unemployment.

The movie theater is only open a few nights a week, and often I've been turned away because there aren't enough tickets sold to pay for running a film.

The coffee shop is under new management, who are gamely trying to keep the place afloat, but I'm in here every day, and I don't see a lot of new faces. Everyone is putting on a brave face, but there's a grim undertone to it all--expanded hours tried and failed, some minor physical improvements to the building have been made, but the menu has been somewhat truncated and portions have gradually crept down in size a bit, with a modest bump in price. 

These gems don't last, which is tragic, because they define a community. They delineate the contours, the heart and soul of a place. 

Find your own and enjoy them before they're gone.