Next week is the third-year anniversary of the cervical tear that almost made me bleed to death. This accident had an extreme impact on my psyche. I still get spontaneous flashbacks to it. I can say, in all honesty, that the accident shaped the course of my life forever.
I had this accident with a member of the comic book industry. I can't say he stood out as being any better or worse than anybody else. Just a regular "comic book guy."
This person watched passively as my finances began to unravel as the result of being hospitalized when uninsured. He, like many in the industry, had an extensive collection of comic art & collectibles. But he was so out of touch in terms of human empathy that he didn't offer to contribute one cent to my medical bill for the accident that we caused together. He didn't offer to throw one piece of art on eBay to help me out, or any other type of action that would have alleviated my $20,000+ bill.
But what he did ask for was my help in selling off his collection on eBay so he could have more money for himself. And so I prepared auctions for him. Part of me thought that maybe if the sales were lucrative, he might throw a little bit my way. He never did.
The only time he gave me money -- $300 -- was when he was working on a comic book version of my memoirs with me and I threatened to throw him off the book. I didn't threaten to throw him off the book because I wanted the money; I had long since given up on that. I wanted to throw him off because the idea of having the person who tore my cervix actually draw himself tearing my cervix began to creep me out. I wanted out of the whole project.
I wanted to cancel the project, but I felt like I was under such pressure to do it. I felt it was my only big break. So did my erstwhile associate. He had a big dream that we would be the comic book world's "It" couple. He wanted to feed rumors to Rich Johnston in order to stir interest up. He wanted to show up at DC Comics drink-ups with me on his arm and cause a scene. He wanted me to get him invited to parties at Marvel so he could come along as my date.
Yes, this is the same person who almost killed me with his dick and refused to help me pay for the aftermath. He wanted to use me so he could, as he put it, "be taken more seriously."
This person is part of the reason I have a big problem with comics. First, we have the evidence of extreme ruthlessness connected with something that is stupid. I think there is very little in comics that is worth being ultra-Machiavellian about, to the point of using other people.
And yet I have seen this many, many times in this industry. The pissing matches. The need to show one's superiority as you write about a giant irradiated sheep. It might just be a story about sheep -- but goddammit you're going to be the king of sheep stories! What old lady can you kick in the ovaries or mentally-handicapped laddy can you push down the elevator shaft in order to become Sheep King? Working working working for that golden sheep moment.
So basically this guy acted like a complete douche so that he could get his "propers" in the comic book industry, used me like you'd use a spoon to scoop up Cheerios. So that perhaps, in his particular sphere, he could become Sheep King. I'm not sure what Sheep Kings get in way of acknowledgements and accolades. An Eisner? A Randy Bowen statue? I know they must get something.
Anyway, I threatened to throw him off the memoirs graphic novel project, and he gave me a check for $300. "For your accident." Like, more than a year later. But, to be clear, he said the money wasn't just for the accident. It was to help pay for physical therapy so I could have better sex with him. Because he was fucking me since two days after my cervical tear, while the stitches were still in. And you know -- I just wasn't performing up to his standard. So giving me the money was, I guess, a win-win for him. Maybe I would learn how to please him properly.
I still planned to throw him off the project, but I took the money anyway. Because I figured this was all I was ever going to get from him. Not long after, I killed the project.
My mother and I rarely agreed on much, but something she kept telling me throughout my adult life seemed to bear out. She said, "comic books, is not future." Comic books, is not future. I would tell her about this or that job I got in comics, and she would say, "comic books, is not future." She said it when I told her I got that job in a comic store as a teenager. She said it when I got my job at Acclaim. She said it when I ran down the stairs and joyously declared that I got the job at DC. She said it when I told her that I was such a successful blogger that a video company was paying me to go to SDCC. She said it when I told her I bought a domain for another comic book website. She said it many, many times. "Comic books, is not future."
My mom -- joy-killer, squasher of dreams. Where was her sense of whimsy?
And yet, let's look at things pragmatically:
- 2 traumatic health crises that cleared out my bank account
- no savings
- no health insurance
- no car
- no children
- sexually traumatized and damaged
- targeted by at least 3 sexual predator-types in the industry
At the age of 35, I severely regret chasing the dream to be the Queen of Sheep Stories. I certainly don't regret the good people I met along the way. But as a whole, when I take into account my material security and my mental well-being, I regret it. I feel as if I've just graduated high-school again, or graduated college. In fact, I've felt that way continuously since I graduated high-school.
Was all the bullshit of my life worth it? In a very basic sense, I think the sheer fucked-upness made a good narrative. I think I made good on the writer's advice: "see the world and live a little." I may not have been a world-traveller, but I've seen the depths of people's souls. I've seen a lot of stupid shit go down. I've seen people sell other people out in order to become the King of Sheep; or, if not exactly the King of Sheep, at least Middle-Manager.
I've seen women I respected turn into complete whores. I've seen women I respected turn out to be cunts of the highest order whose claim to fame was keeping other women out of the business. I've seen good women go into literal exile -- abandoned, chased out, don't call us we'll call you. I've seen friendly fatherly-types turn out to be sweaty perverts with one hand down their pants. I've seen friendly grandfatherly-types do the same thing.
I've seen a man have a complete nervous breakdown over the way he was treated in this industry. I watched it in bits and pieces, a painful story pulled out in multiple phone calls like a bloody string through a wound. I've had conversations with bloggers about people possibly being driven to suicide; we had these conversations clinically, picking the topic apart, wondering how to proceed with our individual commentaries. And it's that overly-inflated sense of importance again -- we act as if these are the crucial things that matter in life. When not a goddamn thing matters in this world except three things: 1) how we treat our fellow person, 2) that we express our truth, and 3) that we are able to provide for our loved ones in an adequate fashion.
When I was in college, I idolized this writer:
William Burroughs. Idolized him. Fanatically. I felt he was preaching a truth, a truth in art, a truth in living, an ugly ugly truth in living. People like him and Allen Ginsburg were being *real*. I craved their realness. I cherished their honesty. My only goal in life was to express myself in a similarly real fashion. I didn't care if it offended. I didn't care if it was commercial. The art was an end unto itself. I lived for the art and the art alone. Though I had collected comic books in my adolescence, by college I had largely abandoned them. Most mainstream comics looked to me like ugly, lumpy, uninspired things. Grant Morrison's "Doom Patrol" being the exception.
College was the best time of my life. So why did I throw away graduate school to work at Acclaim Comics? Where did this resurgence of fealty to Sheep Stories come from?
Oh, what was that quote I heard while I was at Acclaim?
"Look, I don't care if Michaelangelo walked through that door with his portfolio. Is he a name? Is he a name that I can sell?"
He didn't say this out of malice. He said this because it was fucking 1997 and that was the truth -- at least, the truth that was commonly known by those who couldn't dream past it.
Seriously, how are we going to get our next "Watchmen" with this attitude? Should we just claim "fail" now?
***
If you have read my memoirs, you will not be surprised by the following statement:
I suffer from chronic depression.
I do. That's real. That's my life. There are only three things that snap me out of depression:
1) Peak moments with my current boyfriend and friends. Hanging out, tender moments, etc.
2) Marketing theory. Especially online marketing theory. I think it's because I'm a nerd, have a touch of Aspergers, or both. I read Seth Godin and I perk right up.
3) Good art. Real art. I was depressed at dinner today, but my server started talking to me about 1980s graffiti culture. My God. It was like I got a shot of Paxil. I was all over that. Fucking love real graffiti art, circa early 1980s, whole subway trains plastered with the stuff. Awesome.
Outside of that, it's depression. Depression over being abused as a kid, depression over my college mentor wanting to fuck me, depression over being sexually harassed by one of the highest ranking people at DC "home of Truth, Justice, and the American Way" Comics, depressed over having my ability to enjoy sex ( you know sex, right? basic primal need) being destroyed over some idiot who didn't even give a shit, depressed over a lot of things. Every time I get a media inquiry over "women in comics," (which is fucking OFTEN), I get depressed. Not a hyperbole. I don't know what the fuck to say.
***
Selling over 100 copies of my memoir -- as modest as that sounds -- meant a lot to me. That memoir WAS me. It was me RAW. If you liked that book, that was me 100%. And if you hated it -- that was still me 100%.
When I developed that book with my agency, they told me to take certain things out to make me more "sympathetic." Fuck that. I'm not on trial. Well hell, some people seem to think I'm on trial, but they're just a victim of that "over-importance" thing regarding comics again. Want to be the biggest Sheep blogger on the block. I get it.
Right now, all I want to do is support my family and put out my books on my own. That's it. I don't care what the job is -- dish-washer, administrative assistant, marketer, etc. I really do not give a shit, other than it supports my family. And with the left-over, if there is a left-over, I'm going to sell my books. And that's it. No 14 drafts of my memoir. No might have beens. I'm going to package it, sell it, and then let God do the rest. Buy it or don't.
***
This is largely a media and world of spin and bullshit. It really is. You, Reader, are a commodity. Your marketing information, via Facebook etc, is a commodity. You are fed what is most advantageous to hear. Trust me, I've been in marketing, advertising, etc for a shit long time. I know.
As of this point, memoir included, I will never lie to you.
***
* image found here from Samurai Haruko, "The Sheep King"
