Every episode of Storymaze: writing tips or a work-in-progress; something creative I’m digging; a highlight from my comics-writing credits; + a quote that’s got me thinking — maybe it’ll do the same for you!
In the Northeast? Come see me at Terrificon at the end of July. I’ll be there Sat/Sun ONLY, at table K3.
In comic book days of yore, the Marvel Mega Show was a peculiar series of fan-focused events whose sole focus was the publisher and promoter itself: Marvel Comics. Creators from across the writing and art pantheon were invited to travel to far flung places for very focused mini-conventions.
There were no panels, no cosplay, no dealers room. It was pretty much a glorified autograph session for readers, with a little bit of review time for those looking to break in. For a small fee, folks got a bag full of swag, posters, and the chance to go down a long table of talent as we sat against a glorious backdrop of colorful characters.
For this particular Texas show, I had a pretty hot seat: right next to the incredible Sergio Aragones, creator of Groo the Wanderer and countless Mad Magazine cartoons. I had a set patter which I thought terribly clever — 'til I clued into the fact that my one-note was sounding pretty tired to the immensely imaginative Sergio. I tried to vary it up after that, but I was probably more busy dying of embarassment.
The other part of these events was to go on the road. Creators would split up and head out to make appearances at local comic book shops, a Mighty Marvel goodwill tour to boost a store's profile. "Prepare yourself! A real life Marvel Comics' creator will show up in your store! Meet and greet fans! Sign autographs! Wax poetic! And generally make things happen for your cash register!"
There was a black car and a driver and what seemed (or seems now) an impossibly long drive down a fiery Texas highway. In my mind and what's left of my memory it was a true desert road. In actuality it might have been 15 minutes on a blacktop along a strip mall — but far into the reaches of East Texas sounds better. We finally got there, the store owner was happy to see me, and seemed to know who I was.
He expressed genuine like and appreciation for my writing — whatever it might have been that I was working on at the time. I imagine SHIELD and Daredevil, maybe some of the Clive Barkerverse of Hellraiser books. I settled in behind the table with a stack of publications and posters, and shiny paint pen in hand. And waited.
And waited some more.
There was not a big draw that day in Mudville — which is no judgment on Texas. I was the Mud. I felt bad for the store owner. He had customers, but I wasn't generating much of anything for him. I was a curiosity for a minor few, and blocking the way to the shelves for more.
There was one kid. Pre-teen, with an honest inquiry into how comics were made. I vaguely remember him opening up with some samples of his own. My initial haughty politeness didn't shunt him off to the cash register with any haste, or send him looking elsewhere for more interesting ways to spend his money, time, or attention. Instead he dug in deeper, asking this question or that.
I had nothing better to do. No one was there to serve my ego, lavish praise or challenge my storytelling. So…what the hell? "What can I tell you kid? Let's talk about comics! Let's talk about you…" My idea was I may as well spend my time with some back-and-forth — vs. wallowing in my internal embarrassment and chagrin.
We looked through the big stack of xeroxed pencils for whatever issue of whatever comic I was scripting at that point, figuring if there were any lulls in the line of fans I could get in some writing of dialogue and captions, or at least word balloon placement. Not that I expected to have time for any of that, with the folks who'd want to chit-chat over my heroics and horrors and twists and turns. I mean, come on — I had been flown in for the Mighty Marvel Mega Show! I was somebody!
The driver had come in from the car. We were here for a bit of a long haul (made longer still with no one coming to see me!) — and he wasn't going to run the engine all that time to keep cool. May as well mooch off the comic store's AC. He had little interest in comics. Made a couple of polite inquiries and narrowed his eyes in that patented, "People read this shit?" look — and settled back in a corner with a magazine and and some snacks.
It's been a long time, but at some point the chat with the almost-teen went from something to endure to — really kind of pleasant. I don't remember the kid's name, or really what he looked like. Just that he was interested — and I could fill that interest. It became a lot less about my fans and my "achievements" — and more about his ideas and interests. And then it was time to go.
I poured myself back in the car, eager to get back to the hotel, and the next day of the show. At least among known quantities of creators, I was an easy way station for fans looking to get some swag and autographs.
My plan was probably to occupy the time with a) kicking myself, b) feeling sorry for myself, and c) being generally too much about myself all together. Then that driver looked back over his shoulder and said something that's stuck with me forever:
"That kid is going to remember today for the rest of his life."
Not because I was anything special. But because that kid was. While I didn't do it consciously, by spending time with him, by making the day about him, I made sure he knew that he was special.
Not in terms of judging his work: I never gave him any particular props or specific advice. There was no editorial, "Do this and you'll be that." I didn't plan to make an impression, or a difference — but if I did, in any small way, I'm glad.
I think the greatest gift of having had the gift of writing comics has been that chance to interest an audience in what they find of themselves in a story. Not praise for me or my cleverness, real or imagined. Instead it's about what every great story does: it takes you to a place that's new and different and has meaning for you.
I wish my memory was better. I wish I could tell you the name of that store or that boy or some other details, because it matters. But what matters more is this. We each get a chance to spend time with someone every day — and we can make it about ourselves or we can make it about them. Choose them.
I wasn't sure what to expect from 8 Billion Genies — and really, isn't that maybe the best way to go into a creative work? I loved the title and the look and what I could glom from the premise: somehow, for some reason, every person on Earth had been granted 1 genie with 1 wish each. And…GO!
As you can imagine — or at least enjoy — this "dream come true" for humankind is instead a far cry from utopia, personal or planetwide. 8 billion wishes quickly compete for attention, colliding in gritty, wacky, weird, grim, silly and sweet ways. By continuing to intersect with an initial group of rando characters we first meet in a Michigan bar, the series keeps us grounded through the conjuring chaos, even as the issue-by-issue takes us from the first 8 wishes, the first 8 hours, the first 8 days, the first 8 months — you get it, right?
While it kind of goes a bit shallow on some fronts and runs out of a little steam on others, I found the absurdist whole a world I deeply appreciated. The visuals navigate nicely between touching moments of human connection — and brightly colored Lovecraftian madness. (You may never look at the moon in the sky the same way again.)
After ripping through the 8 issues, I was sorry to see the last wish granted. (Be honest, you thought I was going to end this with, "My only wish was for more issues!" Please — I have better tropes to play.)
Radio Horror invited me on for their 15th anniversary podcast. It’s a good visit to the “dark corners of the Marvel Universe” with Midnight Sons and Nightstalkers. Turn out the lights and listen in!
There’s a little side trip into Hellraiser territory — but stay tuned for a follow-up episode that will descend deeper into that world!
“What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness.”
— George Saunders
Amazing Times
Thanks for taking a break from the dark web to check out this share-out of projects I’m working on, plus things that have me jazzed. I’m D.G. Chichester. If that looks pretentious, feel free to just call me “Dan”, and have a go at the last name as Chai (like the tea) Chester (like it looks).
I earned my word-cred writing comic book titles like Daredevil, Terror Inc., Nick Fury Agent of SHIELD and Clive Barker’s Hellraiser, along with all manner of digital widgets in the world wide web of advertising. I keep my storytelling cred by trying new things — this is one, with more on the way. I like weird tales, so if things here bend that way — now you know why!
Folks seem to like the comic book adventures I’ve written, so if you haven’t checked one out — please do. Many are now available in fab collected editions.
For the lonely moments between newsletters…
@dgchichester — 280 characters from the Twitterverse
@dgchichester — images via Instagramland