I’m finally doing it! Class is in session and I’m the teacher!
On Wednesday, November 1st, from 7 pm to 9 pm, I will be at Labyrinth Puzzle Rooms in Downtown Lakeville to discuss:
– Writing short stories, novellas & novels – Publishing your work – National Novel Writing Month
And any questions you bring to the table, of course. This is something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time; oddly enough, I was seriously considering this when Melissa at LPR reached out and asked if I had ever considered this!
Plus, you’ll be able to chat with me after class about one-on-one mentorship if you need extra help with your work!
Cost is $25 for the 2 hour session. Space is limited! Share this with that person in your life who has always said they were going to write that book someday. That day could be soon…
I haven’t been on my usual bullshit lately, writing about my messy emotions or mental health, or about politics or the climate or philosophy or grief or sobriety. It’s not that I don’t think about these things anymore; they’re all I think about, the things that keep me up at night, the things that make me, well, me.
The condition I’m in right now is a very real state of burn out; the dark, sticky, cloud-covered kind, where the furniture and walls are covered in a heavy sheet of hot ash as black as the absence of light.
I’m not having a lot of fun, generally; the overall absence of joy is undeniable when I do feel an actual burst of it. Like many people, I find myself going through the motions, frustrated, feeling those gears wobble and snarl and fail to reject the seemingly singular forward motion being mindlessly pushed through them.
We have to, right? Being the 99% in a late capitalistic society, we are expected to do the least-worst things we can find, eat that shit heartily, and then ask for more.
It’s a voice in my ear that sounds like my own but meaner: “You have to do this. If you don’t, you will be broke, unpopular, and you will die.”
It’s not untrue.
I haven’t written about this because, generally, I try to write from a place where I can see a way out. Sure, some of these entries can end with us still sitting in a dark cardboard box, wiping each other’s tears, but most of them have their lids punctuated with holes for both air and light. Hope poking through, if you will.
I don’t have any tasty treats to offer you today.
My writing and art is a solace for me, but I can feel all this [gestures wildly inside of me] spilling out into it like wild oil. I don’t want to turn that magical forest toxic.
So I’ve been trying out other things.
Which is why I look like an idiot today.
I’ve been reading more. I’ve been playing the bass, specifically, learning everything I can about just one instrument and not worrying about doing anything more with it. Just playing. Connecting to words and music in the deepest ways I can.
And I’ve taken up karate. It definitely sprung from my pop culture love of Ninja Turtles and Cobra Kai and Jedi, but I’m trying to find new ways to find myself, find the kind of balance I’ve been desperately seeking since the day I started existing, an actual place of peace.
I believe in being proactive; we can’t change or grow until we decide to change and grow. But the helplessness of this brand of burn out, the kind dictated by the world we live in, lends itself to a hopelessness that I don’t need help nurturing.
No, it’s a hopelessness that I hope to karate chop in the face.
When I was a kid, I always dreamed of having my own comic book; as an adult, when I began creating it, I was determined to “do it the right way.”
Paper. Pencils. Ink. Lots of coffee.
Of course, there is no right way to do anything.
And doing The Weirdos like this was both genuinely rewarding for my heart & soul, and an undeniable headache.
Starting with the paper itself.
I knew I would be publishing black & white issues, but I also thought about the future of the series and potentially collecting it as a graphic novel. To do that, I would have to color it; I got into watercolor painting at the beginning of my sobriety, and decided that would be my path if I chose to go so far.
So I drew the entire series, all five issues, on massive pieces of watercolor paper.
Since a regular copier was too small for my medium, I would have to go to FedEx Office to individually scan every piece of paper through their giant scanner.
As for the artwork itself: it’s not easily definable. I see elements of classic superhero art, sure, but also animation, manga, and, especially, newspaper comics like Peanuts and Calvin & Hobbes.
It all culminates in something very me and, more importantly, very human.
Doing things on paper often forced me to make hard decisions and leave lines in that irritate me to this day. It also made me really think about emotion and my linework and the most important thing to me: clarity of communication.
Something has become very clear to me five years later (yeah, I can’t believe it either: The Flying Squirrel #1 came out in August 2018!): my very human art was not a detriment to the story, as I duly felt as the issues were released. No, the exact opposite was true: for my very human story to connect like it has, the art — not created in a computer, not through the tools of Photoshop or AI — had to be as human as the characters were.
This isn’t to say that digital art isn’t “as real”; I, myself, made the transition with my Brushfire series, created entirely on tablet.
This is to say that The Weirdos got told in the best possible way I could tell it.
I have recieved so many messages over the years, and a lot of them have had a similar theme: people have been getting burned out on our systems. Even (or especially) the mighty Marvel machine. Their series and films have started to leave some people cold, and they found a warm space when they picked up my book.
Ironically, what they find is what Marvel started doing in the 60’s.
They find flaws. They find people who are anything but perfect, but who have potential, and the ability, like we all do, to get a little better, every single day.
I love Abigail “Axis” Coire — aka The Sketch, though she’s never referred to by that name in Volume I — so much, for so many reasons, but one of the strongest is her complexity. The irony of this is not lost on me, because she began as a single question: “Wouldn’t it be cool if a stick figure fought crime in the real world?”
Axis was originally a dude (because I am deeply unoriginal), and a stick figure because I am a terrible artist or, at the very least, a terribly lazy one. I was tired of only getting marginally better at art, and thought I could create a shortcut by using a simple character.
She ended up being everything but.
With Axis, I wanted to talk about depression, and follow it to the point of suicidal thoughts. I’ve personally dealt with some pretty gnarly episodes of depression myself; despite how open I am about my other stuff (addiction, anxiety, grief, etc.), I am strangely secretive about it, except when it comes to fiction.
I feel more comfortable addressing deeply uncomfortable things through character.
Her story has many parallels to Ashley’s, but one is invisible to the reader. In The Flying Squirrel, we see Ash drinking from tiny bottles of vodka in public places; in The Sketch, Axis makes herself think about things like water and wind and the feeling of cold to prevent herself from throwing up. I used to do both of those things sequentially almost daily.
The reasons for Axis’ transformation into The Sketch are as complicated as she is, and I have no interest in spelling them all out. I have heard awesome theories about her from readers and there isn’t any reason that their ideas are any less valid than mine. She belongs to you as much as she belongs to me.
I do want to talk about what I feel is an obvious reason, though: her identity.
When we meet her, she is in the middle of a breakup at her favorite coffee shop, Helen of Chai. (This is also the first appearance of my now-legendary MN Nice mug.) She doesn’t get regular sad afterward, though; she drowns in her bed, sleeping for eight whole months, internally losing her identity and struggling to hold on to any sense of who she is.
And when she wakes up, she is reduced to her core.
She is, understandably, confused and angry and scared.
That her core is unimaginably powerful and capable of breaking the rules of the page says something about what’s inside each and every one of us, too.
I met a lady this afternoon who wondered aloud if she was meeting a future famous best-seller, and this is the part of the post where I get saccharine like cotton candy and tell the people who have been supporting me this whole time — for over ten years now — that you have already made me feel famous and like a really important writer, and I only ever say these things because they’re absolutely true.
So thank you.
I know how valuable time is and when you spend it coming out to see me (or read me), I never take that for granted, not for even a second.
Thank you for the warm conversation and for having some summertime snacks with me (I hooked a few on my new seasonal faves, the orange cream- and key lime pie-flavored Bubly sparkling water).
And a special thanks, as always, to Jason and Maurice and the cultural institution we know as Issues Needed Comics in Apple Valley. Always accommodating and welcoming and one of the best shops in the universe; I’m incredibly lucky to have this place in my neighborhood.
My unending gratitude for helping me smash a celebratory bottle on the side of this ship; Brushfire: Wave 2 has set sail and, before we know it, Wave 3 will be here and you’ll know what awaits us on the final shore.
It’s no secret that Ashley Maypole, the main character of my comic The Flying Squirrel, is the Weirdo most like me.
He’s an alcoholic comic book writer with Imposter Syndrome and an unhealthy obsession with squirrels.
He has a son and a Boston Terrier and a best friend who looks a lot like one of my best friends.
I did not step too far outside the house for this one.
But did you know that Ash got sober before I did?
There’s a long history of writers and artists who have been affected by the characters they’ve created. Jack Kirby started to go blind in one eye while regularly drawing Nick Fury, who is famous for his eye-patch; Grant Morrison gave a character based on themself a rare illness, and then came down with that rare illness themself.
Subconsciously, I must have wondered if the opposite was true.
I created Ash when I was still drinking, and his story was always one of the alcoholic who ends up in rehab. The delicious irony of this is that I had no plans to sober up myself, because I was not my character. He had a problem that I did not have.
Except I did.
And it wasn’t until I wrote him getting better that I realized I could get better.
There is plenty about Ash that is different, too, and he reflects both the worst and best of who I have been and who I could be. I have his problems, but I also have his potential.
I’ve written a whole essay on him and Imposter Syndrome, and the term “faux poet” is how I describe myself in my head daily; the idea of what is real and what is fake is at the heart of his issue.
It’s also about the sometimes-heavy task of looking at ourselves in the mirror, which can be seen in the use of a handful of words from two songs: Reflections by Atmosphere, and Landslide by Fleetwood Mac.
An important moment in Ash’s story that I point out to people is that he does not get better when he becomes the hero; I got sick of seeing stories that featured that narrative. As often as one person loses it all, another can get everything they ever wanted and still can’t stop their addiction.
I came up with the two four-letter phrases that bookend the story while I was still in it, wondering if my life was one worth living.
Anything can be saved.
Everything can be destroyed.
It has never been less true.
And there is nothing more beautiful than someone who has saved themselves from under the wreckage of their own destruction.
I did a neat thing last week and it’s out today: the Faribault Daily News published a feature on me + my life + my work!
You can check it out on their website at faribault dot com and of course I have some behind-the-scenes tea for you!
– Pam and I met at the restaurant where I work; I was her server and we struck up a conversation and next thing I knew, I was having coffee with her in Northfield a few weeks later! – I spoke to Pam like I speak to anyone I meet, whether that’s at my table at a convention or just out in the wild, and to be completely honest I got a little discomfort in my tummy when I saw in print how much I openly share about myself; and then I realized that’s probably why people feel so comfortable sharing things with me, and it’s maybe why I’m okay at art, and that initial cold shock turned into warm awe. – There is a reveal in the article and I am here to confirm its legitimacy: my next novel is indeed about vampires, and it is called Maple Island. – There is a partial misquote at the end that I want to clarify: Ted Danson played a character called Sam Malone on Cheers, and their names became a portmanteau of sorts! But I have often called myself the real life Sam Malone. – I have also never been a podcaster by definition, but I have been a guest on many podcasts! – The online version of the article gives shout outs to my friends Steven Starks and Cori Miller and their beautiful work, and that makes me really happy. – Marvel is now newspaper famous and I think we can all get behind that.
We were joking at the reunion that I was “Faribault famous” and today I guess that’s a little true; a huge thanks to Pam and the staff at the Faribault and Northfield News for this humbling spotlight. Pick up a paper if you still can!
I saw the Ninja Turtles movie tonight (probably my favorite film of the summer) and one of its lessons is that you shouldn’t do things for recognition and to get people to like you; you should do things for the right reasons, and then maybe those other things will follow.
I know I create art for the right reasons, so whenever something like this happens — someone else recognizes it, someone else likes it — I never, ever take it for granted.
It’s August, the season finale of summer, and this month we’re talking my superhero anti-epic, The Weirdos.
This story has everything: humble (and prophetic) origins, addiction, rehab, superpowers, bad words, good hearts, watercolor paper, that time I got blacklisted from every local printer, community, connection, more bad words, healing, and four people with problems who have potential and mean the entire universe to me.
Pour a hot cup of tea into your MN Nice mug and cozy up on that orange couch as we discuss the past, present, and future of The Weirdos.
Today is the last day of Brushfire month, which means I can shut up about it for a little while now.
I tell people that I don’t write for an audience, and that is generally true; I don’t sit down and think of a target person, their age or gender or preferences or blood type. I stand by my claim that I do not have a demographic; I just write the story that I feel I need to write.
But it’s also a lie. I’m a liar! There is an audience. But it’s tiny, insignificant, a speck under the rug of the aisle in the dust-soaked theater.
The audience is me.
I write what I needed to read at certain points in my life.
Since I can remember, pop culture has been an essential pillar in my construction. I use it to help myself understand the world around me.
Comics & TV & books & movies & music have all saved my life.
And they have, just as meaningfully, also let me down.
There were times when I was feeling something or thinking something and I didn’t see it reflected back at me.
So I wrote it down instead.
That’s the core of all my writing, but especially in the micro-world of Brushfire. There are things in there that are echoes of my childhood that ring so deep they still resonate today.
I wrote them now because I needed them then.
I needed them on the days when I felt so much pain and didn’t know what to do with it, or what it was good for.
I needed them when I didn’t trust myself, and the affirmation that one day maybe I could.
I needed them when I gave up on myself; those days are never over, and I’ll need them again.
I needed them to understand that nothing is ever done, everything is a process, and the process itself is a reason to keep going.
I needed them on the days I didn’t have hope for tomorrow.
Those days, too, still haunt me on the edges of my being; I write the words to turn on the lights, so I can tell the monsters I can see them, which doesn’t make them go away but greatly diminishes my anxiety over them.
I have never felt big in this world, and it has been one of my greatest fears.
Writing about these small creatures who are anything but helpless has been the greatest help to myself.
I had a truly amazing time yesterday at the first-ever 1850 pop-up; I just want to thank every single soul who stopped by and made my day, and a special thanks to Cori and Dane for knocking their debut event in this space out of the park.
Now, if you didn’t make it and feel a little left out? Never fear: I have one more announcement to make.
I have one more event this summer, on Wednesday, August 9th, at one of the best comic book shops in this universe (or any other), Issues Needed Comics! It’s to celebrate the release of Brushfire: Wave 2, which has finally made it out to backers, friends and family and fans alike.
I hope you’ll stop by to beat the heat with me, enjoy some summer treats and my always sparkling conversation. 😂
Come celebrate the end of summer with me and a bunch of fictional squirrels. Promise it’ll be nuts.
The Den 