“This is a story about our struggles, and our suffering — and this is a story about how our connections to one another is the way we weather them.”
That’s the last line of my description for The Weirdos. Today is the last day you can pre-order my book or donate to the project.
I’m seeing a lot of people out here not treating each other with respect. I see a lot of people not listening to one another.
I see a lot of gloom and doom and despair.
And the way you fight that is the Weirdo Way: you stand by one another. You listen. And you carry on alongside your friends and family and even acquaintances who have the same goals, hopes and dreams. (You can do this while practicing a safe social distance.)
If this sounds like something you agree with, please consider supporting it. Your name will be on page two, making you an official Weirdo and announcing to the world that you DO give a fuck.
Please give a fuck.
It is exactly what this world needs right now.
P.S. This is a sticker sheet that comes with one of the donation tiers and it is my favorite thing today. It is so cute.
(I am celebrating and dancing and screaming in my head, and I’ll have so much stuff to say later, but we still have work to do!)
WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW: You can still donate! PLEASE still donate, if you can. In fact, the only way I can promise you a first-printing book is if you pre-order your copy right now. That is your only guarantee, if you wanted to add The Weirdos graphic novel to your summer reading list this year.
DID YOU KNOW? When you pre-order the physical copy of The Weirdos, you get the digital copy for FREE (a $15 value!). On some of the rewards levels, there are bonus materials you won’t be able to get anywhere else (or you’ll at least get FIRST)! I just ordered some of the prizes this weekend. They’re neat! (You can also add to your donation if you want to reach a new tier, or get a book!)
You have no idea how much this means to me. It was never a sure thing, and you believing (at least a little) in me makes me believe (a little) in me, too. And a little, to me, is a lot. ❤
Keep sharin’ and lovin’ — only a little over 40 hours left!
Here’s a special banner for anyone who has donated to this work and wants to proudly display it.
I ❤ my Weirdos. Which would actually make a great bumper sticker.
We are at an astonishing $1,300 out of $1,500 needed. I legitimately teared up when I saw that this afternoon. THANK YOU.
A donor has also stepped up and said they will contribute 50% of whatever we raise together this weekend! This is the LAST weekend of fundraising. Just a few days left until the Ides of March, the conclusion of this project.
I am so excited to stop talking about funding, and getting back to everything else. You all have been so amazing, and supportive, and your shares, comments and messages have been keepin’ me and this dream alive.
In the way that this book will be for the people who have already discovered it.
And that’s you.
Very rarely in life do you have a chance to not only say, “I knew about [this thing] before anybody else,” but get to say, “I supported [this thing] before anybody else, and I actually was one of the reasons it got made at all. I was a part of the process.”
This is your book, in a really special way.
People will discover it after you, and BECAUSE of you, as it will only exist because of you.
You get to be a publisher. You get to have your name printed on a page of something you hopefully believe in, because the book itself is about hope.
This is your book.
We’re at almost $1,000 with less than FOUR days to go. Every cent is felt and appreciated.
When you’re gripped by a dark thing, common wisdom dictates that you should take a look in the mirror.
Stare into the eyes of who you are and what you’ve become to reach an mutual understanding.
For me, the recognition and clarity never came through a mirror. It comes through photographs. Pictures of myself as taken through my shadows.
God, they are awful. I hate looking at any photo of myself from before a few years ago. I’ve mostly stopped looking at memories on social media for that insecure reason.
But something neat happened today.
I was in our bathroom, and there’s a photo of our family hanging on the wall. I accidently made eye contact with myself and my skeleton asked permission to leave my body. I quickly turned away, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, the way I am now.
It was like discovering a time machine. Like experiencing a microsecond miracle.
My reflection was looking at me who was also looking at a me, but a very different me.
Past me had no idea that one day I was going to be me now, and I was going to be looking at him in this moment in his life. And that it would make me now feel a whole spectrum of emotions when I did.
I agree with common wisdom. I think we all need to look at ourselves in the mirror with regularity and acute attention.
But if you’re like myself and just can’t do it most days, start with a photograph.
And let time do its thing: to either heal you, or warn you.
Tomicon, the convention I attended today alongside some of my favorite people, was low-key one of the best conventions I’ve been a part of. And that’s not hyperbole or an exaggeration; allow me to explain why.
Immediately, Hastings is a splash of cold, stunning water when you arrive. It’s the kind of dream small town you think only exists in fiction, and it’s barely twenty minutes away from the south suburbs. Railway Gallery, a cozy, serene new art space in the downtown area, shares a backyard with beautiful bridges, passing trains and the Mississippi freaking River.
And that’s just hello.
If you’ve been to a lot of conventions, as a creator, a vendor, a guest or an attendee, you’re used to big, impersonal spaces. Cold convention structures, gymnasiums and recreation centers are regular meeting spaces. It’s… fine.
Having a comic convention in an art gallery was one of the most brilliant ideas I got to see unfold firsthand. It set a completely different vibe, and it set the standard that comics and its artists belong there. Because we do. We all do. Comic art is my absolute favorite medium, and it is visual, and visceral, and literature, and it belongs in a gallery. And we were there, and I couldn’t have appreciated that more.
Which brings me to the attendees, whom I also appreciate more. I saw some of my favorite people today, new and old, and I had some electrifying and life-affirming conversations. And I feel like the energy the gallery had was shared all around, and it led to a convention unlike any other I’ve been to.
If you attended: THANK YOU. From the bottom and top of my heart. If you’re a new fan just finding your way to these parts: it was so good to see you today, and welcome. You’re part of the Weirdos now.
I hope this fantastic energy continues throughout 2020 — and I’ll see you all at SpringCon. ❤
(And a special, special thanks to Tom Nguyen and his team for putting together such an amazing event!)
So, when trying to raise funds for anything, the beginning and the end are usually the easiest. People either want to be the first to support you, or they want to help you complete your goal.
The middle, as Jimmy Eat World knows, takes some time.
Not only am I completely stalled right now, but I actually lost $100 earlier this week (from a donor who I don’t know personally, but still).
So: if you have a moment and have wanted to pre-order your own Collector’s Edition, or just support the dream, now is totally the time. I mean, what a way to kick off the weekend!
And speaking of this weekend: I’ll be at my first convention of 2020! You can come hang out with me and a ton of local creators at Tomicon in Hastings, from 11 am to 5 pm. I’ll be talking about the upcoming graphic novel, maybe spilling some details about what I’m doing next… but you won’t know until you come say hello!
Like Knope and Wyatt, I love you all & I like you. Hope to see some of you soon, and please consider being a part of my publishing team by donating to my art.
The other night over dinner, we were having a conversation that led into how I uncomfortably deal with specific kinds of attention.
It’s something that I have thought about for years, but had never really put into words until now.
When I quit drinking in 2017, I quickly lost somewhere between twenty to thirty pounds. I’ve never been an especially overweight person, but when people would comment on my appearance (and still do), I understand that I give off the impression that I’m uncomfortable or, inexplicably, offended.
I’m neither, really. And this is how I really feel.
Imagine that you rebuilt your house. You finally admitted that it was falling apart, and you took the time and did the work to remake it from the ground up. You opened doors you hadn’t touched in decades, you put the things you didn’t need in boxes or threw them out completely, and you repainted the walls and framed the key memories that made you who you are. You secured your foundation, constructed new stairways and added floors over floors to what used to be.
You are very proud of this home. This place that you thought was going to be condemned.
A friend comes over to see. And she walks up to your house and she says something completely unexpected:
“What a nice lawn!”
You’re flabbergasted. You didn’t build this lawn. It’s just part of the house, and though you do water and take care of it, it’s the house that you put all your work into. You want people to see the house, your heart, this home.
I guess that’s what it feels like to me. And I realize now that it is — like I always tell everybody else — about expectations.
Some people are very proud of their lawns; there is something admirable and special in that, too. Growth of any kind embodies beauty. And if a person appreciates my lawn, then I, too, should see that for the courtesy and respect that represents.
Inevitably, my gratitude is often expressed with my most abundant currency: cold, crisp awkwardness.
I’m working on that.
But I hope this distillation helps. I hope it helps you explain how you just wish people could see your house. Or how you’re just a huge lawn nerd, and when you gush about the grass, it isn’t an oversight on someone’s home; it’s a celebration of their good soil and how proud you are of the abundance of beauty that grows around them.
Because, in the end, the only person who has to live there is you. And if you can be proud of the place you built, then who cares about how anybody appreciates the rest?
Every time I see a show, I’m reminded that I used to make music, and that I miss it sometimes.
If you don’t know, I started making music as The Next Step back in 2003. I started with EPs and sporadic song releases, until I released my first full-length, “Something Old, Something New,” in 2005. I released two more albums each subsequent year, in 2006 and 2007; “Love & Fear” and “Honesty & Happiness,” respectfully. I had concrete plans for another album (or two), but they sank.
Writing has always been my life. I found an outlet to write with music, but when doing music became too much, I withdrew.
Which is why I think I have such a complicated, intense relationship with music; this isn’t the point of my post, but I digress.
We saw Motion City Soundtrack on Saturday, and they’re a band that always remind me of my own. I was watching interviews with Justin Pierre the next morning, and he talked about looking back at the songs he wrote; he could differentiate the times in his life when he wrote them, especially in relation to when he was drunk or sober. Looking back at my own work, I see exactly what he’s talking about.
This song from 2007 particularly hurts. It’s called “Second Drink,” and the lyrics break my heart, and it is the closest thing I have seen from myself as an open cry for help if there ever was one. It goes like this.
I have a heartache But you have my drug A twelve-pack or bouquet of forget-me-nots Our memories are so overrated Our enemies are so underestimated
Sometimes those nights are a little more apparent Sometimes I wish I didn’t feel so alone Sometimes at night you’re a little more transparent But sometimes you make me feel a little less alone
I have a heartache But you have my drug A liter we can sweep under the rug Our memories are so frustrated Our enemies are so overestimated
Sometimes those nights are a little more apparent Sometimes I wish I didn’t feel so alone Sometimes at night you’re a little more transparent But sometimes you make me feel a little less alone
I can’t look at these without being transported and trapped inside that boy. It’s awful.
And I feel like I need to get back on a stage and take these words back.
There are those who care more about sharing their opinions than they care about the people who read them.
I know this isn’t a revelation, but it is for me.
My heart has been broken by people as of late (see: my post last week about removing unkind folks from my internet life), but I couldn’t define the thing that was bothering me, in simple terms, with words.
Until I was driving to work today, and this phrase hit me like a bag of ice.
There are those who care more about sharing their opinions than they care about the people who read them.
This is a definition of toxic behavior.
And as I began to whittle my tree of online social contacts down to just those who display higher levels of kindness, smarts and courage, I started to breathe easier. I started to feel more comfortable with who I was regularly seeing and interacting with.
And I remembered what it was like to be around a whole bunch of people who just care about other people.
And my ❤ feels a whole lot better.
This is a photo of my dog and I just absolutely loving each other. Because this is the kind of content we need to share sometimes.
Happy Monday, and have a expectation-busting week. Keep ’em low, and watch how amazing everything goes.
The Den 