Recipe: 2/3 cup lame jokes, 2 tbsp Star Wars reference...

Writing a webcomic is one of the most cynical things I've ever forced myself to do.

Lemme explain. Right now I'm working on chapter 6 of my comic, and the actual creation process is worse than laws or sausages. Basically, I have this file on my computer, and it's a big unfocused slurry of quotes, jokes, and half-baked ideas, sorta vaguely organized by subject matter, and in order to write a chapter, I come up with a vague idea, then I stick the quotes or gags in, one page at a time, until I've used 30 or so ideas and I have 30 or so pages of comic. It doesn't feel very artistic. In fact it feels like some kind of "extruded entertainment project," pressed into neat molds. There's even a bit of gooey conceptual runoff, but I sort of wipe that stuff up with my fingers and flick it back into the vat for reprocessing.

It's not exactly raw creative output, fingers streaming over the keyboard--livewire voodoo, Gibson called it--and I haven't decided if I'm just a new sort of writer, one comfortable with the complete breakdown of sequential development forced on previous writers by the nature of paper as a medium, or if I'm just a dreadful hack. Mostly I'm a hack, okay, I know--but someone who's good, I think, would really be able to explore the possibilities of cut-and-paste story writing.

Writing in the Ousands

I never liked "The Oughts" as a name for the current decade. Sounds like a bad indie band with a reedy female lead and not enough percussion. Of course my replacement isn't much better.

It just occurred to me a few days ago that my comic, Broken Space, is being written in the 2000s, which immediately dates it. When I was younger I'd get neurotic about writing science fiction because it'd look dated after a few years, especially when compared to fantasy. What got me was the extrasolar planets and new theories of planetary formation: those damn real scientists were taking away one of the SF writer's last vestiges of totally-made-up-bullshit, weird alien planets, and replacing them with actual data! So now I hide safely in the world of fantasy and space opera.

But that's started to change now that I've begun to appreciate eras and decades as artistic movements, rather than merely statements about what science doesn't know yet. And it's left me wondering what sort of cultural crest I'm riding here in 2008. While Broken Space isn't big, webcomics sure are; they're a phenomenon right now, and I find myself trying to figure out how people are going to look back at the current crop. It seems strange to think of my comic as a product of the 21st century, especially in light of the fact that the two biggest influences on the comic (and, I sometimes worry, on everything I write) are two products of the 90s: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Babylon 5. I like to think of myself as on the "cutting edge of retro"--I like that term more than "out-of-date and uncool" for some reason--because everyone else is obsessed with the 80s nowadays, just like everyone in the 80s was obsessed with the 50s. (Seriously, go back and watch those old 80s music videos; they're ga-ga for that vintage look. Hell, look at Back to the Future.)

Of course, I have no answers. I keep trying to get a perspective on the current movement in webcomics, not least because I'd like to be able to predict and exploit trends, but it's like trying to get a glimpse of the back of your head. I'll have to wait for VH1's Behind the Webcomics some time around 2020.

"And then began the long, slow decline into drugs and Naruto references...next, on VH1."

AV Geeks Everywhere

In my neverending quest to improve my knowledge of inane culture, I've found myself watching the MTV Yearbook, starting with 1981. And one of the things that most impressed me is that almost everyone making music videos in 1981 is a huge dork. I mean, wow, these guys aren't cool.

Don't get me wrong: I like The Buggles and Elvis Costello and Talking Heads and Devo--who doesn't like Devo?--but they're not what we, or anyone, would call "cool." It surprised me, though in retrospect it makes sense: who else is making music videos in 1981 except for the geeks? But it came as a shock to realize that these guys are basically Revenge of the Nerds-style AV Dorks (you know the type: tediously lampooned in every TV show's "college" episode, as if society hasn't changed since 1975 or whenever the writers were in school).

Also, since it's the 80s, no one knows that half of these musicians are gay. It boggles the mind; I mean, it's not like they're hiding it. It's like gay people in the 80s are having fun seeing how obvious they can be to a bunch of square homophobes. I wonder what will be screamingly obvious in 2018 that we just don't notice today. "What do you mean you didn't know they were cannibals, Dad? It's so obvious! I mean, just look at him! The way he minces around that guy's thighs!" "I thought he was gay, son! I thought he was a nice, normal gay guy! Not some cannibal freak!"

We end today's essay with an observation: what is it about white guys in the 80s and trying to kick really high? The band members in Van Halen are of course, the worst offenders, as they are the worst offenders in many things, but the phenomenon is...endemic. Every one of these videos has white guys showing off how they can kick kinda high. Was that a thing in the 80s that I don't remember? Were girls all like, "Ooh, you know what I want? I want a guy who can kick kinda high"? And so the guys are showing off how they can all kick kinda high? Because I don't remember that fad.

It's Not Just The *Better* Writers

I'm reading the latest issue of Weird Tales, which is a delightful magazine, although it seems even more enamored of its pedigree than I am, and reading a nonfiction entry got me thinking, along a series of barely-connected lines, that insanity used to be much more interesting. I don't know if it's improved psychiatry or the Internet's ability to help anyone find people like them, but the lone, distant madman has been replaced with whole message-boards full of sorry screwballs.

Go back to the 1930s and talk about someone who thinks he's the reincarnation of an elf and you have some quality crazy; hell, you can sell crazy of that caliber to Weird Tales. Now, everyone nods and says, "Yeah, an Otherkin. They're crazy." Yeah, they are, and there are thousands of 'em, all headbent in the same way, taking up psychic space where good ideas might go.

The writer of this article, who is not an Otherkin or a furry fetishist, describes her mental illness in lycanthropic terms, and I found myself thinking that what might once have been a clever conceit has been reduced to banality by over-exposure. Our writer also mentions the frustration of seeing her uniqueness reduced to a clinical definition, and I can sympathize there, because huge swaths of "modern occult fantasy" (insert your favorite genre name) has been reduced to a laughingstock, because our society is flooded with literary incompetence and dull-as-dirt clinical insanity.

Seriously, not to sound bitter, because I'm not--I'm...wryly amused...but: Try writing a story about a modern-day "elf" and you have to dodge all the cliches and nuttiness that has cropped up around the Otherkin movement. Write a story about werewolves and you have to avoid the tired psychoanalysis and pop-psychic explication of the "real" phenomenon. God help you if you want to give a character wings. This isn't the fault of psychiatry, or the Internet, or crazy weirdos...it's not even really the "fault" of our own greater self-awareness. Instead, it's inevitable in a genre (and in a society) that has such an accumulated cruft of what-has-been-done-before. But damn, I already have a loud enough internal editor, telling me that this isn't good enough and that isn't publishable; I don't need an eidolon carved out of our society's disappointment with its own fiction, snickering because the story I want to tell has a whole fanfiction fetish site full of maladjusted teenagers devoted to it.

...Flames on the Side of My Face...

Nothing makes me want to run off into the woods like having to deal with my rickety old computer every day for eight hours a day as I write and draw. Somehow it just ate my entire comic page when I was about seven-eights of the way done with it. I almost ate my own thumbs in frustration.

Of course no one reading the comic knows that, since I don't let my personality appear there. I made a choice when I started to avoid an update-blurb because I've seen them done badly in the past. Right now I'm glad, since no one needs to read AGGH HATE MURDER NO UPDATE COMPUTER SUCKS when all they want is the next comic page, and professionalism is important. There are a few comics, even some of the top-tier ones on Buzzcomix, that I can't read because their "commentary tracks" are so unprofessional and intrusive.

On the other hand, there's a kind of punk appeal to getting the raw and unfiltered voice of the creator, especially when compared to the polished and interchangeable products of many print comic outlets. And sometimes I wish my comic had a blurb, if only to let me talk to my readers about some aspect of the setting I want to emphasize: "Look here, you can see the different Moochava ethnic groups." And of course, I wonder if a relevant and interesting commentary track would boost readership. But I'm glad I avoided one. First, it requires me to declare my focus with my art and writing, rather than just pointing to the "neat thing" I think everyone should appreciate. Second, it prevents me in situations like this from throwing a really sorry hissy-fit about how the computer ate my homework.

Back to fuming.

Musings <--not funny

The idea is simple--write 3,000 words a day, five days a week. Also, write and draw two comic pages every week. So far I've done a pretty good job keeping up with this schedule, though sometimes, like today, writing feels like pulling eyelashes.

I got this piece of advice years ago from someone a lot better than me--King, Bradbury, Ellison, you know, someone that if the world worked like a bad voodoo horror novel you'd rip out their heart and eat it to gain their power--that you can spot a successful writer because they keep writing even when "the muse" isn't speaking. Now for years this made me want to find one of these guys, go to their house, and hold up a couple crumpled dollar bills and offer to exchange them for where you can get a muse, seriously man, I know you know where to get them but you're just not telling, but I drove all the way from Massachusetts so you've gotta tell me, right?

But recently I've actually paid attention to their advice and it works pretty well, even if some days it's like ice-skating uphill (to paraphrase a line from Blade that still bewilders me). Still, it's tough to see those beautiful ideas smothered and nailed to the corkboard, because they never sound as good as when they're in the echo-chamber. Like: somewhere in the ideosphere there's a fucking revolutionary comic that takes place in an original universe with so many seemingly trivial yet deliciously ironic details that it casts a dazzling, clarifying light on the mundane political and epistemological absurdities of our own world while simultaneously presenting a plot so fascinating, characters so rich and warm and complex, that our reality seems like a pale and uninspired parody of it, like we're living in Hollywood world with blank red cola cans instead of Diet Coke where no matter how many hamburgers the main character eats you never quite see the Golden Arches. Like it's super-Gibson, not just name-dropping Braun and places in Micronesia you've never heard of but you know they're there, but creating something wholecloth that feels even more real than what you see outside.

Yeah, I'm sure that comic book exists, but it's not mine, not even close. And part of it's because Broken Space is a way for me to learn how to draw, so the pictures are like first-year Penny Arcade crossed with a grade schooler's spiral-notebook Vegeta sketch, but part of it's because I keep following whoever-it-was's advice: just keep working. And it works! (I can tell because if the comic was only in my head and nowhere else it wouldn't work.) I almost never sit down already inspired, and when I do get the lightning-bolt it's, like, five words. Here's the latest Oh my GodI've got to write this down right now:

"If you died here, you'd be home already."

On a church or something, I dunno. I can't exactly type that one out and send it to Weird Tales. My lightning-bolts are sadly truncated and most of them suck. But if I just sit down, most of the time after a thousand words or so the ideas start flowing, the muse shows up (hopefully depriving some successful science-fiction-writing bastard of muse juice for a few hours; go for a walk, Miéville, I need help and I'm borrowing the good-idea-fairy), and I can actually get something done. Most of the time, after a few words, I'm in the groove, and when I reach 3,000 words I'm thinking that I'd like to write a few more.

Like now, but I had to write this thing, and now I have to go watch a hockey game. And this time I'll remember a damn notebook, in case any of those useless lightning-bolts show up.

In The Future You're Old

The Venture Brothers is the funniest thing in the universe. You've probably seen the mathematical demonstration of this proof; I won't repeat it here.

But really, it is an extraordinary show, and not just because it's funny. It's as sad, at times, as it is hilarious, at least to those of us who grew up on the gee-whiz science and adventure of stories produced between the end of World War 2 and the rise of New Wave science fiction. Those stories--Heinlein's juvenile adventures, Johnny Quest--seem as bittersweet now as some romantic 18th century ballad or a late Roman pastoral, because we know what really happened, don't we? When we were kids (even if we weren't twelve in 1955), we read those stories and wondered what the future would hold for us, but there was one prediction that few visionaries made: in the future, kid, you're going to be old.

And the impact of that dreary truth is partially the result of our current culture of youth, but the fact was always there: if you were twelve in 1955 you'd be on a fixed income in "the future," right? The Venture Brothers, as funny as it is, also has that frightening edge: all these kids around us are dreaming about a future that will have forgotten them by the time they get there; there's no place in "the future" for Rusty Venture, because we didn't get the future we were expecting.

I don't know how long that truth will hold. It seems possible that every generation will get to the future and realize that nothing has changed except now they're old and no one cares about them. But the longer I write, the more I think that that some phenomena (in both science fiction and literature) only come once, and once they're past, stories about them become historical curiosities, rather than living concepts within the genre. Maybe this generation will stay "with it" and progressive, and when we get old we'll have to come up with new stories about the existential ennui about never being able to become irrelevant and unhip like our parents.