Woolgathering

Taking a moment to collect my breath, metaphorically, and bang out some stuff that's been sloshing around, unformed, in the back of my mind for ages.

I just completed the first installment of a new column for MSN, the third issue of JSA VS. KOBRA, and the first issue of a new monthly (still to be announced, sadly). The last act of the Vertigo books is staring at me, accusingly, for not having had time to finish it up (this week, if it kills me). Circling back around to the webcomic. And more projects waiting in the wings.

And now, convention season is coming.

I'm being asked, a lot, about whether or not I'm going to San Diego. Most likely not, and several people have registered genuine disappointment. And generally, I do like doing shows, but this year, I'm a bit more ambivalent than previous years.

And here's why.

Other people may have differing experiences, but in general, the big publishers don't send out guys like me; if I'm going to San Diego, it's on my nickel, and let me tell you, after plane fare, hotel expenses, food, etc., it's a lot of nickels.

I enjoy the interaction with people who've read my stuff; hell, I couldn't be more grateful that there are any people who've read my stuff, let alone shelled out their hard cash to do so.

The first year I did SDCC, Prima paid my way -- covered my hotel, food, and so on, -- AND printed up 1500 copies of the Perfect Dark trade paperback (with a San Diego "exclusive" variant cover). And we gave them away.

I signed for hours, and it was great. I love hand-selling to folks, to get them engaged, to talk to them about the work. It's a treat, and that remains one of the best con experiences I've had.

But without that publisher support, the con experience can be wearing on guys like me -- financially, and emotionally.

At the other shows I've done, there's been precious few folks who are blatantly and purposefully rude (one of whom is a guy I know who's had a beef with me for years, so I expected it from him). Generally, the rudeness is casual, as if the person delivering it broadcasts it around like radio waves.

Like the woman who tried to get me to sign up for her newsletter, then took the paper out of my hand when she realized I was "just a writer," and that the newsletter was for "real artists, you know, the ones who actually MAKE the comics."

Or the guy who was actively pissed off at me for not being Timothy Truman.

Or the guy who yelled at me because there were 50/50 variant covers on Final Crisis: Resist, because I was, and I quote, "trying to trick people into buying the same comic twice."

Or the hyperactive boy who kept yelling he wanted to cut me with his toy ninja sword.

Or the guy who sneezed directly into my eye, then proceeded to smear his germ-and-mucuous-laden hands all over my books, while telling me how Checkmate would be better if it was "more like the X-men."

Or the guy who wouldn't make eye contact as he stood at my table, bending book covers and basically messing up the table, and who -- when I said, "Hi, can I help you?" -- didn't look up, just threw one of my trade paperbacks on the floor and muttered "I don't read Checkmate."

Or the guy from the Hero Initiative who decided that, since my friends and I had a pleasant experience at a show, we should give him free stuff and buy him beer, and who wouldn't leave us alone when we politely declined.

Taking someone like that to task? That means I'm "ungrateful" and undeserving of readership, it's implied. That, since I have the privilege of writing comics (and believe me, I feel lucky as hell that I make a modest living doing it), I'm required to be treated as a subhuman, and am not allowed to defend against it.

***

I woke up this morning, watched deer on my "lawn" (in truth, it's a large field -- if you mow it, it becomes a yard, and thus becomes work. If you let it run wild, it's a field, and it's nature, and you can leave it the hell alone).

Blackberries are taking over a substantial portion of the acreage, and a variety of fauna have taken to using the tangled flora as a buffet.

It's sunny today -- the weather is warm, but not oppressively so, and I have half a notion to hop in the car and make the 20 minute drive out to the coast. There's a stretch of beach called North Cove, which has become a favorite place to ruminate. The surf is dangerous -- nasty undertow, I'm told -- but I rarely do more than dip my feet in.

But the view of the Pacific is tremendous, and the sound of the surf and the vast emptiness works wonders on the voices in my head.

And at those times, I think, with some bemusement, about all the weird looks I get when people find out how far out in the boonies I live.

I have a conflicted relationship with this place. I'm definitely not a local -- I'm the weird guy in the coffee shop, the one who sits in the corner booth, using the wi-fi, and sucking down cup after cup of cheap joe, headphones on and probably a manic look in the eyes, typing furiously.

But I swear, I don't think I could be as productive as I've been in the last six months, had I not been out here, putting down roots, absorbing the distinct feel of the people, the area.

And that's probably why I'm going to skip the summer cons unless they're a) small and b) reasonably local. Because here, I can write. I can tell stories. I can feel immersed in PLACE. In NOW. In something timeless, and calm.

So, when I do end up going to SDCC, you can throw this all in my face, and tell me how much better JSA VS. KOBRA would be if it were only more like the X-Men.