Author: Marc Alan Fishman

Marc Alan Fishman: Autograph THIS!

US dollar bills and coins in tip jar

Once again, retailer extraordinaire Dennis Barger is involved in some amazing debates and discussions within our industry. The last time his name came up we discussed the over-sexualization of the Powerpuff Girls. This time, it’s a far less provocative topic.

Already well-covered by Bleeding Cool, the recent plight of pencilers revolves around the cost of their signature. The debate: some well known creators charge for their autograph. Others choose not to. In choosing to be free, there are those who say this now devalues the ability for others to pluck a buck from a would-be fan. For some creators, the option to take a tithe of the nerditry is traded part-in-parcel for donations to the Hero Initiative, the CBLDF, or other worthy charities. And if any of this sounds familiar, My ComicMix compatriot Molly Jackson gave her two cents, wonderfully, earlier this week. So, the definitive question that we’re trying to figure out is… Who’s right?

Well, sadly our comic culture lives in a world no longer set in just black and white. Both sides have valid points. For those on “Team Charge!” the notion is simple: When you are able to be compensated for your nom de plume costs of attending the con are better covered. Money in one’s pocket, when the per-page rate isn’t pulling in proper piles of cash, is always preferred. And in the cases where a Sharpied autograph equals a rise in the value of the item it’s adorned on, the signature is merely an investment. Who could argue with having to pay $5, 10, or 30 dollars for a name, when it nets the owner $50, 100, or 200 more in potential payouts? No one should argue. That’s called good business. And let’s be fair: if you’re willing to part with a finsky for the signature of a Hollywood celebrity, why wouldn’t you do the same for the author a favorite comic?

What if the answer to that aforementioned rhetorical question was no? Well, you’d be in the “Team Free!” camp. And you’d be just as right as those crazy capitalists across the lake. Some creators who get their table space at these conventions are compensated to attend by their publishers or the convention promotors themselves – who know that their presence yields higher attendance. Charging a fan for a signature inflates the value of a comic sure, but it also takes money out of their pocket they might spend elsewhere in the convention.

Like at a smaller indie table, where they might give a chance to a new book they’ve never seen before. By not charging, there’s a potential butterfly effect to pay it forward within our comic community. That’s good karma. And if that signature on the book is for a retailer who turns that issue into more profit… the same karma applies. I bet the day Dennis Barger mints a hefty payday for his efforts is another day his comic shop stays open. And that in turn increases the potential for him to sell more comics to more kids. See the bigger picture?

Let’s also not forget: It takes seconds to adorn an issue with a scribble. To charge for that scribble, no matter how important you may or may not be can seen unseemly to some. Say that three times fast. If you do though, I’ll have to charge you.

Obviously it boils down to a personal choice. Some creators are too humble to charge for an autograph. Others embrace the entrepreneurial spirit. There isn’t necessarily a wrong choice here. And for those who posit that having some creators charge while others abstain unnecessarily devalues those creators who do… they aren’t wrong in thinking that. If a fan sees Neal Adams charging $30 for a signature next to Scott Snyder charging nothing but a smile? Well, some fans will scoop up a few more Court of the Owls trades and walk away with a few more shekels in their pocket. But, as with everything here, It’s their choice to do so.

Of course, this is where I should chime in, right?

In my own little swatch of ComicTopia, my name is worth spit. If someone wants it on something I created? Well, I’m damn flattered, and it comes at no increase in cost. And I can’t personally see any future where I’m not willing to sign for the same Free-Ninety-Nine I do now. Because frankly I don’t foresee any future where Marc Alan Fishman is a commodity like Neal Adams. And that’s perfectly OK by me. Subsequently as a fan, I’m not a seeker of autographs at any price. While I might be tempted to see Alex Ross or Mike Mignola scrawl their name on any of the well-kept tomes I own of theirs… I’m honestly too cheap to consider trading hard-earned disposable income over said scrawl. The opportunity cost isn’t greater than the enjoyment I’d sooner have taking the exact same money and buying more of their work at full retail. But then again, that’s just me. And because of that opinion – which many share – it’s not taking money out of another creator’s pocket. Because that money would never reach it that way over the sloppy drag of a felt tip marker. Maybe I’m missing out on some would-be profit. Or maybe I’m just not the target demo. Either way, I’m entitled to think that way.

And you can take that opinion to the bank.

Marc Alan Fishman: To Print Or Not To Print

Artist Alley

Truly, that is the question.

Last week, I began unpacking my feelings in regards to the trolls of Artist Alley who find it cute to poke the starving artists (well, most of us are starving – I eat decently, thanks to my day job) about presenting unlicensed material. I like to think that I made it pretty clear where I stood in response to those who choose to hate the player not the game. So that brings up a whole new set of feelings in conjunction to that aforementioned game.

As I’ve noted, Unshaven Comics (my little studio, should you not be in-the-know) produces prints as means to an end. A quick laugh by a passerby is all we need to stop them and pitch our real product du jour. And if The Samurnauts isn’t their bag, but a poster is… well, money is money. Money allows us to make more Samurnauts. Hence, it’s always been a win-win situation. Put in economic terms (because I’m a Freak like the time spent to produce a single print yields far more profit in the short term than any comic we’ll ever produce. Let’s break that down.

I’m presently working on a poster for the upcoming New York Comic Con. In total, the piece will take me about 10 hours of actual work to complete. This includes gathering all my resources, laying it out in a sketch, and digitally rendering it. Because my time for Unshaven Comics is free (we’ll come back to that next week, don’t worry), the only cost is the 10 hours I could have been using to work on pages for the next Samurnauts book, and the .88 cents I’ve negotiated to produce the print at a local print shop. Now, we turn around, and sell that poster for anywhere between $3.33 and $5.00 depending (prints are 1 for $5, or 3 for $10… such a deal!). Any way you cut that, it’s a lot of profit. As a benchmark: each comic we produce – largely in small batches due to our severe lack of capital investment – typically costs us $2.85 to print, and we charge $5 for it. Each comic also takes roughly 200-250 hours to produce. Simple math dictates prints are where the money is at.

Take a walk down Artist Alley way and you’ll see that those who are there to move comics are few and far between. Over the last several years, I’ve seen the rise of the back wall at each eight-foot table. Where prints used to pop up as scattered constellations throughout a sea of roll-up banners and a small press affairs… now, a comic convention is a claustrophobic conclave of poster prints from the floor to the ceiling. The average attendee now merely meanders up and down the alley, snickering, stopping, pointing, and absorbing the breadth of artistry Velcro’d to muslin cloths – c-clamped to teetering tri-pods. It makes Unshaven Comics look pathetic to be honest. In our brazen attempt to always bring that cultivated 25% of sheer desperation to our presentation, we’ve adopted a diminutive structure where we’ve lavished the passersby with a short display of half a dozen pieces… half-heartedly hanging from repurposed shower rings.  Again, all in an effort to get a chuckle and a stumble.

I’m honestly of two minds on the subject. As as business man? I respect and admire the printmakers. I’ve more than proven that the economic gains of displaying a mountain of one-off work makes complete sense. Con-goers merely wander past, see what they like, and out comes the wallet. There’s no need for detailed pitches. It’s all short-sales, and deal-making. And because a poster is quick and dirty (depending largely on one’s style of course), with each show, a professional artist can snap up the zeitgeist without batting an eye. Hell, if you’re curious, let me make you a mint right now:

Draw all the Doctors in a single piece. Now FireFly. Now some of those new Star Wars characters. Now Steven Universe. Now Rick and Morty. Go find your local print shop with a digital beast getting dusty in the corner. Negotiate a price– say fifty cents a pop, for a run of 100 each. Go buy a table at the next convention within driving distance. Rake in the profits. Thank me later.

On the other hand of course, my inner auteur beckons. Yes, I know auteurs are saved for film, but screw you, it’s hip and makes me sound smarter than I actually am.  You see, to produce a piece – even if it’s brilliantly rendered in a style truly original to you and you alone – that is in effect not your own intellectual property – is to be profit-minded first. And I can’t help but feel that is antithetical to the spirit of an Artist Alley. There is a considerable difference (to me personally) for a lovingly made Warhol piece versus a Kahlo. And this is in fact not a digression. Put simply: art made from another’s creation is still personal, but will never be as personal as a project plucked from within. In my heart of hearts, I’d buy 1000 of Dan Dougherty’s independently made comic books in lieu of even the best-rendered Poohvengers print any day of the week.

Of course, I’d never say that to his pretty face though…

Marc Alan Fishman: Unlicensed To Kill

beardo

With only a little time left in this year’s con season for me and the Unshaven Lads, I want to address an elephant in the Alley, if you will. My nemesis / frenemy / all around stunning pal Dan Dougherty – of Touching Evil, Beardo, and Bob Howard: Plumber of the Unknown fame – has recently become the talk of the town over a recent strip he posted.

Soon thereafter, many wonderful bloggers, fans, passersby, and everyone in between began commenting. The discussion was mostly positive, and on the side of us indie artists. But a few ne’er-do-wells decided to play devil’s advocate (see also: dicks, douchebags, trolls, et. al.), and champion the counterpoint. They posit the question: When an indie artist produces a printed piece (a poster, postcard, trading card, etc.) depicting any licensed character that they themselves do not control a license for… should they have any right to bitch at would-be photo snappers for merely completing the cycle of unlawful consumption of a consumer good? I

The answer isn’t as simple as I’d hope it would be.

Sadly, I’m not Bob Ingersol (whose column is always a treat here on ComicMix), thus my knowledge of the law is fuzzy at best. But I am Jewish, so that typically allows me to make something up, and it oftentimes sound legit. As it’s been explained to me by smarter (Jewish-er) folks… if the art in question is a parody or satire, it is protected under the law as being a parody or satire. Hence Unshaven Comics’ Zim Attacks or Adventure Wars mashup pieces, or Dan’s Poohvengers prints are safe and sound. Should Mr. Dougherty merely print up a batch of well-rendered Winnie’s, or we Unshaven Lads produce a straight-up Finn and Jake? We might be in a bit of hot water, should the owners of those characters come a callin’. All this in mind, we’re adjacent to the actual issue at hand.

Take a walk into any comic convention today and I will assure you that the Artist Alley will be choked to the rafters with unlicensed work. Well-rendered Wolverines sit next to pitch perfect Paste Pot Petes. Jedis mingle with Jokers and Harley Quinns. And My Little Pony is making magic on half a dozen unsanctioned tables with glee in their hearts. Artists who pay their way into a table space are there to share their talents with the public at large, in an effort to profit enough to continue to make their art. The people who purchase their art are doing so for a multitude of reasons – be it as a gift for a loved one, to hang in their own home, or to place into a personal collection. Whether that is above board or part of a terrible black market is up to you to hold an opinion on. At the crux of the debate brought by Beardo, is the newer trend of passers-by snapping a quick photo of the work on display.

Simply put: It’s a dick move.

Put a little less succinctly, it’s somewhere between theft and just being cheap. When an attendee walks by our table, we as artists see a potential customer. When they stop and admire our work, we tremble with anticipation. And when they hold their cellphone to capture our hard work, without any intent of supporting said hard work… it’s crippling.

The poster print we sell for $5 or $10 represents potentially hours of work building the composition, coloring it (or completing any number of complex finishing touches), and then sourcing a printer to produce it. Then, it takes our own capital to invest in the print job itself. And then we have to purchase the table on which we’re allowed to potentially sell it. Getting to the show costs us money too. And the years we may have spent at expensive art schools in order to make that perfect mash up of Winnie the Pooh and Captain America might still be costing us a monthly fee to boot. So, when we’re faced with someone who finds the work cool enough to take a copy for themselves without potentially reimbursing us for even a fraction of those aforementioned costs… forgive me when I say that it’s simply a dick move.

Suffice to say I could wax poetic on this topic for far longer than I’m likely to hold your attention, dear reader. I’ll likely continue to peel this onion back a bit more in the coming weeks. For now, let me leave you on the reason Unshaven Comics sells unlicensed prints without a shred of guilt to be had:

Our prints get eyes on our table. When someone stops, we engage them in conversation. Because the poster may draw them in, but our original content is what we want to truly tempt them with. Simply put, we don’t sell a poster without first pitching our own book – fully knowing that The Samurnauts has nothing to do with Adventure Wars or the Hipster League. If they don’t want the book, but want a print? Great! Money is money, and we sure need heaps of it. Our prints, as they are for Dan Dougherty and the multitude of indie creators who stand beside us, are only means to an end. If we can stop you with a chuckle, we may earn a fan with the work we truly love to make. And if not? We might just be able to pay for dinner that night with a few moved prints. It’s largely a win-win situation.

You’re more than allowed to appreciate our work live and in person. If you don’t have the funds to bring it home, but still wish to enjoy it? Perhaps have the wherewithal to ask if you can snap a photo. We artists know all too well what it means to be broke, but in love with a piece. Maybe even have the sense to grab a business card – so when you do have tangible cash, you can purchase the print at a later date. Consider offering to “like” us on social media outlets and spread the word to people who might want to see the work and have a chance to buy it too. In short, next time save the pictures for the cosplayers. Natch.

Marc Alan Fishman: Slaying the Dragon Con

John BarrowmanAs you read these words, my Unshaven brethren and I will be in “Cincinnati” for CincyComiCon – Tony Moore’s comic book convention that takes place in the Northern Kentucky Convention Center (which is, funny enough, not in Cincinnati proper). A week ago we were in Atlanta for the famed Dragon Con. The show itself had been promoted to us as “A license to make money,” “Nerd Mardi Gras,” and “The biggest and best fan-run comic convention in the nation.” We were told the absolute truth.

Dragon Con exists not in a behemoth convention center but a gaggle of interconnected hotels and venues in downtown Atlanta. Each building either hosts a litany of programming or contains an artist alley, an art show, a celebrity row, or dealer’s room. Anyone within a square mile of any of these venues is likely to get the feeling that the entire city itself has been usurped wholly by the geek world at large. This fact was compounded to me personally when upon entering the hotel that housed the Artist Alley the night before the show actually started, we had to cut through what could only be described as a cosplay raver that choked the Hyatt Regency’s lobby to the rafters with costumed partiers, and their menagerie of fans and onlookers. Nerd Mardi Gras indeed.

From Unshaven Comics’ perspective, the show felt far more like an intimate Anime show than the MegaCons that are C2E2, New York Comic Con, or any of the Wizard Cons. Because the alley itself was housed in a single ballroom (split, in-fact, with a fantasy fine-art show), everything felt small. This in and of itself turned out to be a boon for our business.

The reason, as best as I could ascertain, was due entirely to the fans themselves. Unlike the cold and lifeless MegaCons whose corporate masters anchor their shows on exhibitors and celebrity guests, Dragon Con is clearly a fan-driven affair first and foremost. The staples of the con circuit – the aforementioned celebs and exhibitors, the artists, small publishers, and vendors – are secondary to the programming and atmosphere. Furthermore, the Alley itself was juried, built to ensure that amidst some well-recognized names there was an emphasis on showcasing that which was new and off-the-beaten-path.

Because each bit of Dragon con existed in its own ecosystem, there was no fighting for a fan’s attention. Unshaven Comics is used to competing with marked-down maquettes, bins of bootlegs, the appeal of autographs, and the untz-untz throb of expensive exhibitor booths. In lieu of that, our particular Alley was served up as an experience unto itself. Within our handful of aisles were the skilled craftspeople – artists alone selling their crafts, prints, canvases, and comic books. And with that atmosphere cultivated without the aforementioned competition, the fans came without any larger agenda beyond appreciating the specificity of the Alley. That appreciation bore the sweetest fruit an indie table could dine on… great sales.

To get analytical about it, by the end of four solid days of shilling we limped out of Atlanta 600 books lighter. For those playing along at home, that’s better than our first year showing at NYCC. Our closing rate has never been this high, peaking at 60% on Saturday and Sunday. We also had the largest rate of return purchasers; fantastic fans willing to pick up the first issue in our Samurnauts series early in the show, and make their way back to us to scoop up any other issues on our rack. In addition, both Matt (Wright, Unshaven artist extraordinaire) and myself saw a plethora of commission requests. This required us to bring home homework every night, in order to satisfy the masses. Forget Sid Caesar, kiddos. This was the Show of Shows.

As we took to the 12-hour car trip home, it became evident to us that Dragon Con was not a convention. Truly, it was a celebration. Beyond the curtained walls of our show-space, we’d later find out there were over 30 tracks of programming to peruse. There was a literal parade for Cosplayers. There were 4 unending nights of after-parties. We were left baffled in the wake of it all. That feeling of a larger company perched on high-tented fingers over a pile of reports and stacks of cash was nowhere to be found. Instead, there were passionate promoters trying to put together a cacophony of fan-driven fun. They did it in style. They did it in epic fashion. And they did it in a manner that served up that mass of fandom to our little table, with an open wallet, and an ear-to-ear smile.

Smaug be damned… Dragon Con decimated my idea of what a comic con could be.

Marc Alan Fishman’s Been Kickstarted!

2517_angry_donkey_kicking_his_hind_legs

I freely admit that I am 33 years of age and have never been drunk, high, or anything more than over-tired. But over the last 33 days I’ve experienced inebriation in all its stereotypical stages – if only by proxy – as I managed what I can now declare as a successful crowdfunding campaign.

No, I didn’t drink any alcohol, smoke, toke, or shoot any whim-wham-wozzle into my ding-a-ling. I merely held my breath for 33 days as I watched 155 people trickle in to support Unshaven Comics as we embarked on collecting together our first independently published graphic novel. I’m somewhere between hugging the toilet and declaring how I love you all.

Managing a Kickstarter is an absolute pain in the ass. In creating the campaign, it took the better part of every hour in my life not otherwise devoted to my full-time job, to being a husband and father, and to managing a freelance graphic design business. From sourcing the absolutely wonderful partners who filmed and edited our video, to lining up vendors for producing our would-be graphic novel, to locating all other extraneous artisans and stores who would supply the other pledge prizes, it was an undertaking that easily could have been a full time job unto itself. After our network of vendors was in place, it then took hours of meetings between we Unshaven lads to concoct our pledge goal and build the pledge packages to entice would-be backers. And then we had it all spot-checked by a network of successful campaign builders in an effort to ensure we weren’t doing it all wrong. And all of that was merely the work that needed to be done before we could launch. Did I mention this whole thing was a pain in the ass?

The next bit of fun, err, living torture, occurred over the course of the actual campaign. Somedays, backers came in droves. Other days I was essentially pan-handling on the side of Facebook, dancing for nickels. All because of the latent fear that without a steady rise in backing pledges, new traffic would surf in, do the mental math, and walk away – confident that we didn’t have the juice to meet our goals in time. These mounting daily fears compounded with the deluge of offers bandied at me from the ecosystem of businesses now built around crowdfunding campaign management. Each new business enticing me with their promises of success via public relations, targeted ad sales, or (I assume) the sacrificing of a virgin goat by vengeful locals in Papa New Guinea. How could it not work?

I’m happy to admit that I gave in to a pair of services. One worked immensely well. The other was absolute abject failure. While some I know here on ComicMix like to grind bad businesses into the dirt, I will take the high road. In other words, if you want me to sling mud or sing praises, find me man-to-man and I’ll spill my guts. To cut to the chase: PR doesn’t do diddley-squat for the indie comic creator. In contrast, a solid and honest e-mail campaign works wonders.

If I were to spin my experience out into a panel (and I’m fairly certain I could lead a riveting one on the con circuit now), I’d sum it up simply: Like anything else in the world today, the hope to become viral is a silly pipe dream you can’t count on. The Samurnauts has an immortal kung-fu monkey who pilots a giant robot and BuzzFeed didn’t come knocking at my door. Instead, like every book we move at comics conventions around the nation, it is down to real legwork. It’s the culmination of the pitch and the product. If you can’t convince someone that your project is cool in 30 seconds, you won’t do it over the course of a five-minute video. And if you’re lucky enough to sell your idea, you have to bring it home with a product (or series of products packaged into enticing rewards) at a price point that your target audience feels is a solid value for the money. It’s a balancing act that has as little to do with virality as Rob Liefield has to proper anatomy.

At the end of 33 days, I am utterly exhausted, punch-drunk from the emotional roller coaster ride that was our Kickstarter campaign. I’m left in awe of the real friends who pledged, shared, and truly supported us with their encouragement. I’m left bitter by the posers who talked the talk, but failed to walk the walk – false friends willing to eat the bread but weren’t around when I needed help sowing the seeds. I’m honored to work beside my brothers from other mothers… who checked in with my daily to ensure we were doing everything we could to succeed. I’m flabbergasted at the outpouring of love and support from our fanbase – who not only shared the campaign over 800 times over 33 days, but offered their own rewards to new backers. I’m weary at the long journey ahead, as Unshaven Comics will travel to Atlanta, Cincinnati, New York, and Kokomo all within eight weeks as we attempt to finish production on the actual book itself.

There’s nothing left to say, save perhaps for the battle cry that got us this far.

Samurnauts are go!

Marc Alan Fishman: Defending Wizard World

Chicago-Comicon-logo

Last weekend, Unshaven Comics were the guests of ComicMix, sitting in their booth at Wizard World Chicago. ComicMix was more than generous to allow the squatting, and I figure it behooves me to publicly thank them here.

So, after treating an insane bout of con crud upon coming home, I’ve had some time to troll social media to see what the world thought of the 39th variation on the original Chicago Comicon. The consensus amongst most of my friends was largely positive. But a few folks took to their feeds to take Wizard to task and dog-pile on the once crown-jewel of Chicago-based comic conventions. Perhaps it’s the massive dehydration I’m working myself off of, but I’ll be damned… I feel compelled to defend Wizard World Chicago.

First, let it be said: I myself have taken to putting Wizard World on blast before. I’ve also given them helpful advice. Suffice to say, WWC is my home show. This was the first con I ever attended as a fan. This was the first con I ever showed in as a creator. I have a love/hate relationship with it, as it is for so many cherished memories of our youth that don’t hold up upon later scrutiny. But somehow, within reading the dour thoughts of a random Facebook friend left me desiring to stand over the limp body of WWC and shout “leave her alone!”

Let’s be honest with ourselves: The advent of the Mega Con has mutated what was once the Comic Con. The big publishers now save their budget for San Diego, New York, and maybe a small handful of others. Why the Chicago snub? Same reason I assume they aren’t showing in Austin, Seattle, Baltimore, or a handful of other large metropolitan shows: It’s expensive, and thanks to the marketing of the TV and movie brands, the need to remind people they publish comic books isn’t as needed as it once was. Erecting a large booth, paying the travel and hotel costs of big named talent, and hosting panels with executives (who should be back bean-counting, and figuring out ways to enrage the internet) just doesn’t make sense when balancing the books at the end of the year. Obviously I could argue that the millions of dollars of profit earned for those TV and movie licenses might otherwise bankroll a larger convention showing – especially in America’s third largest city – but even if that were true, the big boys would sooner show up at C2E2.

So, without the big named publishers (or, really, any named publishers), Wizard World Chicago has opted instead to promote its contractually obligated appearances of a litany of celebrity guests. Because of this, my wife got to meet Nathan Fillion, Jeremy Renner, and Brett Dalton – all of whom were super nice and gave my wife lasting memories and keepsakes. A large showing of fans making their way to WWC come primarily for these meet-n-greets. I was once amongst those who bashed this concept. Spending potentially hundreds of dollars for an opportunity to take a picture with someone, to me personally, seems like a complete waste. But on the same token, taking into account how many hundreds of dollars I once used to purchase comics, graphic novels, statues, and other miscellanea leaves me at a stalemate. Autograph seekers are a part of pop culture as much as comic book collectors. And as much as it pains me to say it: Nathan Fillion will bring far more paid attendees to a convention than the promise of that one penciler on that book you like.

Wizard World Chicago has been a show in flux over the last few years. Call it growing pains, if you will. The shift from being a show that celebrated comic books first and foremost to the more general pop culture has left some in a state of bitterness. I myself was one of them for a long time. But hindsight is always 20/20. Comic books are a part of pop culture. Wizard is a business, and as such, pop culture is larger than comics alone. The shift to truly becoming a pop culture show means larger attendance. More vendors. More exhibitors. More panelists and programs. To decry the death of the Chicago Comicon because of Wizard is to blame San Diego, Reed, and the other convention giants around the country.

Wizard World Chicago is many things to many people. So long as comic books are at least some of those things? Then, leave WWC alone. It will never be what it once was. But if it continues to draw a large crowd willing to checkout the always-expanding Artist Alley, then who are we to judge? For those seeking the old-school Comic Cons of yesteryear, well, there’s still plenty of fantastic one day shows. Wizard, simply no longer is one of them.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: Fatherhood 2.0

Marc Fishman ArtIn light of all the morbid news flying around these days, sometimes you have to take a deep breath and remember where your joy is. Mine is up two short flights of stairs, attempting to figure out a way to extend his bedtime. He asks for juice. No. Water? No. Storytime? No. Play game? Go to sleep. And after his cat-timer has counted down from ten minutes to a sharp ding, my son retires to his toddler bed for the evening. As the Barenaked Ladies might ask

When you dream
What do you dream about?
Are they color or black and white, Yiddish or English
Or languages not yet conceived?
Are they silent or boisterous?
Do you hear noises just loud enough to be perceived?

These questions nip at me now because my wife and I are expecting our second child. We announced with my typical over-the-top bluster – see the art this week – not long ago via social media.

The decision to become a Fantastic Foursome instead of remaining a terrific trio was made without much trepidation or actual conversation. Put simply, even amidst all the calamity that exists with a three-and-a-half-year-old sharknado, there was an empty space in our hearts where another wee-one would fit. It stands to be said that both my wife and I are only children; both of us lamented for many years that we’d always pondered a life lived in a family unit versus being the lone soul of attention. And while my boy is the apple of my eye and the spoils of all my time and affection, it’s disgustingly true that I somehow have even more love to give. Pardon the unicorn vomiting rainbows in the corner.

But, truly, what a time to raise a family! I speak not of the modern luxuries of technology, or the immense libraries of literature allowing for picture-perfect childrearing mind you. I speak selfishly of the golden age of nerds into which I now bring my doomspawn. The other afternoon, I took my son and wife to Toys R’ Us. Why? So dad could buy a new Nerf gun, of course. And my son walked up and down the aisle, pointing out every single character he knew, proved to me he is living in a wonderland I could only have dreamt of when I was his age. Come to think of it, at his age I’d have no idea that Marvel and DC would own whole aisles of the toy store. And while most of the toys are movie or TV related, at their core there are pulpy roots.

My son, and future child are being raised in a world where nearly every movie or TV show of any value to them now streams into my home on demand. The video game systems in my home – both of which now old by current standards – have a library deeper than the entirety of the Nintendo catalog over the entirety of my childhood. There are a dozen comic book shops within 25 miles of my home, and a comic convention nearly every month. And that doesn’t take into consideration the online offerings of pulp fiction. Simply put, my children will have access to more content than I can honestly comprehend.

As they mature and begin to find their own paths, they will curate the trove of material to find themselves. My youth was spent finding a single outlet at a time, drilling it dry, and moving on to the next. Cape and cowl books begat the grim and gritty worlds of Image and Vertigo. Pop was pushed aside for punk, then ska, then metal, then receded back to alternative pop. In every case, I’d honestly reached a saturation point (where the available content to me in suburban Chicagoland was limited to the chain stores or knowing someone’s older brother willing to drive you to the cool part of town to find new material), then had to make the conscious choice to either seek the roots of the material I loved, or find something new instead. Now, should my children find an admiration for Batman, well, they could spend years soaking in every panel on a page, or every frame of film involving the Dark Knight, with a flick of the finger. Whereas their old man was once limited to the single shelf of full price graphic novels or pricier archived reprints and the picked-over remnants at the local Blockbuster. And that was well before the time where reviews readily existed to warn said old man of a not-great read. But I, as usual, digress.

At the beginning of this article, I’d mentioned the notion of finding my joy. Amidst all the stresses that adulting brings me – bills, not-yet-fully-funded-Kickstarters, a full time day job, a full time night job, and the whole “being a dad and a husband and a son and a friend” thing – having the ability to melt all of that away is key to my sanity. And when I see my son’s face light up over the silliest of things (a new Batman toy in a Happy Meal, or daddy getting first place in Mario Kart 64), the weight of the world is lifted off my sore shoulders. His joy is my joy. The nerdy world around him beckons every waking hour, with some comic-connected bit of entertainment ready to set his imagination on fire. And right behind him as he exclaims “Cyborg and Beast Boy fight Raven’s dad!” is me, with a smile from ear to ear.

How could I not want to bring another bundle of joy into a world like that?

 

Marc Alan Fishman: Oh Captain, My Captain

ojackbeth

While trolling my Facebook feed for potential Kickstarter backers the other evening, I ran into an errant picture from a pair of sisters I’d grown up around since kindergarten. They were smiling and hugging their father, my former freshman year honors English teacher. I will spare you the visceral detail, but suffice to say he didn’t look to be in the state of health I might have otherwise thought he’d be in. A quick message to his daughters later and I’d been given some sobering news: the whole ordeal, after being explained, left me in a bit of a stupor. Just seeing his face again had unlocked the door to my memory palace (as Hannibal might say, before dining on one of my sundry organs), and the resulting flood of flashbacks has remained floating in the front of my mind ever since.

I was a smart kid. Not a genius bound for a Baxter Building mind you, but always labeled bright. Learning came easy enough to me. Accelerated math? Why not. English composition and literary comprehension? I could read, absorb, and write with laughable ease. While compatriots in class struggled with social studies, or science experiments, I’d hunker down at the dining room table for an hour and be ready to go the next day with aplomb. It’d been that way from the second I walked into my elementary school, clear through to the day I waltzed out of junior high. Clearly high school will be a piece of cake, and colleges will knock down my door, I’d told myself. You see, when you’re gifted, you wind up narrating your own life in the present-tense, to ensure you’re on the right path.

And then, on my very first day at Homewood-Flossmoor Community High School, I sat down – smirk cemented in place – in Mr. Ken Pries’ Honors English class.

Mr. Pries was as all teachers were at my alma matter: awash in Eddie Bauer, astute, and approachable. But behind the unassuming suburbanite facade lay a taskmaster like I’d never been privy to in the past.

“I warn all my students who enter this class that I am a not an easy grader. Up until this point, you’ve likely enjoyed the easy life when it came to your compositional skills.” He announced this to us milliseconds after the first bells blared. “I am here to challenge what you know, and how you choose to communicate it.” And with those words, the first text was passed out, a tome of Greek mythology. Really, Mr. Pries? You’re going to get my goose by giving me the comic books of the English-class world? My smirk remained unscathed.

The first paper was dispatched as all others had been up to that point: hastily heaved from my drifting mind, peppered with pretentious prose (so as to prove to the given educator that I knew the big words too) and never given a second glance before being spit out of the inkjet printer, sloppily stapled but beautifully designed, with perfect typographic presentation. It was returned to me with a hastily etched C- and the scrawled epitaph “Consider trying harder next time.”

I’m fairly certain you could hear my heart flop to the floor with an errant splurch. This clearly wasn’t a slip of the grading pen. The continual avalanche of footnotes, hash marks, and frowny faces sliced through my assignment as it did my self-worth. Try harder? Those words had rarely, if ever, been muttered to me. And never before did they feel as real as they did now… towing a barely passing grade at the hilt.

Mr. Pries exhumed an emotional response in me that was foreign. Here was a man who clearly saw through every ounce of B.S. I’d used up until that point to curry favor from the adults who oversaw my age of enlightenment. I was laid bare, left to produce actual thoughts, actual facts, and then present them without error. I was no longer given a book and casually asked to regurgitate the prose in different words to prove I’d read it. I was given assignments forcing me to make arguments and defend them. In the simplest of terms, I was challenged to prove I was more than just above average. And for the first time ever, I honestly questioned if I really was.

After shakily earning my way into a solid B average in the class, we tackled the final unit: Shakespeare. By now, conditioned into a state of never-not-panicking, I’d mentally prepared myself for the fall. But after a year’s worth of truly hard work, the final assignment given seemed like a practical joke. We were to reinterpret any scene of the bard’s and apply it to a modern day event. At the time, O.J. Simpson and his trial were a prevalent source of comedic material. As such, I toiled to create a reinterpretation of the witch’s scene in Macbeth, rooted in the minutiae of the Simpson murder trial. I poured myself into the prose. I added helpful footnotes and stage direction. I even took the time to ensure the entirety of the scene rhymed. I turned it in, my once signature smirk now replaced with that face a puppy makes when it has an accident on the rug. A few days later… “O’ Jackbeth” was returned to me.

“A-”, it read. “Best work you’ve done. Inspired.” Once again, Ken Pries had granted me a new emotional experience: Professional pride.

Of the few remaining tokens that remain of my high school career, my now curled-and-weathered final assignment of Mr. Pries’ class remains my most cherished. It represented a year’s worth of emotional growth. The “A-” that adorns my cover page – complete with Microsoft Word clip art – exists as the grade I strive for in my own life. As Dr. Huxtable might say, it was a “Hard A” that proved to me after being shaken to my core, that I had real value to share with the world. Even if that value was in a light-hearted parody of Shakespeare where the ghost of Judge Ito scorned a repentant O’ Jackbeth. It was the success of that assignment that allows me to tell people of what fills me with professional pride today: a story about Samurai-Astronauts, led by an immortal kung-fu monkey master, defending humanity from a band of zombie-cyborg pirates… in space!

Ken Pries was the first teacher who showed me that he believed in me but wasn’t content with the me I chose to be. It’s because of that notion – of tough love, and the lessons of a life well earned – that I even chose the arts as a career. Art was, after Mr. Pries’ class, the biggest challenge I’d ever undertook. And when I formed Unshaven Comics with my lifelong friends, it was Mr. Pries’ class that comes to mind. When I finish a panel, a page, or even a single piece of dialogue, I no longer execute it with a snarky confidence. Instead, I silently recall that feeling of never quite knowing if I’ve done something right, silently kicking at my heart… still listless and lingering at the base of my feet.

“I am here to challenge what you know, and how you choose to communicate it.”

The lesson will never cease to educate me, Mr. Pries. Thank you for that.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: Affirmatively Actionable Comic Equality

Hercules

A few friends of mine on Facebook posted an absolutely fabulous op-ed by J.A. Micheline, calling out Marvel – and declaring a personal boycott – for some recent decisions passed. It seems Blade has been handed off to a pair of white creators, Hercules is now straight as an arrow, and I assume Spider-Gwen will be replaced by a straight white male version of the character with thigh pouches or something. Upon initial reading of her thoughts, my inner-chauvinist began to itch. A deep breath, a reread, and a few bites of dinner later? I’m fully on board with her fervor.

Now, let me be clear. I myself have boycotted mainstream comics for the better part of eighteen months. I haven’t felt fiction-deprived yet. I’ve enjoyed output from Marvel and DC: Ant-Man, Avengers 2, The Flash, and Teen Titans Go have sated me just fine, sans ink and paper. My boycott though, came not because of any particular editorial mandate or creative team injunction. It came because of the continual commitment to useless event-driven editorial calendars and the retconning of great stories in lieu of quick #1 issue cash-grabs.

Thus far, I’m two for two with DC’s re-Final-Crisising-convergence, and the All-New-All-Different-All-Shuffled-Marvel’s recent releases proving me righter than right. Am I missing some great issues? Likely. But on the whole, mainstream comic collecting requires a financial commitment a father of one-plus-one-coming needn’t part with.

Reading these current malfeasances via Micheline’s article didn’t hit me as being all that surprising. If anything, they were just continual symptoms of a much larger disease. That disease is greed. Axel and company are victims of a system that presently panders to the almighty profit – what little can be made in the floppies. Changing creative teams, changing sexual orientation, changing changes that were changed for the sake of change? All done in hopes of spiking sales just a wee-bit more. But her anger is not unfounded. She’s picking away at scars that scab over yearly. As an industry why does it always feel like we’re taking two steps forward and one step back?

Blade loses its black creators. Johnny Storm is portrayed by a black actor in the upcoming flop Fantastic 4. Hercules is declared straight, and I’m sure someone in DC has recently come out of the closet. But I digress. The point that Micheline is really after is rooted in the “old boy” classicism and predictably shallow attitudes they assume when fans take umbrage over these decisions. Axel and DiDio largely act as if we’re living in the enlightened age where talent is colorless, genderless, and sexually blind. But the truth is our world isn’t there yet. And to act in that manner otherwise comes across only as being out-of-touch. Akin, say, to jamming one’s fingers in their ears and yelling loudly over the sound of people asking for a little equality.

J.A. Micheline asks for no fewer than three new gay characters in comics, as well as three new black creators to be placed on ongoing titles. She’s following Dwayne McDuffie’s “Rule of Three” – adding three members of a marginalized group into any fold will cause the perfect amount of civil unrest. It’s hard to argue with her logic. When you break the status quo, you’re going to hurt some feelings. But frankly, feelings are there to be hurt, and then repaired with time and acceptance. Make more gay characters. Hire black creators, Asian creators, Muslim creators, and everybody else. Fans who may balk at the notion… happily hand them free copies of Youngblood.

Our industry – that of the talented outcasts now coming into our own – is better than others. I say this because so much good has been made under the comics umbrella. So many emotions given clarity. So many characters shown in multiple dimensions. So many myths made modern. We are a medium that should be built on inclusion and acceptance.

What are our heroes and villains, but the id of our very outer-ness made real? Symbols of hope, of joy, of angst, of loss, and everything in between. Surely that begs for those who push the pencils of the ledgers some modicum of social justice… to balance the scales of creation to prove to the other mediums of artistry that we are the torchbearers!

Consider J.A. Micheline’s boycott as I have: not the frustrated battle cry lambasting Marvel for a lack of diversity… but as a sigil for the future of comics at large. Be blacker. Be gayer. Be prouder, Marvel.

Marc Alan Fishman: How Kickstarter Will Shorten Your Life

Orange Man Kicking BallIn case you’ve not been reading my articles religiously – and if you’re not, why aren’t you? – you know my li’l studio has launched our second Kickstarter campaign. The first time around, in 2011, we asked for a little cash to make a cosplay suit. We succeeded. It was a small goal, and it took every day of the campaign for us to eek out the victory. On Thursday evening, we launched again, asking for a lot more money, with a much bigger goal in mind. This time, we want to take over the world.

I kid, I kid. Actually, we’re just looking to be able to fund the printing of our very first graphic novel. With almost four years of work under our belts on the eventual collection, it was time we took the leap from floppy issues sold at comic conventions to big-boy-books.

And ever since launch, I personally feel like I’m losing years off my life with each successive day.

Why the consternation? Well, I’ve long held out from launching a crowd-funded campaign to cover the costs of being a business. When Kickstarter first became en vogue I’d associated it with funding fleets of fancy that otherwise wouldn’t be business-savvy. See: funding the creation of a suit of cosplay armor. But over time, crowd-funding has become the marketplace by which the indie creator is able to connect to the largest base of online business. Launch your book on ComiXology, and you are a pebble thrown into the ocean. Launch a Kickstarter, and for a short time you actually matter. And when your own ComicMix colleague successfully launches his own pet project, suddenly the notion of mattering for that short time feels like something worth being a part of. The shifting sands of the online economy successfully showed its evil greedy light to me. And now I’m right in the middle of it.

For months leading up to the launch, I built our campaign with a breezy confidence. “It’s a book about a Kung-Fu Monkey. Everyone will love it.” “We’ve been successfully selling individual issues of this for four years, and each year we sell more than the last. How could this not be an epic win?” “We’re gonna stuff 50 pages of bonus material in it, so old fans will come back, even if they own the issues already!” I have great friends who helped us make a video. I found a 3D artist to help make our first Samurnaut toy as a limited edition reward. I found great artists who agreed to make pin-ups for the book. It was all coming together with ease.

And then I sent out the preview to a few friends in-the-know. I expected nothing but a love-in for the work I’d completed.

The feedback I’d received a week to launch was critical but fair. I took every constructive criticism to heart, and did what I could to adjust as needed. I added as much art to the campaign as I could design. I  tweaked, retweaked our video. I made a second video. I added add-on rewards. I noodled over stretch goals. I got sage advice from fellow successful Kickstarter compatriots about potential pitfalls. I read over two dozen blogs on running proper campaigns. I nervously scratched a bald patch through the middle of my beard. I grew a dozen new gray hairs. I think I passed a kidney stone.

And soon enough, the anxiety attacks began. It got so bad, I called my studio mate at 11:30 PM this past Wednesday when I hit the “Submit to Kickstarter” button, and it immediately told me I was ready to launch. “Tell me to hit the button”, I stammered. Matt – my Unshaven brother-from-another-mother moaned in the most banal tone he could muster… “Just f’n push the button.” But what if people don’t get what we’re doing? What if we’ve already sold to everyone who actually cares? What if we timed this out wrong? What if our video accidentally offends someone? What if people don’t actually like Kung-Fu Monkeys and Zombie-Cyborg Space Pirates?!

But we launched anyways. And we’ve have a slow-but-steady stream of backers support us every day since launch. I’ve seen over 100 shares on Facebook alone in the first day. It allowed me to breathe.

I know the next month will be a visceral roller-coaster ride as I monitor and market myself raw. But the plan has been in place for months. My friends here at ComicMix told me they have my back. My wife told me she’d tweet Neil Patrick Harris about it. My son actually said “Samurnauts Are Go!” for the first time. There’s nothing more I needed to hear, kiddos.

So… it begs me to ask you:

Can I tell you about my graphic novel?

 

 

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