One of the aspects of the comic book business that I don't think gets talked about enough is the sense of community that exists among everybody who's involved within it. Most often, you hear about the in-fighting, the back-biting, and the rumor-mongering, because that's a sexier story. But while there's the typical amount of all those things, and while not every single person gets along with everyone else, there's nevertheless a surprising unity that exists throughout the business. Comic book people are, for the most part, very willing to help one another out in a myriad of ways.
You can see it in the support people give to organizations like the Hero Initiative, or the CBLDF. Or the charitable auctions that are organized when a beloved writer has maxed out their health insurance coverage. But even more so, it exists in a million tiny ways that are never really spoken about aloud, when one person extends a helping hand to another within the industry, not because there's any particular relationship that exists between them, and not because there's anything to gain, but simply because people feel like part of the larger family.
I think that's a pretty special thing. This past week or two, I had a number of people step up to help me out with a situation that, while in no way life-threatening, was significant. And guys with whom I've had very little contact, people for whom I've done nothing in particular other than sit here and be part of the world-space, came through in a meaningful way. It's very much appreciated, and while I don't want to embarrass anybody by naming them and putting that kind of spotlight upon them, I do want to note their efforts --especially including those folks who made efforts to help out, but weren't able to come through in the way I needed. Their efforts are no less genuine and worthy of regard than those who got the job done.
Seems like it gets harder and harder to find the time to write up new entries for this old blog. In fact, coupled with the switchover to more immediate social media such as Twitter, I'm not even 100% convinced that this blog serves a real concrete purpose anymore, as opposed to time spent on other endeavors. Still, that's a question for another time.
For now, since it's been a while since I did something like this, here's some more preview artwork to get you through the weekend.
Before I start in on today's topic, let the record show that it was Jim McCann who at the Reading Circle a week or so ago made the point about the question of the believability of magic being largely a matter of semantics, as outlined in my last blog post.
All right, so here's another larger issue conundrum to grapple with: why is it that when something hits a certain threshold of popularity, if becomes fashionable to bash it?
Certainly, there are those series or programs or entertainers or what-have-you that lose their edge once they hit the big time, where there's an obvious qualitative difference between what they did on the way up and what they're doing now that they're on top. But I don't think the situation is as simple as that-and I think it has a lot to say about our own sense of self.
Everybody loves finding that strange niche thing that really speaks to them in some personal way. This is especially true among comic book readers, contingents among which preach the gospel of Quasar, or Spider-Girl, or Black Panther, or whatever. We love to find that cool flavor that's a bit off to the side that gives us a very specific kind of a hit. This is particularly true at the point where we're becoming a little bit bored or jaded with the mainstream.
Now, typically, one of two things happens when this occurs. Most often, the title in question has a small but very devoted following, but not enough to keep the series viable over the long haul, and it goes away. And then, for years afterwards, its hardcore devotees ask for more of it, and hang on every scrap of an appearance by its leading characters. But the opposite happens as well-the series develops a broader, larger following-and then, seemingly suddenly, it isn't any good any more. It's lost that special quality that defined it for us in some almost-intangible way. And, in fact, the more popular it gets, the more embarrassed you get about admitting that you like it, or liked it, or ever liked it.
Is this all just a function of each of us wanting to feel special, like an insider that's smarter or more in-the-know than the average person? Or is there more to it than this? And why is it that the most popular things in pop culture are almost always the ones that are ridiculed and torn down by the most hardcore devotees (including those that once loved it, in many cases)? Beyond that, why does it become fashionable? Is this simply a way for those people who are more cynical and worldly and faux-sophisticated to maintain their interest and connection to a particular thing while seemingly standing in opposition to it? I don't know the answers, but it's a fascinating question.
I think there may actually be two issues here that I'm dancing back and forth around, so depending on what shape my thinking takes over the next day or two, there may be more on this matter in the days ahead.
One day every week I head up a regular Reading Circle for the members of editorial, during which we select a current issue of a given title (from either Marvel or a competitor) to read and dissect, in the hopes of figuring out how to be better at what we do. It's always an interesting discussion to be at the center of, in that, like you guys, there's nothing a group of comic book editors likes to do more than talk about comics. We're both excited by a book that's working, and hyper-critical of an issue that falls down in some way or other.
This week, though, we hit on an interesting point about the perception of the audience that I thought was worth sharing with a wider audience. To set the stage, this week's book was the first issue of DOCTOR VOODOO, AVENGER OF THE SUPERNATURAL, edited by my office's own Lauren Sankovitch (and on sale now at finer comic book emporiums everywhere.) The debut issue went over pretty well among the group, but then at one point somebody brought up the fact that they felt disoriented whenever some element of the sorcerous milieu came up-the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak, and so forth. They found these elements alienating, and felt disconnected from the story whenever they came up.
As the discussion continued, somebody (and I forget exactly who, but it wasn't me) made the point that, were this a science fiction series, and the references were to holograms rather than astral forms, or equations rather than spells, the reaction would be completely different. In each case, the underlying concept is about the same, but the instinctive response was to accept the science-based incarnation more readily, and to question or wonder about how it worked less.
Isn't that odd, the way we think? It's mostly just a matter of semantics, but it completely changed the reading experience for at least one person. And it does underline a larger essential truth about the baggage people bring with them when they crack open a comic, turn on a television or go to a movie.
There's something pretty magical about watching somebody who's about the best there is in their chosen field of endeavor do their thing. Whether we're talking about athletics, performance, magic, painting, dance or comic book artwork, the elegance of a person working with that degree of aptitude is something extraordinary to behold. In any creative medium, there are (and I don't mean to make them sound trivial with this next bit; I well realize how much talent and dedication it takes to operate on a professional level in any of these fields) dozens of run-of-the-mill talents; guys that are extremely good, but don't reset the bar. And then, there are those rare people who take things to the next level, whose command of what they do opens up whole new avenues of possibility. People who reset the game.
For all that I like such concepts in my fiction, I'm not one to believe in predetermination, or destiny. And yet, there is that feeling that there are people who are simply supposed to be doing a specific thing, because they're so natural at it, because they excel at it. I feel like I've made the most of my meager talents, and I'm pretty good at what I do-but I don't operate at a fraction of the level that these sorts of prodigies do. It at once makes them astonishing and frustrating, since it always feels like I should be capable of better, and it should be easier. That these skills are only developed after years of dedicated practice and study doesn't change the feeling that it all looks so effortless.
And it remains a joy to see pages come in from one of those rare talents, especially in their formative stages. With the easy access of the internet and the fact that almost every book is previewed in one unfinished form or another, it's a pleasure that even folks outside the business can experience to a limited degree. And it's even more incredible to be able to stand there and watch one of these virtuoso artists draw in front of you.
No real point to this outside of these observations-just thought it was worth reiterating, because it's very easy after so many years to take these situations for granted.
Is there anything better than finding some new, special something, and then sharing it with other people who also like it?
I live for those moments, those times where I've fallen in love with some new book, or film, or comic, or television series, or whatever, and then somebody says something that makes me think they might be a receptive to that selfsame thing. I'm a pimp, really, when it comes to the stuff I like. As are we all.
Especially the sort of person who, for whatever reason, is drawn to our medium, we love to find like-minded individuals, and to share those things we love. It's why so many fans go to conventions, or spend so much time online, posting or writing blogs or review columns or digital fanzines. Sure, we like having our tastes validated, and everybody's got a certain Johnson for the spotlight to some degree. But more fundamentally than that, we like sharing the stuff we love-spreading the gospel, as it were. And we love it when we "turn" another convert.
That's where all of those urgings to "tell your friends" come from, people understanding that this very basic viral style marketing really works, especially since, when it succeeds, you almost inevitably end up with people who are more dyed-in-the-wool fanatics than they might otherwise be. There are weeks when I live and breathe a new thing, so enraptured am I by whatever goodness it's about. You need to be careful, of course-you don't want to turn into that guy who's always pushing his crap on anybody who'll listen. You need to be selective. And it's always a bit of a letdown when you pass something to what seems to be a receptive audience, and then they either don't see the appeal, or worse, don't ever quite get around to looking at it. Still, the goodness of the wins outweigh the disappointments of those connections that don't quite work out.
So be my preachers, blogees. Tell me what you love.
For whatever reason, my mind seems to be turning towards big, broad subjects when it comes time to pound out some prose for this blog of late. I'm not sure if any of these observations are useful to anyone, but hopefully they're at least universal enough to be worth talking about.
So, switching from Ego to Fear for a moment. In theory, Fear serves a useful purpose. It's your early-warning system, preventing you from doing or saying things that are likely to get you hurt or killed. At least, that's what it's supposed to be there for.
But too often, fear goes beyond its survival parameters, and expands into more mundane situations. Fear keeps people from trying things, from attempting to grow, from stretching and taking that leap into the unknown that might end badly, but through which all good things are possible.
I'm sure almost everybody has experienced that moment of self-consciousness, that worry that we're going to be mocked for our opinions, or likes, our tastes. This has always been especially potent among comic book readers in years gone by, at a less-enlightened time when reading comics was socially considered a pastime only for little children and emotional retards. And so you hide your true feelings away, for fear of being mocked or ostracized. Fear of being cut down, emotionally.
This can be paralyzing within an organization as well. A climate can be created where liking anything is seen as a sign of weakness. It takes a decent amount of personal courage to champion a story or an idea or a creator that you believe in. And even when you do, you then have to be proven right, to the degree that it's acknowledged, or the whole exercise is self-defeating. Once you've built up a certain track record, it gets easier to get people to trust you and your judgment-but getting there can be extremely difficult, and fraught with peril. It's way too easy to be pigeon-holed as the "Indy" guy, or the "Noir" guy, or the "Teen Angst" guy, both as a creator and an editor, to the point where that's looked upon as a shorthand for the only game you know how to play.
We talk a lot about Fearlessness at our Retreats, whenever creators are in town, because what's gotten Marvel to this point over the last decade or so, a willingness to experiment and shake things up, and not be ruled by old demons (nor, for that matter, simply shaking things up to see them shake-there's often a reason a particular demon is standing there.) If you want to do this job, in almost any capacity, you're going to need to put your self-esteem on the line along the way, and that requires Fearlessness.
Speaking of which, I've got an AVENGERS retreat going on during the back half of this week, so I'm not sure how consistent blogging will be for the next few days. I guess we'll all find out together.
As I continue to ponder the unanswerable truths about life, business, commerce and creativity, I find myself drawn inexorably to certain basic fundamental concepts that are at the root of so many of the difficulties each one of us faces. So I thought I'd elucidate on one of those concepts.
The thing that most often screws up our decision-making processes is ego.
It's ego that makes us react to a piece of news or a piece of feedback negatively and emotionally. It's ego that makes us jockey for position and advantage against one another rather than looking at the big picture and doing what's right, both for the greater good and for ourselves.
Now, ego isn't intrinsically all bad. You need a healthy amount of ego to be effective in any creative endeavor. You need to believe that you have something to say or communicate that's worthwhile, and you need a certain amount of self-confidence to be able to bull through all of the people who'll tell you that you're no good and to give up.
But ego is also an easy thing to lose control over. You're in trouble when you start believing your own hype, or thinking that your own fecal matter doesn't stink. And it's such a seductively easy trap to fall into.
I've been making a concerted effort to expand my thinking, and not react in so knee-jerk a fashion to the contrary ideas and thoughts and approaches put in front of me by all the folks I work with, and to not make a snap-judgment based on ego. I don't always get it right, but I'm trying.
Spent a bit too much of my time today dealing with a tempest-in-a-teapot involving multiple creators all wanting to use the same characters, and the inevitable personality clashes that resulted. We like to pass the characters around relatively freely, and have them turn up in all sorts of interesting places. But that does mean that we sometimes run into conflicts, where writer A wants to use a character that writer B has just killed off, or put in the hospital, or changed into a slug. Conversely, you sometimes get one writer who wants to do a storyline revealing that character A is a hard-line right-winger, while another writer just finished up a tale in which that same character is a left-leaning lefty.
So we've got some guidelines about how this all works out. Principle among them is that each character has a home title or a home office, through which their appearances should all be coordinated, so as to minimize conflicts. At a level above that are the Executive Editors, Axel Alonso and myself, keeping a broader eye on the various goings-on in our divisions. And above that is Joe Q as EIC and Dan Buckley as Publisher. Book and office assignments can change, however, as the titles we're publishing change or the direction we're planning or hoping to take certain characters in changes. To use an example close to home, once upon a time, in order to have Wolverine guest star in AVENGERS, I would have had to run every script past the X-office. But since Wolverine is now a regular fixture in NEW AVENGERS, that criteria is lessened, provided that I'm keeping up with the major events in the X-titles as regards Wolverine, and don't do anything to massively conflict with them. And because of the success of NEW AVENGERS, it would take a larger consensus to pull him out of the series permanently-it's no longer something that the X-editor could do unilaterally. It's the same thing with the Kingpin, who started life as a Spider-Man villain, and then transitioned into being more important to Daredevil's world. (None of today's faux-drama had anything to do with these two examples, by the way.)
The writers and the editors have different responsibilities when it comes to the characters. This isn't as absolute as I'm about to make it sound, but as a broad guideline it breaks up this way: the writer's first loyalty is to the story he or she is trying to tell. It's a short-term viewpoint, even if you're talking about a writer who may remain on a given title for years. The editor's first loyalty, on the other hand, is to the book (or the property, if you choose to view it that way.) This will inevitably lead to occasions where a given creator won't be able to do precisely what they'd like to do with a character in a given situation-kill them, turn them into an axe murderer, give them a sex-change operation-regardless of how good that final story might be. On the other hand, the guidelines aren't absolute-there are times when killing a given character seems exciting, when making somebody an axe murderer opens up new storytelling possibilities, and giving somebody a sex change brings new energy or insight or attention to a moribund character. So there's never any harm in making your play and stating your case. Whenever possible, we'd rather say yes than say no. Especially since nothing kills the long-term quicker than a character or a book going stale, so there's always a need for new, fresh, exciting approaches to shake things up. We just can't always do all of them all at the same time.
More later,
Tom B
PS: on another note entirely, the first round of competition in the Make-Your-Own-Motion-Comic competition closed today over at Aniboom.com/marvel, and a bunch of the entries are really something to see. But don't take my word for it--click the link and take a look for yourself!
There's an interesting quirk in the way people think that sometimes, more is perceived as less-well, I find it interesting, at least. For example, as most everybody knows, we've had a number of books increase in price to $3.99 an issue for our standard package. Not news that anybody really loves, but a fact of life. However, on occasion, we'll add to the page count and put in some additional content, typically something reprinted, either from sources like the Marvel Handbook or entire vintage stories. And you know, people complain far, far more about these reprints than they do the books that have no additional content in them.
It's in interesting insight into the way we evaluate the things we buy. In the case of a book like, say, NEW AVENGERS, people will naturally grumble about the price increase, but they understand it as the cost of doing business-the cost of getting the story and the product that they want. But were we to start adding in vintage reprints, or interviews, or ancillary material of this sort, the outcry would increase. Now, the perception of readers would shift, and they'd start to wonder why they were being forced to pay for this additional material that they really didn't want.
Even when the back-up stories are new, you see the same phenomenon in action. It seems weird when you stop and stare at it, but that's the way it works. People are more likely paying a higher price for the thing they want than they are in paying that same price for the thing they want and some additional things that they could live without. Getting this additional material seems like a rip-off.
Food for thought as we continue to work out how to provide better value-for-money on our assorted titles moving ahead.
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
)
save this link
