The Best Canadian Comics or Humans just keep on creating

In typical fashion, I've spent the morning crawling in and out of the rabbit holes of my mind. (I'm not well today, by the way, so this may get weird.) It started with The Best American Comics 2010, which arrived in the mail last week; the inside cover art, specifically, which is called the endpaper, apparently. I never knew that. Don't know whether I like the name, to be honest, since it's also inside the front cover. Anyway, I found Theo's blog, then was looking up a few of the other artists, like James Kochalka -- yes, I'm sure I've read his stuff before, but the ones that Gaiman picked out for BAC 2010 had me falling in love all over again -- when I thought, why isn't there a Best Canadian Comics? (I'd just read Rebecca Kraatz's Snaps and thought it deserved to be in such a 2011 anthology, at the very least.)

Well, it didn't take me long to find the Doug Wright Awards -- again, holy embarrassing that that took so long, but at least I know all about winners like Seth and Michel; oh, and Rebecca won their Best Emerging Talent award in 2007! Nothing else that big really jumped out at me, so I decided to write them then and there. We'll see what they say, but it wasn't long after that that I realized that BAC actually accepts North American submissions, and that publications like The Devil's Artisan and publishers like Drawn & Quarterly and Conundrum Press already do a pretty good job of promoting Canadian talent. (Check out the former's whopper of a Year In Review post, for example; not limited to Canadian pubs, granted, but still awesome.) Still, an anthology couldn't hurt, right?

Then, as always happens when I dive in the pool that is my stack of to-read comics, I get completely overwhelmed with all the cool stuff I've been missing while reading sci-fi, travelogues, etc.; particularly when I find their blogs and follow a dozen recommendations down the interwebs. And that's when I realize that that old monkey I'm still afraid of, but need, to spur me on, Mr. Well Read, is growing. And he isn't sticking with the soapbox favourites like:

• You say you love Golding, but you still haven't read The Spire;
• There's more to Shakespeare than you studied in school, you know; and,
• Really? You still haven't picked up that lovely edition of Moby Dick?

No, every year now, there are a few more must-reads; soon to be 'Classics', whatever that means these days, in their own right.

This isn't a lament, by the way. Like I said, I need the monkey to egg me on, the slow, easily distracted reader that I am. No, if anything, it's a blessed time to be alive. Doubly so if you love comics.

The chore of creating

Should creating art ever feel like a chore?

I'm of two minds on this, but the fact is that, clearly, sometimes it does. Marc Ellerby has recently announced that the fabulous Ellerbisms will end shortly, for that reason amongst others, and, just a few moments ago, Brian Brown admitted that Bellen! has invoked a similar dread in him for some time now.

On the one hand, I'd like to think that being creative is a non-stop blast; or at least full of highs amongst few lows. If you're doing it right, would be an important caveat, I guess. But, really, that's naive. I've read enough books on writing to know that making a living at it requires a lot of discipline. (King talked about his daily 8 a.m. to noon ritual in On Writing.) Heck, even blogging, as defined (i.e., regular updates), requires it, as I'm well aware. (Aware that I'm failing, in other words.)

To continue that train of thought, once you've gained some modicum of popularity, logic dictates that you should build on it, working through any drudgery you may encounter along the way. On the other hand, if that drudgery persists, maybe it's an indication that it's time to move on. Because I truly feel that you can kill a project by taking it past its prime. The television show analogies spring to mind now, unfortunately, but I do like that expression "jumped the shark". That moment is elusive; most days I don't think Firefly had a chance to blossom, but then I think, it was so good that maybe that shark was just around the corner.

Either way, as my comic book project coalesces in my head, I'm well aware that, while it may not seem like fun every day, it should most days. Oddly enough, I think I may be happier if I resist the urge to share the work as it progresses -- with all the pressure to continue that that evokes -- and just share the finished product. On the other hand, that subtle pressure may be just what I need to complete it in a timely fashion.

In the end, I feel lucky that my lifestyle doesn't depend on any of this.

Under-weather distractions

I found another treasure at Moss Books this weekend, on one of my short forays from under this oppressive cold and its stomach-bug buddy (not to mention the rain): a collection of Oor Wullie and The Broons comic strips from 1936 – 2006. The dialogue is a bit of a struggle, but the stories range from cute to poignant; the latter a pleasant surprise (for me) from something that ran regularly in The Sunday Post (until I read about the paper's sentimental nature, anyway). I think the layout of Oor Wullie is my favourite part so far, however: each strip starts with the sly main character squat on an overturned pail – any of a variety of expressions on his face – and each finishes with the same, or something subtly different. This trademark is emphasized on the back of the dust-jacket, with some twenty of Wullie's faces displayed in a grid of portraits, helpful one-word captions beneath them.

Thankfully there's been plenty of football (a.k.a. soccer) to distract me from my housebound state this weekend – was worried I had the dreaded flu for a bit; they won't even accept you at clinics (what they call surgeries) here right now if you have a fever. My favourite, by far, was the derby (pronounced 'darby', even when the English commentators are working a German Bundesliga game, I've discovered this morning) between Swansea and Cardiff City as those clubs compete for the first real shot at a Welsh promotion to the English Premier League in many, many years. These derbies are fierce competitions between local rivals, as best I can tell, and, without exception, are surrounded by some of the most vocal (and truly in its singing sense!) fan support I've ever witnessed at a sporting event; I hope to see something approaching it live someday (with the protection of earplugs, of course). Swansea won this one 3 – 2 in front of their hometown crowd, scoring more goals than they'd managed in any other match this season, in what really could've been a win for either club.

The Good Life

I just finished Seth's It's A Good Life, If You Don't Weaken, and I'm filled with conflicting emotions: it's a beautiful book, and poignant at times, but I think it's how much I identify with the main character -- or rather, how I imagine I would've as a teenager -- that stirs the strongest feelings. Well, that isn't being entirely honest either, but I truly envy his talent, and if that emotion isn't the strongest in my breast as I type this, it's surely the second-most by the slimmest of margins.

I find myself looking for small similarities in our lives, hoping they'll illuminate larger ones. Peanuts, for example, was a favourite of mine as a child also, although I'd be stretching things to say that it ever inspired any of my infrequent doodling. No, more than anything, unfortunately, it's the melancholy we've shared that's the most striking. Particularly as a young man, I spent many a day as Seth did in this work, contemplating my mood, and its possible sources. Eventually I came to the conclusion that it was a bit of the chicken and the egg, in that such thoughts only spawned dark thoughts, or at the very least, perpetuated a dark humour. By cutting them off before they had a chance to take hold, I found myself a happier man. I believe Seth also came to this conclusion, giving voice to it when his character, Chet, speculates that he spends too much time pondering such things.

What concerns me about all this, and, oddly, what is also reflected in Seth's book, is a perceived lack of creativity in me since I've discovered these happier times. The reference is only in passing, with Kalo's mother quoting him on the benefits of a little misery in an artist's life. For some time, I've worried that, beyond the darkness of my own creation, I have not suffered; in fact, I would suggest that even in my deepest moments of self-pity, I would never suggest that I have been anything less than blessed with luck and good fortune. (I may curse such blessings at times, but only half-heartedly, if I'm honest with myself.)

I also envy Seth his prodigious memory. However he may ponder the benefits of those musings, there's no doubting their detail and vitality. I'm hoping I'll recall more as I apply myself to the documenting of them, but I certainly worry about the depth of that particular well as I write this. The other big question right now is my ability to draw. I have all the limited tools of that craft at my disposal now, so that somewhat-dreaded answer is surely close at hand.

That's heavy-handed; downright dire, in fact. I got a bit carried away. Truth be told, I'm having fun with this, and I expect to enjoy my dabbling in drawing as well. After all, unlike the fictional Kalo, I don't expect to raise a family on it.