Posted on by michaelwconrad

Sisyphus, The Stone, and The Hill

It feels pretty good to have the word out that Becky and I will be taking over writing the monthly Wonder Woman series as of issue 770. We’re really excited to be working on such an iconic character, one that in many ways is foundational to the entire DCU. This has been a flying leap for me, and for what it’s worth I’m gonna share my version of the story of how it came to pass. This is really just me looking out my own window, I’m not trying to offend or misrepresent anyone; so just keep in mind this stuff is all slanted through my perspective.

MARCH 2020- 

What a shit month. We had just done what turned out to be our only convention of the entire year (Richmond Galaxy Con). After this we were to shoot up to Portland for a few days and then up to Seattle for Emerald City, one of our favorite shows to do. 

At the end of 2019 I felt like I had a good head of steam with Tremor Dose making big noise at ComiXology Originals, our issue of Doom Patrol with its great reception, as well as the Tomb of Dracula short featured in Marvel’s Bizarre Adventures. I entered into 2020 with a game plan and was prepared to spend the first quarter of the year doing the dance with publishers in pursuit of more writing work. Some prospects were already in place, and it was time to lock them in.

Emerald City in particular was critical to this. I had scheduled meetings with a number of smaller publishers and was prepared to wow them with my big ideas and hopefully end up with something on the shelves with one or two of them. I scrambled through my contacts in the lead up to the show and had basically filled my downtime with plans of coffee meetings, dinners, and mid show sneak-aways to discuss what they want as a company and how I could be the person to do it.

You know where this is going.

Covid prevented all of that and damn near broke us all. The timing couldn’t have been worse. We didn’t do ECCC but we still managed to get to PDX where, still not realizing how bad shit was gonna get, we were able to see friends and meet with Image publisher Eric Stephenson. It was the last great trip we were to take together in 2020, and contributed heavily to my initial depression.

Everyone wants an Image book. Most don’t get the opportunity to sit across from the guy who can make it happen. I showed him some of my work and he seemed receptive, and we promised to follow up in the subsequent weeks… you know, the weeks where the world stopped turning, and the entire industry in question nearly died? The weeks during which we cloistered ourselves away in hopes of stopping the virus? Those weeks during which I personally lost several friends to the despair of it all… remember those weeks?

So the follow up didn’t exactly happen, it was very much a wait and see as the dust settled on the memory of the excitement that I once had. I had slipped back down the hill, and the distance between the late 2019 successes and my aspirations at the time grew long and felt invalid.

In effort to make this readable I’ll skip over the stuff that saved me. I’ve spoken about the real savior that came in the form of the work on Skeleton Crew for Cinder Cone Games, and pushing myself to write and draw a few comics on my own. These things are incredibly fulfilling but I knew that it wasn’t my future. I doubt anyone will ever hire me to write a game again (not for lack of quality, but more for lack of inroads in that industry) and that I may never develop an audience that wants to see my art on a consistent enough basis to live off of it. These projects were not long term solutions, but they were medicine for my broken outlook. These things saved me.

MARCH 2019-

We went to WonderCon without a table. Yes, they would have loved to have Becky be a big part of the show, but really we just went to hangout. Becky did a couple panels and maybe a signing, but we wanted to get to LA to visit the DC offices and to see friends. The trip was outstanding in many ways, we not only toured DC, but also BOOM!, and Humanoids. We got to connect with friends, run around haunted hotels, visit the DC archives (absolutely mental) and generally have a blast. At the convention we were able to bother creators and dig through the “old town” back issue bins in search of rare Conan editions. It was fun in a time when Covid wasn’t even a word.

I bring this up because this is where we bumped into this guy Jamie S. Rich. Here is where the story gets strange because on the off chance that Jamie reads this I’ll be mortified… but this is how it went…

At the end of the show we bumped into Cecil Castelluci who had been working on Batgirl with Jamie, the two were to meet at the hotel bar to chat and have a cheeky drink. She invited us along, moments later I was seated across from the (at the time) editor of the Bat Family of books at DC.

Now, I’m not TERRIBLE with these kinds of interactions, but I do get excited. This excitement often manifests as finding myself either speaking too much or too little. In this case I’m not sure exactly where I fell on that spectrum, but I don’t think I was exactly the most charming person Jamie had ever met.

Jamie is cool. He looks cool, acts cool, and oftentimes folks like that will throw me off, for the same reasons they might throw you off. Not only was this guy in a seat of power, but also he’s more charismatic, funny as hell, and most importantly he has NOTHING to prove. Meanwhile I’m stewing in juice hoping to make a good impression on this guy who holds the keys. I don’t know that he was aware that I’m a creator, and I wasn’t trying to pitch him on anything, but it would be a half truth to say I wasn’t looking for any opportunity to make my doals known. I kind of wish I was just like “Hey! I’m a comic creator and I’d love to connect later about some ideas I have!” This would have broken the tension and given him the opportunity to ignore any emails that might follow; like any good editor!

Anyway, I didn’t- Becky did mention it toward the end. She brought up our DC trip and how we lightweight pitched a XXXXXXXXXX book. She reminded him that our Doom Patrol book was initially run through him. He was cool about it, but as the bar time was coming to a close he picked up the tab. I insisted on paying my own way and he said something that haunted me for the next year. It was a VERY dry joke, and one that was so true I couldn’t help but feel stung by it.

“Nah, it’s cool man, ride those coattails!” He said it with a deadpan that had me ruminating on how I am perceived, and allowed me to sink even deeper into my fears of being seen as something other than a legitimate creator.

SOMEWHERE IN THE MIRE 2020

I was nearing the end of my work on Skeleton Crew when Becky came into the room and said that she had just gotten an email from DC. She had been asked to write a Midnighter thing for this even called Future State. I was stoked for her immediately, I love Midnighter. She then hit me with “They specifically asked if you’d like to co-write, they must have liked what we did with Doom Patrol!”

I didn’t believe her at first and asked to see the email, sure enough “they” did, and it had been Jamie S. Rich who had made the call and sent the email. I was flabbergasted, I thought he HATED me, or at very least saw me as some barnacle on the side of the SS CLoonan!

I knew what their gig was, my paranoia speaking to me saying “They’ve asked after you because they know she’s more likely to take the job to help Michael.” This machiavellian scheme may or may not be of my own imagining, but I didn’t care. I was getting another shot at DC during the height of Covid!

I immediately set to work crafting an idea that would allow us to explore our interests while bringing forth a Midnighter story worth reading. We created something wholly unexpected by the editors and I really believe that this is what brought what would follow. I was a bit aggressive in video conferences, polite, but I didn’t bother to hide my drive. When we chatted with the whole Superman team that Jamie was now shepherding, I was ecstatic to find that our ideas for Midnighter would inform the work of our peers. We created a big mess, and intentional mess, a mess that everyone seemed to want to contribute to.

After turning in those scripts we were hit with another offer.

“Would you two wanna tell a story about Wonder Woman wayyyyy in the future?”

This was a no brainer, it took us almost no time to submit our idea for Immortal Wonder Woman and I’m not playing when I say it’s an Eisner level book. Anyone who sleeps on this WILL be hearing about it and will be tracking it down. The only problem with Immortal is that it wasn’t enough! We fell in love with telling Diana stories and wanted more. Our editors Jamie, Brittany, and Bixie casually asked if we would like to tell more, so of course we said yes!

NOVEMBER 2020

We were asked to participate in CCXP Worlds, one of the biggest conventions in the… uh- worlds. Becky and I along with Jen Bartel, artist of Immortal Wonder Woman were to appear on a digital panel along with the other Wonder Woman teams to hype the Future State event. Moderated by Jamie himself, this would air in early December and serve to provide a bit of insight on what we had planned for Diana, Yara, and Nubia. Prior to starting the panel Jamie said that they would be announcing that Becky and I were the new writing team on Wonder Woman and that we should keep that quiet until the panel went live. I didn’t really understand the full extent of this in the moment.

It was only later that I realized what had been obvious to everyone but me… we were the writers of the Wonder Woman book. Like… the series… during the year she turns 80. We were there. I am part of the mythology now.

NOW 2020

I had him all wrong. In getting to know Jamie through our efforts to make cool comics I have discovered he is anything but rude. He IS  smart as a whip, and at times scary. He’s also kind and thoughtful, and someone who really is trying to make people feel at home in their professions and allowing talent to explore what they are capable of.You know, he might have meant it- the coattails thing, but it wouldn’t be untrue, but it isn’t really an insult. A coattail only lasts as long as the person riding it doesn’t ruin everything. From my position I was able to play a role in getting us going on an A List book at a premier publisher. We’ll see how you like Midnighter and Immortal Wonder Woman, after those I suspect that I’ll feel a little less like an imposter and more like who I am. A regular guy with a passion for telling stories.

Posted on by michaelwconrad

What do I know about immortality?

So here we are, a handful of days following the announcement that I will be part of the creative teams for DC Future State “Immortal Wonder Woman” as well as “Midnighter” and I wanted to share the story about how these things came to be and some reflections regarding them.

At the beginning of 2020, I, like many creators, felt like the future was mine to take. I was to attend several conventions, notably one of my favorites, ECCC in Seattle where I was to meet with a number of upstart publishers that are currently the source of many of your favorite books. I had my foot in the door to work on an IP that is super near and dear to my heart, and I was beginning to think I could wave my hand and make things happen. “Doom Patrol” and our “Tomb of Dracula” story in Marvel’s “Bizarre Adventures” seemed to have captured the imaginations of readers and “Tremor Dose” my OGN at ComiXology Originals was getting more than its share of attention. 2020 was mine to shape and define.

Covid fucked up those plans, as well as the plans of everyone I know. Everything shut down, doors swung closed, and the thing I had spent years of my life striving toward fell into a deep set relief on the wall I had battered myself against. I wasn’t back to square one, but this was a major wound that would take the better part of the year to heal from.

So, I tried to do the thing we all promised ourselves we would do. I made stuff. In the first two months of Covid I made two comics while working on a video game. I was really proud to have done those books but they made it very clear to me that while I had an audience, it wasn’t growing much at all. I spent too much time wondering how one develops and expands an audience. It remains a mystery to me, but I do know that it took a bit of a toll on me creatively. You see, I’m used to this kind of shit. I played music for many years and most of the bands I played with made it RIGHT THERE to the cusp of being something people were aware of. We worked with small labels, toured extensively, recorded out of our pocket, played with bands that would shape the face of music to come and yet… we were always too early or too late, or fate would pull our card and remove us from the equation.

Becky will tell you, I didn’t believe “Doom Patrol” was gonna happen, even after being paid. I’ve been so programmed for disappointment that I figured that surely something would kill the project before it ever made it to the stands. I feared Gerard would decide it didn’t work, or that the editors didn’t want to risk their name on someone like me. When word came that Young Animal and the rest of the imprints over at DC were gonna fold I was gutted. Months had passed and I was sure nothing would come of the work we had done. Thankfully it did happen and I was able to put one up in the win category. That issue of “Doom Patrol” will forever be something that I’m grateful for, it’s quite possibly the moment when I rediscovered my capacity to hope for the best.

I can’t say that hope is always a good thing. Conceptually it works, certainly for folks in dire situations hope is often a critical component to making it through. But sometimes hope will lead to expectation, and expectation is the keystone to entitlement. While I pride myself on being humble (like the most humble, wayyyyy more humble than you could even dream of… so humble it likely deserves an award or a yearly parade), like everyone else I feel like the work I do is often overlooked and marginalized. This leads to bitter feelings and an endless quest to feel seen. I had crossed over to a foul place of feeling like I was due greater attention and more opportunities. I say this in effort to be honest, knowing full well that this is a sickening way to be, but our secret truths are often repugnant and can only be discussed openly when we see how wrong we were.

Hope isn’t the bad guy, but it’s likely to bring along his good homie Ego to the party without asking if it’s cool. Ego will always bring his cousin Disappointment, who in turn will invite his brothers Bitterness and Grief. Before you know it they start bringing in more of their people and what was intended to be a small gathering of good folks turns into the kind of rager that requires the host to secretly call in the cops to break up. We never wanna see the cops, but we don’t want the responsibility of tempering our own feelings and expectations so we put it in the hands of someone else. Editors, publishers, people who should know who I am because I wrote a hell of an issue!

I felt like I was disappearing. I’ve repeated that a lot over the past few months, a kind of fucked up way of displacing the blame. I had gotten wrapped up in my own expectant glory and was gulping down my own cyanide laced Kool-Aid. I was dumb to do so, I had ignored finding balance and feeling gratitude and had lept into feeling due more.

I share this shame as if I was stomping about with big demands, which isn’t the case. These feelings were internalized and I conducted myself in a more idealized manner. I would share the truth about how blessed I felt, and withhold the parts about wanting more. Facing myself now I understand that this kind of thing is very human and very normal. We are all seekers, even with plenty we want more, an overabundance, and even then we will seek. This is a critical element of abuse and if you don’t have moments of reflection such as this you will never be charitable, understanding, and compassionate. You will become a hoarder of emotions and commodities. You will become a dragon nested on a mountain of ill gained wealth and feelings that have been so tamped down they have become crystalline vestiges of the qualities that you have sacrificed in pursuit of the unattainable.

Do I still strive toward something greater? Of course! It’s fun to chase this vaporous idea of success, even as it changes form and deceives you at every turn. My father is an avid fisherman and he would be the first to tell you that a bass on the line is only a small part of the allure of it. It’s the ritual, the escape, the mystery of what waits in the darkened waters. The good stuff swims deep as David Lynch says, and the good stuff is only good when it’s rare and elusive. This is true in love and life and most certainly with regard to big creative goals.

Months into the Quarantine I was no longer feeling like I could keep it up. I wanted to keep making things but it felt unimportant. In addition to the disease we were seeing all kinds of dramatic and painful things happening day after day. My little dreams didn’t matter. Comics didn’t matter. I didn’t matter. In many ways this still rings true, but I worked to redevelop my relationship with the process and that continues to this very moment.

Out of the blue an email came through from the most unlikely editor. This editor is someone who I thought hated me, or at least saw me as some kind of abscess. The email specifically asked about me and my interest in writing a Midnighter book with Becky.

This was a no brainer of course, YES I am interested in writing Midnighter! I’m no fool, I recognize that Becky is the target here, but goddammit my name was there too… I was asked for! I felt like a polaroid slowly revealing its subject. I had been seen, however vaguely, and I was again visited by Hope. This time I was prepared and demanded that we meet in a public space and I let my loved ones know where I’d be and if I didn’t return to send help.

Immediately I knew what I wanted to do with Midnighter and I think my enthusiasm was appreciated. After a video conference with some of the other Future State teams I felt validated knowing that these ideas had inspired them to connect with us further to tie the pieces together. Not long after this the Goddess herself presented.

When we got asked to do the “Immortal Wonder Woman” book I was more prepared for the good feelings. I was riding high on Midnighter, and I was ready to simply smile and nod and commit to telling the best damn Wonder Woman story I could. It all came together quickly and since completing it I feel confident in saying it is going to shake people to their core. Between the recent work on Midnighter and Wonder Woman I feel like I have made the most of this opportunity and I have been a valuable asset to the team. I cannot wait for y’all to see what we’ve done on both of those books.

After these things come out I don’t expect anything. I hope that people like it. I hope I have done my editors proud, and that we’ve given the readers something worthy of attention. I hope that I find other opportunities as a result, but these are the limits of Hope this time. I have a healthier relationship with it and I feel proud to have killed that greedy nag that it can become. 

I’m one of several newer voices in Future State and I’ve seen some strange things as a result that I would like to comment on in closing. Something that has kind of bothered me is the way people have responded to some of my peers on social media as if they stumbled onto a loose bit of cash tossed down the street by some zephyr beyond their control. This is strange because getting a job is never like winning the lottery, especially in cases such as this. The folks who have contributed to the strange tapestry of Future State have busted their asses off in ways that some cannot imagine. Indeed, maybe some can, because it is this kind of heartache and soul crushing rejection and radio silence and perseverance required that keeps some from pursuing this kind of work. Even in my case as a co-writer, if what I contributed wasn’t up to snuff I would be cut. Plain and simple, this isn’t luck, it’s the product of a lot of sleepless nights, self doubt, and a willingness to walk through fire; and that’s just to get to the dance. We will only know if the pain was worth it when we are done and our self assessment is balanced against the response of the readership and critics. In the meantime we wait and develop stomach issues. We question our own value, right to the core, bypassing the work entirely. If you don’t like what we’ve done it hurts, I don’t care what anyone else says.

That aside, it’s been really neat seeing people get excited for this event. There is so much good stuff going on and it’ll be really thrilling when January and February roll around and the most important ingredient of the creative process is added. You.

Posted on by michaelwconrad · 2 Comments

An Unnamed-Unknowable Place

I used to have these bad ear infections as a kid. Apparently this was something that had been going on since I had been a baby, but there were a couple standout moments in my early childhood that I can still recall.

Ear infections are tricky to describe, it’s a pain that has no analogous value, if you’ve had one you know. It isn’t exactly a headache, or a sinus issue, it walks the line in a way that generates agony of an exquisite nature that we lack the language to describe. Something interior, hot, a pressure, it isn’t a migraine, but similarly it cannot be escaped, and sensory input can exacerbate it. In my case the afflicted ear would boil with heat, the outer elements would feel swollen, ablaze with radiant torture from deep inside.

I must have been five or six when the last real bad one gripped me. I’ve had them since, but life dulls the intensity of all things. When I was young there were many foods I struggled to eat, things like onions and tomatoes. I’ve read that it’s the acidity that makes kids less likely to enjoy such things. Young, sensitive palates that have not yet beaten into submission by whiskey shots and packs of Pall Mall. I suspect that this is the case with pain as well. Suffering is something we learn to rationalize after years of torment inflicted by virtue of existence and all the nastiness of feeling our bodies slowly become less and less capable. While I can no longer engage in some of the high impact foolishness of my youth, I am well prepared to accept pain and to move through it.

Maybe this was an exceptional infection, it’s hard to say, I just remember my parents showing great concern and preparing hot packs to hold to my ear. Little was expected of me, I was allowed to heal, I was allowed to cry and even to feel sorry for myself. I was given affection, my back was rubbed and I was told that I was a beautiful boy, that this would pass, that I was loved.

The pain that comes later in life is generally more existential. We fear bills and betrayal by our lovers. We start to think more often of death as a cruel eventuality rather than a freak thing that happens to the unfortunate. We start to see the celebrities we admired meet their ends, old school friends pulled away from this life by the kinds of ailments that were surely only dangerous for the few older people we had in our lives. We start to look at our failed dreams and those still lingering as foolish trappings of a time when pepperoni was too spicy. We get cigarettes punched out on our dreams and we’re left with the ashen reality of the situation. The rent is due. You don’t have good ideas anymore. Whiskey shots.

This sadness can’t be properly addressed. Mom can’t rub your back and tell you that you are her little pumpkinhead. The person you love is looking at their own mortality with the same terror you are, your friends are reconciling their orphaned dreams with the same degree of regret and woe. Most importantly, you can’t talk about your pain and fear because it’s too strange to describe.

This last earache kept me up at night. I was allowed to stay on the couch with the TV on, my parents knew that a bit of distraction goes a long way in situations such as these. I don’t recall what was playing, I just remember laying there in the stillness of twilight. The program on the TV was of little comfort- I had this pain I couldn’t figure out, no end in sight, no way to end it, I just had to endure.

So I screamed.

It was from somewhere deep, not from the lungs or the diaphragm, it was from a deeper place, a place beyond my body, somewhere in a distant time before me, a place that will still be there when I am gone. This mysterious place, this unnamed-unknowable place, a place I suspect mothers who have lost their children know. A place the clinically depressed are too familiar with. A place of suicide and loss and grief. An echo shot back in time, a scream that I cannot find today, but I know it’s sound, I’ve just lost the threshold with which to hear it. It’s the sound of the vacuum. It’s the sound of the universe mourning itself. I had stumbled across that tonality through the pain, but was well aware the scream would bring me no comfort… I was just out of options.

My parents came to me, both with great concern. They understood the sound to be their little boy in pain. They just didn’t know that this was the start of the long, hollow, now muted bray that would live inside of me, as it does in you, forever.

I took up meditation very young, several years later. I explored religious thinking, trying to understand this new pain. The ear healed, the details now live on an island in the fog of my memory, the pain was an effigy of the yawning terror of living. I didn’t suffer like that again, I had graduated. The meditation has tamped it down at times, but there is no silencing the bellows. It’s always there for me, my truth.

I started eating onions and swearing and living on less sleep. I started drinking booze and not sharing my fear. I stopped complaining and lived with it; rubbed some dirt in it, walked it off. I took work helping others, ate up all their “sins” and tried to forget what I learned. I changed my worldview, I abandoned hope, I became something other than myself.

Earaches are caused by lifeforms setting up shop in the cave of your tympanic cavity and struggling to live. Theirs is an existence so completely strange I cannot even imagine. They find somewhere suitable to reproduce (in this case your ear hole) and build communities. These communities use resources and produce waste and in time their world will die. I wonder if in those short generations there are ones who peer from the depths of the ear canal? Do the young fungi scream? Do the mature bacteria mourn their squandered time? Do they miss their dead? Does the ear speak to them as it spikes with heat attempting to stem-the-tide of growth and consumption? Do they dream, in their viral incompleteness, for something we understand less than simply living? 

My mother stayed up with me, consoling me, holding the hot compress to the side of my head. A tiny dying Christ tableau in the darkness. Somewhere in her heart she had that scream too. Somewhere we all scream within. The ear of the universe too infected to listen, an atonal plea to be seen. 

I cannot describe this pain.