J.M. DeMatteis's CREATION POINT

CREATION POINT AND BEYOND

2012-01-23T13:53:00.000-05:00

Over the years, I’ve had the opportunity to mentor young writers: sharing my knowledge and experience, teaching them about the vital basics of craft and encouraging them to grow beyond their comfort zones and embrace the art of story. There’s no joy greater than creating your own tale, surrendering to the mysteries and metaphysics of storytelling; but there’s a unique pleasure to be found in helping others do the same: to see someone’s personal vision take shape, to watch their creative selves transform and grow.   In recent years I’ve continued this mentoring in new forms, first as editor-in-chief of Ardden Entertainment, then as a freelance editor and, most recently, through the launching of my Imagination 101 writing workshops. Teaching the workshops has been a genuine delight. You can’t beat sitting in a conference room for an entire weekend, working intimately with aspiring writers: answering their questions, dissecting their ideas, enjoying the electric atmosphere generated by a group of enthusiastic, creative people.   The workshops will continue—my next one is in Massachusetts in April and I’ve got more planned for upstate New York and New York City later in 2012—but I’ve also seen a need for a one-on-one mentoring program. Toward that end, I’ve joined with two partners to launch Creation Point Story Consultation. CPSC will provide anyone who’s interested with a chance to get feedback, analysis, hands-on editing and sincere encouragement as they build their imaginary worlds from the ground up. Perhaps you’ve got an idea for a comic book that you’ve been wanting to develop for years, or a half-written graphic novel, a first draft screenplay, even The Great American Novel. Creation Point Story offers you a chance to work with skilled mentors who will help you bring that work to the next level.

Joining me in this endeavor are Derek Ivan Webster and Cody DeMatteis. I first met Derek about a decade back when he was head of the story department at the Los Angeles based Acme Talent and Literary. His job was to work with the screenwriters that the agency represented, dissecting their scripts and offering insights and analysis to help the writer’s vision manifest with more clarity and impact. I was impressed with Derek from the start: his understanding of the elements that make a great story was, and remains, powerful and impressive. Derek and I have collaborated on several projects over the years—we’re working on a novel at the moment—and we hatched the CPSC concept together as a way to extend that collaboration. I first met Cody when he was born. Yes, he’s my son (and, as such, you could say he was my first writing student), but he’s also a highly skilled editor who’s worked in the trenches at both Boom! Studios and Devil’s Due, shepherding story and art through the entire creative process. (As a result, Cody knows more about the day-to-day mechanics of producing comic books than I do.) These days he works in the television business, on staff at Cartoon Network’s hugely successful spinoff, Adult Swim. Cody’s got the kind of mind that’s always working outside the box. His insights into story, and life, are funny, deep, unique and unexpected. I’d want him as a partner even if we weren’t related.

We're working a few kinks out of the CPSC site—so, for now, if you're interested in our services, send an email to:

Story.CreationPoint@gmail.com

Maybe we’ll find ourselves working together soon.

NO SOPA RADIO

2012-01-19T16:25:00.003-05:00

With all the talk about SOPA lighting up the internet (this post was inspired by a spirited discussion on Twitter last night), digital piracy is on everyone’s mind. I’m far from an expert on the subject, but it’s clear, in our burgeoning Download Age, that this problem will be with us for the long haul.

We’re in a time of shifting models and the entertainment conglomerates are tap-dancing on quicksand, trying to figure out how to deal with those shifts, how to adjust to the new templates, before they sink and disappear. They’re not just worried about piracy: they’re worried about a dizzying new world where the line between creator and audience is growing thinner and thinner. Where a band can record, market and sell their material without the need of a label; where filmmakers and authors can jettison movie studios and publishers and do the same. Given all that, the conglomerates’ terror and confusion is understandable; but bringing down a legal hammer so broad that you don’t just smash the bad guy but crush the skulls of everyone in sight means you really need to rewrite your law.

There’s always been some kind of piracy around entertainment. When I was a teenager, I’d borrow albums from friends and tape-record them. It was a way to get familiar with an artist and his work. If I liked that artist, I’d go out and buy his music, so the “free sample” worked to the artist’s advantage in the end. I think the same is true now. A certain amount of free sampling is inevitable and, up to a point, a valuable tool for building an audience. I'm certainly not advocating piracy, it's money out of my pocket (as Ron Marz has pointed out, that loss is magnified on creator-owned comics where most writers and artists are working for free, hoping for payback down the line), but there are always shades of gray, especially when dealing with a thorny, complex topic like this: not everyone who downloads an album or comic book is a felon   

The bottom line—my bottom line, anyway—is this: If you’re enthusiastic about a particular creator, buy his or her work and then let others know about it. If you spread the word via file-sharing, it’s not much different than loaning a friend one of your books or CDs. Just as I once became an obsessive fan after taping my friends’ vinyl albums, many of your friends will become fans who’ll spend their hard-earned money on actively supporting that creator’s work.

I believe, to the core of my being, in the decency of human beings and I don’t think the average person expects, or wants, to get content for free if it means depriving artists of their livelihoods. People understand that writers, illustrators, filmmakers and musicians make their living, feed their families, with their songs and stories and movies. As others have pointed out, iTunes has demonstrated brilliantly that consumers will happily pay for the thing they were getting for free. If the experience is simple, intuitive and attractive and the price is reasonable, people will be banging down your (cyber) door. As the iPad, Kindle and devices like them become more common, and as more and more work becomes available in easily-accessed digital forms, I think we’ll see less piracy. But the sad truth is, the people who think they never have to pay for anything—who in some warped way believe they deserve free content—will always be with us. These voracious gobblers are the real problem, deserving of a well-targeted legal hammer.  

So, yes, let’s get some excellent anti-piracy legislation out there. But let’s do it wisely and well.

©copyright 2012 J.M. DeMatteis

THE GIRL WITH THE UMBRELLA

2012-01-15T19:30:00.002-05:00

Sometimes the universe knows exactly what it’s doing. Well, I believe the universe always knows exactly what it’s doing, but it only becomes evident to me on those ineffable occasions when the scales fall from my eyes and I see the cosmic magic at work all around me. Case in point:

I've been developing an idea for an all-ages fantasy for a while now. Unlike most stories, which grow from a plot nugget or a particular character, this one developed from a name, which dropped into my head one morning while I was sitting on the back porch with my wife. (I’m keeping that name under wraps for now, so let’s call her “Jane Smith.”) The instant the name appeared, I knew I was on to something—or perhaps I should say that something was on to me—but I had no idea what. I decided to tuck the name (and a very intriguing name it was: odd and evocative) away in the kitchen of my unconscious, turn on the psychic stove and see what cooked up.

As time passed, no story evolved, but “Jane Smith” didn’t go away; she was always reminding me that she was nearby and that, when the time was right, her tale would emerge. I waited patiently but, instead of a story, what emerged were more names: a list of wonderful—and wonderfully peculiar—names for characters that, just like my main character, I knew absolutely nothing about. Where was the story? When would it arrive? (I felt like an expectant mother, frustrated by a pregnancy of undetermined length.) Still, after so many years of interacting with the delightful, and sometimes elusive, entities from the Land of Story, I knew better than to force things; so, once again, I tucked the names away on the back burner of the psychic stove, turned on the heat and waited patiently for the kitchen timer to ring. (Let’s dump this kitchen metaphor here: it’s wearing thin.)

In recent months, details of the story began pounding on the door of my unconscious. I started to get a sense of who my main character and her cohorts were (among other things, I learned that "Jane" has the ability to ride the wind and lives in the ruins of an old castle) and what their adventures were about; not enough to start writing, but certainly enough to keep me excited and intrigued. In recent weeks, the pressure in the back of my head (which is where I actually feel new stories gestating) started building and that door began to buckle inward. More details manifested, images began to form, plot elements crawled under the door, rose up and did a little dance across my mind. If I was pregnant with story, it was now time to call the doctor and head for the hospital. But, on the way there, something truly magical happened.

There’s an artist I know—he lives in Greece—named Vassilis Gogtzilas. We met through my son, back when Cody was an editor at Devil’s Due, and I immediately responded to the energy and imagination of Vassilis’ work: in some ways it reminded me of the work of my brilliant Brooklyn Dreams collaborator, Glenn Barr; but Vassilis’ art had a life, and an identity, all its own. Since 2008, we’ve had an ongoing correspondence and Vassilis has been kind enough to share the evolution of his art with me. We’ve talked, very vaguely, about doing a project together, but the stars never quite aligned.

Until the other day.

I went to the mailbox and found a sketchbook Vassilis published called Splat! Leafing through it, I was impressed, as always, by Vassilis' work, but especially intrigued by a particular drawing of a young girl holding an umbrella, a castle far in the background. There was a tone, a feeling, a gentle magic, in that picture that seemed different from Vassilis’ usual work. More than any other illustration in Splat!, that one burrowed into my head and took up lodging there. I was sitting by the piano at the time and, very spontaneously, almost entranced, started to play and sing a song about my lead character, “Jane Smith.” As I was singing, I was gazing at the drawing of the umbrella-girl. Somewhere in the middle of the song I stopped, my head practically splitting open, as I realized, with astonishment and delight, that the girl in the picture was “Jane Smith.” Vassilis had sketched her, brought her to life, without even realizing it.   I ran to my wife, showed her the drawing—“That’s her! That’s ‘Jane’!”—then ran to the computer, sending Vassilis an email, telling him about the piano-side miracle he’d manifested and asking if he’d collaborate with me on this new story, bringing it to visual life. A few minutes later a resounding “Yes!” arrived from Greece—and we were off.

Inspired by Vassilis’ drawing of the girl with the umbrella, I wrote an outline; and, as I wrote, all the elements that had been growing larger and larger in my pregnant consciousness—and quite a few that seemed to supernaturally appear as I typed—pushed out through the birth canal of my imagination. New twists, new turns, new characters. With a robust cry, a massive all-ages fantasy epic was born, one that has me as excited as any idea I’ve had in years. At the moment, I’m writing character descriptions, Vassilis is designing those characters and their world and we’re both caught in the grip of our story; a story that would still be floating in the womb if Vassilis hadn’t (literally) drawn our main character down from the Land of Story and inspired me in such a magical, and transformative, way.

When things like this happen—when creative miracles manifest before my widening eyes—being a writer is the best job in the world.

No, in all the worlds.


The umbrella-girl and one of her dearest friends ©copyright 2012 J.M. DeMatteis/artwork ©copyright 2012 Vassilis Gogtzilas

THE FAR REACHES OF IMAGINATION

2012-01-10T14:19:00.000-05:00

There will be three Imagination writing workshops in the first half of 2012 and I’m delighted to announce the first one, which is happening in conjunction with a wonderful Massachusetts comics shop called Modern Myths...

IMAGINATION 101
writing for comic books, graphic novels and animation
with J.M. DeMatteis

When:   Friday April 13th, 7 pm to 9 pm
              Saturday April 14th, 10 am to 5 pm (90 minute break for lunch)
              Sunday April 15th, 9 am to 1 pm

Where:  Modern Myths
             34 Bridge Street #4
             Northampton, MA. 01060

Join master storyteller J.M. DeMatteis for a weekend exploring the realms of imagination, from the metaphysical to the practical. We’ll ponder the big questions...

~ Where do ideas come from?
~ What part does will play in the creative process?
~ Is the best writing actually an act of channeling?
~ Do we create the story or does the story create us?

...and tackle the day-to-day realities of a career writing superhero sagas, fantasy epics and animation:

~ What’s the difference between “Marvel style” and “full script”?
~ What’s the value of editors?
~ Are agents necessary?
~ How do you handle rejection without jumping out the nearest window?

Come prepared to listen—as JMD shares stories and insights gleaned from more than thirty years writing comics, television, film and novels—but be prepared to work: you’ll pitch ideas, dialogue artwork and help create a story from the ground up.

Bring all your questions, too: this won’t be a brief, two hour seminar. You’ll have an entire weekend, in an intimate setting, to explore your own creativity with J.M. DeMatteis as your guide.

Cost $415.00
Class size is limited. To guarantee your place, register now.

To register and for more more information about lodging and transportation: imaginationworkshops@gmail.com

 
And look for JMD’s four-day, writing-intensive Imagination 201 (open only to those who have taken Imagination 101), coming to Kingston, New York in May of 2012!

GENTLY DOWN THE STREAM

2012-01-09T13:50:00.001-05:00

I've wanted to stream some of my music here at Creation Point for some time now, but haven't been able to figure out how. Truth is, I'm still figuring it out—but, in the meantime, I came across a site that was streaming one of my songs, complete with a code for embedding it elsewhere. So here, for your listening and dancing pleasure, is a selection—from my CD How Many Lifetimes?—called "Baba Rain." I hope you'll enjoy it. (And, with a little luck, I'll stream more music in the coming months.)

	J.M. DeMatteis - BABA Rain

	Found at BABA Rain on Duck.fm

APOCALYPSE NO

2012-01-06T12:31:00.000-05:00

“Another year over and a new one just begun,” as the song says. But this, of course, isn’t just any year, this is 2012. This is the year when, some say (many of them blaming the Maya for their own Apocalyptic hunger), the world will come to a horrible end. When doom and disaster engulf us and Time Itself reaches its conclusion, sinking Creation into a sea of Infinite Nothing.

To which I say—if that’s the world you want, go for it. I’ve written before about the idea that the universe is just dreamstuff: an eternal ocean of primal energy that’s only given form by our perceptions. In other words, it’s all an illusion, tailored to, created by, the individual consciousness: every one projecting our dream-universes into the Void. And with each choice we make, each mental step we take, each thought we send vibrating out into that ocean of energy, we birth new universes, an infinite stream of shimmering bubbles blown through the wand of our minds. (With God, of course, as the Dreamer of dreamers; but let’s save that metaphysical digression for another post.)

So if you’re looking for your own very personal Apocalypse—if that’s where you’re investing your time and consciousness—I believe that’s what you’ll get. In your universe, in your dream. I choose not to invest my mind and heart in doomsday scenarios: I’m focusing my consciousness on bringing forth a Golden Age. In making 2012 as positive, as magical and miraculous, a year as we’ve ever seen. I suspect that many—make that most—of you reading this feel the same way. So let's raise a toast to a year of positive transformation, of peace and abundance, joy, health and unfettered creativity.

Happy Dreaming to you all. And a very Happy New Year.   

©copyright 2012 J.M. DeMatteis

A CHRISTMAS TRADITION

2011-12-20T18:06:00.001-05:00

On television they’re trotting out Miracle on 34th Street, A Christmas Story, seemingly-infinite variations on A Christmas Carol (none better than the 1951 version starring the incomparable Alastair Sim) and my absolute favorite, It’s a Wonderful Life (yes, I cry every time I see it. That’s the sign of a great story: you're surprised and moved even when you know every beat).   Here at Creation Point we have our own Yuletide tradition. A few years ago—born out of my inordinate love for this heart-filling, soul-transforming, sacred and transcendent season—I wrote a short Christmas tale called The Truth About Santa Claus. Since then, I’ve been offering it annually as a kind of cyber Christmas present: my way of wishing all of you who visit this site the happiest of holidays and the most magical of Christmases. I offer it again this year. So grab a plate of Christmas cookies, pull a chair up close to the fireplace and enjoy.

Here's to a new year filled with health, happiness, prosperity, abundance, creativity, magic—and love above all. See you all in 2012.

THE TRUTH ABOUT
SANTA CLAUS

“THERE IS NO SANTA CLAUS!”

He’d been thinking about it for days—ever since he heard Big Mouth Jenny Rizzo announce it on the school bus—and he didn’t believe a word of it, not one word. (Well, maybe ONE.) But Cody had to be sure, absolutely, positively sure—

—and that’s why he was hiding behind the couch at midnight on Christmas Eve.

His mother was there, asleep in his dad’s old easy chair, the reds and blues of the Christmas tree lights making her look peaceful and happy and impossibly young.

The tree, by the way, had not ONE SINGLE PRESENT underneath it.

That didn’t make sense. If there WAS no Santa Claus, if his mother was the one who bought the presents, wrapped the presents, stacked them under the tree, then how come she hadn’t done it? How come she wasn’t awake RIGHT NOW arranging them all?

He got scared. Maybe there wasn’t going to BE a Christmas this year. Maybe Mom had lost her job and they didn’t have any money and so she COULDN’T buy him any presents and—

And then Cody glanced over at the windows and noticed that it was snowing.

Or was it?

If that was snow, it was the WHITEST snow he’d ever seen. It was snow as bright as moonbeams, as bright as sunlight, as bright as...

Stardust.

Quickly, but quietly (he didn’t want to wake his mother), he scurried to the window and looked out.

It was coming down and coming down and COMING DOWN all across town, whirling and whipping, spinning and gyrating, out of the night sky. Glowing so brightly that it almost hurt his eyes to look at it. And Cody saw that it certainly wasn’t snow, and it absolutely wasn’t rain, it wasn’t ANYTHING he’d ever seen before. But each drop, no...each flake, no... each BALL of glowing WHATEVER IT WAS, seemed to pulse and spin, soar and vibrate, as if it were alive.

And the stuff, the magical WHATEVER IT WAS (and he knew now that it was magic. He just KNEW), wasn’t collecting on the streets, wasn’t piling up on the rooftops. It was MELTING INTO (that’s the only way he could put it: MELTING INTO) every house (no matter how small) and apartment building (no matter how big).

EVERY house and apartment building.

EVERY.

He looked up.

And there it was: coming RIGHT THROUGH THE CEILING of Apartment 3F, HIS apartment, swirling, like a tornado of light, around the chandelier and then down, down, down—

—STRAIGHT FOR HIS MOTHER.

At first he almost yelled out a warning, “Mom! Wake up! MOM!” But something made him stop.

Instead of yelling he ducked back behind the couch and watched, eyes peering over the top.

Watched as the light-tornado wheeled around his mother, so fast, so bright, that he could hardly even SEE her. But he COULD see her. Most of her, anyway.

And what he SAW...

The light poured in through the top of her head, through her eyes, through her chest, through her toes. It lifted her up—still sleeping!—and carried her out of her chair and across the room. And as she floated—

—she started to change:

Her hair became white, her nose became red, her belly ballooned like the most pregnant woman in the history of the world. Her feet grew boots, her head grew a hat, her nightgown grew fur. An overstuffed sack sprouted, like a lumpy angel’s wing, from her shoulder. And then—

AndthenandthenandTHEN, it wasn’t his mother there at all, it was him, it was SANTA CLAUS! STANDING RIGHT THERE IN CODY’S LIVING ROOM! Santa Claus who, with a laugh (exactly like the laugh Cody always knew he had, only better) and a twinkle in his eyes (exactly like the twinkle he’d always imagined, ONLY BETTER) reached into his sack and pulled out package after package, present after present, and placed them, carefully, like some Great Artist contemplating his masterpiece, under the tree.

When he was done, Santa Claus stood there, grinning and shaking his head, as if he couldn’t BELIEVE what a beautiful tree this was, how wonderful the presents looked beneath it. As if this moment was the greatest moment in the history of Christmas, as if this apartment was the only place in all the universes that such a Christmas could ever POSSIBLY happen.

And then the MOST amazing thing happened:

Santa Claus turned.

He turned slowly. So slowly Cody couldn’t even tell at first that he was moving at all. And—slowly, SLOWLY—those twinkling eyes, that Smile of smiles, fixed itself on the two boy-eyes peering, in wonder, over the top of the couch.

And what Cody felt then he could never really say: only that it was better than any present anyone could ever get. Only that it made his heart so warm it melted like magical WHATEVER IT WAS, trickling down through his whole body. Only that it made him want to reach out his arms and hug Santa Claus, hug his mother, hug his father (and FORGIVE him too, for running out on them) and his aunts and uncles and cousins (even his Cousin Erskine who was SUCH a pain) and Big Mouth Jenny Rizzo (who really wasn’t so bad most of the time) and all his friends and teachers and the kid in his karate class who always smelled SO BAD and, embarrassing as it sounds, it made him want to hug everyone and everything in the whole world including rabbits and snakes and trees and lizards and grass and lions and mountains and, yes, the EARTH HERSELF.

Cody wanted to hold that gaze, to keep his eyes locked on Santa’s, forever. (Or longer, if he could.) Wanted to swim in that incredible feeling, drown in it, till GOD HIMSELF came down to say: “Enough!”

Except that he blinked. Just once. But in that wink of an eye, Santa was gone. Cody’s mother was asleep in the chair again and, for one terrible moment, the boy thought that the whole thing must have been a dream.

Except, under the tree: THERE WERE THE PRESENTS.

Except, out the window: THERE WAS THE SNOW, the rain, the magical WHATEVER IT WAS, shooting up, like a blizzard in reverse, from every house, every apartment building. Shooting up into the heavens, gathering together like a fireball, like a white-hot comet—

—and fading away into the night: going, going...

Gone.

Without so much as a tinkling sleigh-bell or a “Ho-ho-ho.”

Not that it mattered.

Cody looked at his mom.

Cody kissed her.

“I love you,” he said. And he was crying. Happy tears. Christmas tears. Like moonbeams, like sunlight. Like stardust.

Mom stirred in the chair, smiled the softest sweetest smile Cody had ever seen. “I love you, too,” she said.

And then she drifted back to sleep.

Cody sat at her feet, warming himself, warming his SOUL, by the lights of the tree.

And soon, he, too, was drifting off to sleep. And as he drifted, a wonderful thought rose up, like a balloon, inside him. Rose, then POPPED—spreading the thought to every corner of his mind. Giving him great comfort. Great delight:

“One day,” the thought whispered, “when you’re all grown-up, when you have children of your own. ONE DAY,” the thought went on...

“It will be YOUR TURN.”

Merry Christmas.

© copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

BEAUTIFUL DREAMS

2011-12-16T17:20:00.000-05:00

Thanks to the kind folks at IDW Publishing, I just received an advance copy of the new hardcover edition of Brooklyn Dreams. I'm happy to report that Chris Ryall, Justin Eisenger and their entire team have done a fantastic job. Something about a hardcover adds a feeling of permanence to the book and the larger size—significantly bigger than the previous collection—really lets Glenn Barr's extraordinary art shine.

There are few projects of mine that mean as much to me as BD and none that mean more. The IDW edition releases on January 11th: a great start to the new year.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FRANKIE

2011-12-12T10:35:00.007-05:00

Frank Sinatra's always been there in my life. My mother—who, as a teenager, would cut high school to go swoon over Sinatra at New York's Paramount theater—made sure his songs were playing constantly in our house. (For the record: My father loved Frankie just as much. If you were Italian, you had to. It was a genetic imperative.) I may have been a child of the rock and roll generation, but I was always under Sinatra's spell; and the older I got, the more I came to love—make that revere—his mix of swagger and vulnerability, bravado and tenderness. Most of all I came to appreciate the aching humanity in Frank Sinatra's music. For all his Vegas, Rat Pack glamor, he was, beneath it all, a skinny kid from Hoboken who knew the same loneliness and despair, hope and joy, that we all do. And he was blessed with an extraordinary voice that could express it in the most natural, and yet magical, of ways.

In honor of what would have been Frank Sinatra's 96th birthday, here are some classic moments—starting with a very young Sinatra singing what was then his signature song:

And now here's Frankie at the height of his powers, with the amazing Count Basie and his orchestra storming away behind him:

And, finally, Sinatra in the autumn of his years, voice waning (and all the more poignant for it), facing down the darkness with eloquence and heart.

Happy Birthday, Frank. The song is you, indeed.

AS LIGHT AS A FEATHER, AS HAPPY AS AN ANGEL

2011-12-09T13:43:00.002-05:00

I was ready to create a new Christmas post—something I try to do every year—when I came across a binder that contained the following piece that I wrote, four years ago, for my extinct—and utterly obliterated—Amazon blog. Reading it, I realized that it said everything I want to say to you about this most magical of seasons. (Thanks to my 2007 self for doing all the work!) So here it is (with some minor editing): a cyber-angel to top the Creation Point tree.

***

How exactly does it happen? One minute it’s Halloween, then Thanksgiving gallops past, Madison Avenue starts shoving Christmas commercials down our throats—and I find myself feeling impossibly older, wondering how another year could have gone by so blindingly fast. I’m not remotely in the mood to deck any halls, let alone start shopping. It may not be “Christmas—bah, Humbug!” but it’s certainly, “Christmas? Not yet!” And then, suddenly:

I’m channel surfing and happen upon the 1938 version of A Christmas Carol (on TCM, of course)—and, instantly, I’m eight years old again: staying up late on Christmas Eve with my father and sister, watching both the ‘38 and (far superior) 1951 versions of ACC, which one of our local New York stations would play, over and over, all night long. (At least that’s the way I remember it. And the memory has more resonance than the reality, right?)

But it's not 1961 any more—and I’m sitting there, alone in my living room, completely enchanted by a story I’ve seen and read dozens...possibly hundreds...of times. How is it that each new encounter with A Christmas Carol—each moment of dread and hope, terror and redemption—feels utterly new? When it’s over (and by this time I’ve been joined by my wife and daughter) I sit there smiling: soul uplifted, utterly content.

A couple of days later, my wife and I go out and buy a Christmas tree. We angle it into the hatchback, head home, and the car starts to fill up with a distinctive scent of pine. That extraordinary smell goes straight to my heart: the next thing I know my eyes are thick with tears and I realize, without a doubt, that it really is Christmas.

Of course it wasn’t the scent of that particular tree that touched me so deeply, it was the scent of Christmas Itself: every Christmas I’ve ever lived through, every Christmas that’s ever been. The spirit of this season—when we celebrate the descent of God in human form—somehow transcends time and place, culture and religion, and calls forth the best of who we are as human beings on this planet. I can try to analyze it, but, really, it’s magic.

So no more grousing at commercials, no more ranting at Time for ripping through my life at warp speed. No, I’m going to breathe in the pine, plug in the lights, open the doors of our home to friends and family—and invite the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future to join us for a feast of the heart. I’m going to embrace the magic of Christmas and let it transform me.

May it transform you, too—and may we all carry that magic into the New Year and use it to transform our world in amazing and miraculous ways.

Merry Christmas!

©copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

DECEMBER 8. 1980

2011-12-08T19:30:00.003-05:00

THE POWER OF PLAY

2011-11-28T16:14:00.009-05:00

We live in an age of play dates, where it sometimes seems that you can’t get two children together without parents sifting through overstuffed schedules (“How about three weeks from Thursday?”), plotting travel routes on the GPS, planning kids’ activities as if they’re military campaigns. When I was growing up in Brooklyn, I lived in an apartment building—dozens of families with dozens of children inhabiting the same four story walk-up—which meant that the play date concept was utterly alien to me. If I was bored after school, all I had to do was tromp down the stairs and open the front door to find a screaming horde of kids waiting to hurl themselves, often literally, into an afternoon of play. Summer camp? Who needed it when when I was permanently enrolled in Camp Ocean Avenue? Summers, in fact, were the most intoxicating part of the year. For one thing there was no school. For another, those three months expanded out toward infinity, the vacation quite literally feeling as if it lasted thousands of years. Our perception of time, or perhaps our ability to see through the illusion of time, was very different then. Now I blink and a year passes; then you could stand on a mountaintop in June and never catch sight of September. July and August were endless countries, far beyond the tyranny of clocks.

My best friend, Bob Izzo, and I were both of the dreaming bent, storytelling came naturally to us, so the other kids often cast us—or perhaps we cast ourselves—in the role of Story Shamans, creating the worlds, the characters, the emotional premises for our collective adventures. (We didn’t realize what we were doing, of course, we just did it: spontaneously, effortlessly.) In essence, we were creating what we’d now call Role Playing Games. Twin game masters, we constructed launching pads from which our rockets of imagination would blast heavenward, passing through dimensional barriers into a multiverse of imaginary worlds. Weaving ancient spells, we shapeshifted our apartment house gang into cave men, cowboys, Civil Warriors; astronauts, pirates and knights of the realm. These games would last for days, sometimes weeks; one summer saga went on for months as we acted out a sprawling tale about a band of rebels trying to overthrow a despotic king. Bobby was the rebel leader, I was the prince, son of the despot, who, depending on my mood (and the plot twists required to keep things interesting) would either aid the rebels or betray them. (This epic came complete with a musical soundtrack: whenever he’d be engaged in a life-or-death duel—involving either imaginary swords or fallen branches—our friend Michael Todd would begin humming a score worthy of Bernard Herrmann or Erich Wolfgang Korngold.)

We wouldn’t always create new stories from the ground up, sometimes we’d take off on on a favorite movie (“Let’s play Robin Hood!”), a current book (when I was in the fifth grade, Izzo and I devoured, and then enacted, the James Bond series, except in our versions there were two dashing leads) or a familiar historical saga. One true story we were obsessed with was the tale of the Alamo. (What nine year old boy could resist a battle that combined Jim Bowie, Davy Crockett and a desperate lost cause? I must have read Robert Penn Warren’s book, Remember the Alamo!, half-a-dozen times). We would reenact, and wildly embellish, that classic last stand over and over. I was always Colonel Travis, drawing the line in the sand, telling the men that they were free to leave but, if they wanted to stay, they could cross that daunting line and remain with me—to die, heroically (or so it seemed to us then; we weren’t up on historical nuance) defending the fort.

Izzo and I created our own comic books, as well. Shocking as it may sound to those of you familiar with the pacifist thread in my work, I was crazy for war comics (before I ever read Spider-Man, I was a devoted follower of Marvel’s Sgt. Fury and his DC predecessor, the equally-unshaven Sgt. Rock). Working feverishly, Bobby and I produced two issues of The Daring Diamond Brothers: the story of four siblings (one in the Navy, one in the Army, one in the Marines and one in the Air Force) fighting World War II. Bob and I co-wrote the stories, I drew them (swiping as many images as I could from Fury, Rock, Johnny Cloud and the rest) and we both colored them with all the Crayola passion we cold muster. (In the second issue—titled “Death of a Diamond!”—P.T. Boat Captain Rob Diamond was killed in action and his brothers sought bloody revenge. Perhaps because we never thought we could top such a masterpiece, that was the final issue of The Daring Diamond Brothers.)

Drawing and comic books were two of my primary passions and, being at heart a solitary kid—more than happy to keep my own company—I’d spend endless hours alone, on the living room floor, creating comics. Sometimes I’d write and draw my own originals, sometimes—and I have incredibly clear memories of this—I’d take a comic I loved, place it next to me on the linoleum, then get out my paper and crayons and do my best to recreate that cover, line for line. It was like a meditation: concentrating on “Bob Kane’s” square-jawed Batman, time dissolved and—absorbed in a dimension of pure creativity, pure play—I was complete.

I bring all this up not for nostalgia’s sake, although the memories are wonderful ones, but because that purity of play is the heart and soul of the writing life—and something easily lost in the pressure cooker of the adult world. Yes, I’m blessed, beyond words, to be paid for doing something I love, to continue in the role of Story Shaman that Bob Izzo and I first performed all those years ago. On my best days, when that combination of innocence and imagination has me in its grip, I become less a writer than a channeler; a kid again, happily adrift in a world without time, all sense of self lost in the creative act. But there are days—sometimes too many of them—when what I do can become a (dare I say it?) job and I look at my work with a weary, and occasionally cynical, eye. When writing is reduced to merely work, something utterly essential is lost; and, in order to survive, to flourish, I have to, I must, reconnect with that little boy who journeyed to Mars and the Alamo, Sherwood Forest and Camelot.

Last year I made a small poster and taped it to one of the book cases in my office. On it is a magical formula: Imagination + Creativity = PLAY. Those words are accompanied by a picture of Mickey Mouse as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice (as pure an expression of imagination as I’ve ever come across), a spider (the Native American god of, among other things, writing and creation) and a couple of pictures of myself as an exceptionally-happy four year old. It’s a way to remind myself to remain as innocent, as joyful, as connected to Cosmic Dreaming as that little boy was. That’s the surest way to get out of a hole when a story I’m working on suddenly shrivels up and dies; when my characters stop talking to me; when editors, mortgage payments, rejections, deadlines and a mailbox full of bills conspire to crush my spirit. If I listen carefully, I can hear Little Marc’s voice, offering the best advice a writer can get. “It’s a game!” he says. “Lighten up! Have fun! Play!”   

And when I follow those instructions, this is, bar none, the greatest job in any universe.

JUST A LITTLE MORE IMAGINATION

2011-11-12T13:54:00.004-05:00

Thought I'd share a few reflections on the first Imagination 101 workshop, generously provided by some of the students in the class. And perhaps these comments will inspire you to sign up for the next workshop in the spring. (Look for an announcement early in 2012.)

“What an amazing experience! I know that there are hundreds who can benefit from your guidance in honoring our creative selves and I really hope they give themselves this chance to challenge themselves and to go beyond whatever held them back in the past. This workshop deserves to be a top priority for any potential writer. I can't thank you enough!“—Jeff Z

“Mr. DeMatteis taught us a great deal about how to write outlines, scripts (in different styles) and even how to collaborate with other creative minds. The weekend was also packed with precious inside knowledge and the no-pressure and always-positive environment he created has literally jump-started the hesitant writer inside of me. Thanks, J.M., for encouraging me to write from within—and without fear.”—Rodrigo B

“It was a great weekend! Can't recommend this class enough. Full of insights and inspiration. I've been writing like a maniac ever since. Looking forward to Imagination 201, 301, and then sipping scotch on the veranda with the lads from the class as we celebrate our first published works."—Eruch A.

"J.M led the workshop with a patient enthusiasm... He made it so intriguing to learn just how his characters came to him, how to tell their stories and how we could tell our own characters' stories. This was an imaginative, deep exploration into the creative process of character storytelling and creation that was both practical and inspiring. The group dynamic of creating our own storyline right alongside J.M himself was a thrill I will never forget. It was so much fun and went by so fast. Thank you!"—Joshua K

"Imagine if you will, a place where you can become anyone...be anywhere...do anything. That's just what J.M. DeMatteis and his Imagination 101 workshop empowers you to do. It's intense. It's laid back. It's a weekend in an unassuming conference room, but you'll soon find out how to leave the conference room and create your own universe with the power of imagination and will. Also, cheese. Lots of cheese."—Adam M

This ends the workshop hype—at least until January, 2012!

EXCEEDING IMAGINATION

2011-11-10T11:26:00.001-05:00

This past weekend I launched the first Imagination 101 writing workshop and it exceeded all my expectations, primarily because the students that arrived on Friday night were so incredibly sincere, enthusiastic and talented. They brought such an open-hearted, open-minded energy that it was easy for me to open up in return and, I hope, exceed their expectations as well.

We had a fantastic time talking about both the metaphysics of the writing life and the day-to-day practicalities. There were philosophical discourses, nuts-and-bolts dissections of craft, and, perhaps best of all, a chance to sit as a group and create a story from the ground up. By the time the workshop was over, we were already discussing the next level of class—Imagination 201: four days of intensive writing, building on the groundwork of the 101 weekend. With a little luck, I'll be launching that in May.

However much I prepared for Imagination 101, I really didn't know how it would play out; so thanks, deep thanks, to this extraordinary first class (you can see some, but not all, of them in the photo below) for giving me the gift of their enthusiasm and wisdom and making this event so memorable.

There's another 101 class coming up in Massachusetts in the spring—I'll make an announcement early in the new year—and I've got more planned here in upstate New York and elsewhere. I can't wait to see what amazing future will grow from the seeds that we all just planted.

GET IT WHILE YOU CAN

2011-10-29T11:35:00.000-04:00

If you missed my episode of Ben 10 last night, you can watch the first part below (and when that's done, you should be able to click on over to part two). I'm very happy with the way the show turned out—but I wouldn't expect anything less from a series overseen by the extraordinarily talented, and sorely missed, Dwayne McDuffie. Don't know how long this link will remain active, so get it while you can.

YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!

2011-10-28T10:46:00.003-04:00

Some of you may have heard about a forthcoming book—by former editor-in-chief of The Hollywood Retorter, Army Parsons—that claims to be a tell-all about my long and tumultuous collaboration with Keith Giffen. I'm happy to report that Keith and I have sued the company behind this four hundred page horror, Shlockmeister Press, and blocked publication of the book. To give you an idea of the incendiary nature of this disgusting (and, I hate to admit, often accurate) piece of trash, I present an excerpt from...

Giffen & DeMatteis:
THE SHOCKING TRUE STORY
by
Army Parsons

    In January of 2008, at the Lou Costello Memorial Trailer Park in Patterson, New Jersey, the prestigious Academy of Comedy Arts and Sciences presented their 54th Annual Pie In The Face Awards. The centerpiece of the evening was—as it has always been—the Lifetime Achievement Award. Over the years, the greats of comedy—from Jack Benny, George Burns and Groucho Marx to Robin Williams, Billy Crystal and Yahoo Serious—have taken the stage to be applauded by their peers and acknowledged for their groundbreaking contributions to the art and craft of comedy.
    2008 was a banner year for the PITFs as it was the first time in the Academy’s history that the LAA was presented not to comedic performers, but to writers: in this case, the number one comedy writing team of the latter half of the twentieth century, Keith Giffen and J.M. DeMatteis. (It’s true of course that Giffen & DeMatteis made two films together, the minor 1988 hit Bwah-ha-ha and the more recent, commercially disappointing, Bwah-ha-ha 2: Aren’t We Too Old For This?—but it is their written work, far more than their amiable, albeit embarrassingly inept, movies, for which they are celebrated.)
    It was nearly midnight when co-hosts William Shatner and Candice Bergen introduced comedy legend Shecky Hecky, who spoke at length about the Giffen/DeMatteis team and their profound influence on the landscape of modern humor. “From the first time,” Hecky said, eyes misting over with tears, “I picked up a copy of Justice League and saw Batman take out Guy Gardner with one punch, I knew...I absolutely knew...that I was in the presence of genius.”   Forty minutes later, after two thirds of the audience, bored by Hecky’s tedious and self-aggrandizing introduction, had left the park, the “Bwah-ha-ha” boys themselves, Giffen & DeMatteis, took to the stage, accompanied by the man credited with rescuing them from a decade of hellish obscurity, publishing magnate Ross Richie.
    The remaining audience members jumped to their feet for a deafening twelve second standing ovation while Keith and J.M. mugged and clowned, DeMatteis hitting Giffen over the head with a rubber chicken, Giffen playfully shattering DeMatteis’s ribs with a baseball bat.   Their acceptance speech was short and sweet: “Thank you,” a weeping DeMatteis said, while Richie phoned for an ambulance. “Go to hell, all of you bastards,” Giffen added, with customary charm.
    An incredible ending to an incredible night; but, how, I wondered, had it all begun?

***

    l986. Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. Heehee’s was the preeminent comedy club of the day. Jay Leno, Jerry Seinfeld, Anthony Hopkins and innumerable other young comics got their start at this cramped, smoky bistro.   Owner Sleazo Marx, briefly the adopted son of Zeppo Marx (I say briefly, because the adoption didn’t turn out well:   Sleazo was returned to the orphanage, for a full refund, after six weeks), recalled those heady days in his autobiography Sultan of Sleaze: “The place was always packed and I was always drunk and broke. Tuesday night was Open Mike Night...a chance for any kid with a dream (and twenty bucks) to step up and try out his stuff. That’s how I first met those two jackasses.”
    Giffen was a skinny kid from Queens with stars in his eyes and a chip on his shoulder. His act consisted of foul-mouthed insults, machine-gunned at the audience with a rapid-fire delivery reminiscent of Bob Hope and Adolph Hitler. He’d been coming to Open Mike Night for nearly a year...but his insult humor consistently failed to ignite the crowd. “Every week,” Sleazo noted, “the idiot would start a fist fight with somebody in the audience.   I remember this time six nuns visiting from Columbia beat the crap out of him. He was a week away from being banned from Heehee’s forever when he and DeMatteis hooked up.”
    J.M. DeMatteis was a naive and idealistic kid from the slums of Flatbush. Inspired by his heroes, Jack Benny, the Smothers Brothers and Huntz Hall, his was a style far more relaxed than his future partner’s. J.M. would take to the stage and, accompanying himself on the electric banjo, sing Beatles songs in Esperanto. Between numbers, he’d stand, with his mouth open (and occasionally drooling), staring blankly at the audience. “I worked for years, in front of the bathroom mirror, perfecting that stare,” J.M. would later reminisce. “I thought it was hilarious.” Unfortunately, no one else did.
    Giffen and DeMatteis became friends during this time, often sitting out on the Brooklyn docks between sets, sharing their dreams, while Giffen indulged in his lifelong habit of chain-smoking french fries. It was at this time that the two young men discovered their mutual love of comic books, specifically the work of innovator Stanley Myron Curbstone, creator of the classic, short-lived (it was canceled three weeks before he sold it to National Comics), 1940’s super-hero parody, Super-Hero Parody.   “I’m tellin’ ya,” the young Giffen once observed, “if this comedy thing doesn’t work out...I might try writin’ comics. I mean, how hard can it be puttin’ the words inside those little bubbles?”
    “Never give up on your dreams,” DeMatteis (a long-time follower of Indian sailor-turned-guru Barnacle Baba) responded. “You have to have faith, Keith—in yourself...and in the benevolence of the universe. Close your eyes, go deep into your soul. Manifest your dreams in your mind first—and then you’ll be able to bring them into form on the material plane.”
    “I hate that spiritual crap,” Giffen replied, before kicking DeMatteis into the bay.

***

    Entertainment lightning struck on the night of October 25, 1986. Giffen had already done his set—the response had been even worse than usual and, in retaliation, Keith urinated on the crowd—and DeMatteis was halfway through his routine, strumming away on his banjo, wailing an off-key, Esperanto rendition of “Helter Skelter.”
    That’s when someone in the audience—several witnesses claim it was Sleazo Marx himself—threw the brick, straight at J.M.’s head.
    The brick missed its mark but hit the banjo—a fifty dollar Sears Silvertone with an amplifier built into the case—and completely shattered it. Panicked and shaken, DeMatteis stood there, staring at the audience and drooling prodigiously.
    “I was watching him,” Giffen recalled, in the 2002 HBO documentary, How They Became Nobodies, “standing up there like a deer in the headlights. The audience was jeering and calling him names even I wouldn’t use. I knew I had to do something.” Jumping up onto a table directly in front of the stage, Giffen scratched his armpits like a monkey and shouted the first words that came into his head: “Bwah-ha-ha!” “I don’t know why I said it,” Giffen told HBO. “It didn’t have any special meaning. It just kinda popped out.” DeMatteis stopped drooling for a moment, focused on his friend and, without thinking, replied: “Bwah-ha-HA?”
    The audience laughed.
    “Bwah-HA-ha!” Giffen said in response.
    The audience howled.
    For the next forty-two minutes, Keith Giffen and J.M. DeMatteis kept repeating those three syllables, using every possible inflection, emphasis, and ersatz foreign accent they could think of: “Bwah-ha-ha!” over and over again.
    The laughter was deafening—and a comedy legend was born.

***

    They’d been playing to packed houses at Heehee’s for six straight weeks when The Incident happened. “Those morons were on the verge of incredible success,” Sleazo Marx wrote. “They could’ve been the next Wayne and Shuster.” Giffen & DeMatteis—that’s how they were now billed—were the hottest ticket in New York. They’d acquired an eager young manager—pop culture maven and, ironically, future comic book editor Danny Fingeroth—and were two weeks away from a national tour of the nation’s foremost comedy clubs. “Everywhere you went in New York,” Fingeroth told me, years later, the hurt and shock still evident in his eyes, “you could hear people on the street saying, ‘Bwah-ha-ha.’ I can’t believe that Giffen was dumb enough to throw it all away.”
    Accounts of the night’s events vary. All that’s really known is that, halfway through the duo’s second set, at precisely eleven forty-five p.m., Keith Giffen did something so twisted, so unspeakable, so despicable and vile that nobody who was there will ever talk about it. “Just you bringing it up,” Fingeroth told me, “makes me want to vomit repeatedly.” Sleazo Marx, in his autobiography, would only write, “I’ve seen repulsive things in my life...but this was so sickening it nearly made me lose control of my bowels.”
    In the HBO documentary, Giffen merely grins devilishly when asked about The Incident. DeMatteis, on the other hand, breaks down in tears. “Sleazo Marx,” he whimpers, “was so mad at us he immediately picked up the phone and called The King of Comedy himself, Milton Berle. When Sleazo told Milton what happened, it was all over. We were banned from show business forever. We were finished.”

***

    DeMatteis spent the next several months hidden away in the attic of his parents’ house. “I seriously considered going to India,” he recalled, “and spending the rest of my life in Barnacle Baba’s ashram. But no matter how much I begged, my father wouldn’t give me the money.”
    Giffen was living in a basement apartment in Queens, working nights at Burger King and smoking far too many french fries. “I’d steal them from the freezer and hide them under my shirt when I left work,” he once told me, in a rare display of vulnerability. “I think if I would have gone on that way, I would have died. Or gotten very fat. That’s when I got the comic book idea.”
    When DeMatteis’s phone rang in early 1987 and he heard Giffen’s voice on the other end, J.M. slammed the receiver down in anger. But Giffen kept calling and calling and, finally, DeMatteis’s mother—who desperately wanted her son out of the house—forced him to talk to Keith. “The comic book idea,” as Giffen called it, was simple. Take their unique brand of humor—The Bwah-ha-ha—and transport it to the printed page, following in the footsteps of their mutual idol, Stanley Myron Curbstone. DeMatteis thought the idea was idiotic until Giffen pointed out that, if they were very lucky, they might be able to split twelve bucks a page.
    With dollar signs dancing in his eyes, DeMatteis agreed.

***

    The team’s first stop was Marvel Comics, where Managing Editor Tom DeFalco listened to Giffen’s pitch for one of the company’s lowest selling titles, The Defenders. “Imagine this,” Giffen said, enthusiastically. “Doctor Strange is Jack Benny, the Hulk is Curly Howard and the Sub-Mariner is Paul Lynde.”
    “What about the Silver Surfer?” DeFalco asked.
    “That’s the best part!” DeMatteis erupted, leaping to his feet. “He doesn’t do anything! Just hangs out on the beach with a bunch of surfer-dudes!”
    Tom DeFalco was a gentle, saintly man with infinite patience, but, after listening, with mounting disgust, to Giffen and DeMatteis’s plans for desecrating four of Marvel’s most-beloved characters, he got up from behind his desk, rolled up his sleeves and proceeded to beat the team mercilessly. Even Giffen, quite the scrapper himself, was helpless before DeFalco’s fury. When the rampaging editor was done, bones were broken and copious blood had been spilled. “Get these bums outta here!” DeFalco barked to his assistant—who then tossed the two unconscious comedians into the service elevator.
    When he regained consciousness, DeMatteis was, understandably, upset. “Well,” he said to his partner, “here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”
    Giffen was undeterred. “C’mon,” he said, grabbing DeMatteis by the bloody nose and out onto the street, “we’re going uptown to DC!”

***

    The pair, having stopped to purchase crutches along the way, hobbled into the lobby of DC Comics at 3:45 on a Monday afternoon. As fate would have it, this was exactly when editor Andy Helfer (a shrewd and dapper young playboy perhaps best known as the man who hired artist/writer Frank Miller for the wildly-successful revival of Superman’s Pal, Jimmy Olsen) was arriving for work, accompanied by his valet, Kevin Maguire. (Maguire, born to humble farmers in Iowa, was an extraordinarily gifted young artist with dreams of becoming a comic book illustrator. He hoped that working for the wealthy and influential Helfer would pave the way for a career in the business.) The four stepped into an elevator together, unaware that Destiny had entered with them.
    Helfer, it turns out, was raised in Brooklyn and occasionally returned to his old stomping grounds. He’d spent many a Saturday night at Heehee’s in Sheepshead Bay and, unknown to Keith and J.M., was a passionate and dedicated Giffen & DeMatteis fan. Andy had been heartbroken when the team split and could hardly control his excitement when he realized that he was actually meeting his idols.
    The two aspiring comic book writers were equally excited when Helfer invited them into his office. While Maguire dutifully tended to their wounds and set their broken bones, the editor explained that he’d recently been asked to revive DC’s flagship super-team book, Justice League of America—and he thought that the Giffen/DeMatteis touch was just what the series needed.
    DeMatteis, who had his heart set on a revival of Curbstone’s Super Hero Parody, refused at first (a reluctance that never fully abated. He would, in fact, quit Justice League sixty-two times over the next five years), but Giffen, who sensed an opportunity for the pair to reinvent themselves, immediately agreed. “Don’t you get it?” Giffen whispered to his partner. “We can take our Defenders ideas, mix ‘em up a little, and use ‘em here! If the book’s a hit, they’ll let us do anything we want!”
    DeMatteis was still uncertain; but, when he noticed Helfer’s valet doodling on the wall (an impressive series of drawings that depicted Superman and Captain Marvel having a lengthy conversation), he was struck by an idea that was truly inspired. “I’ll do it,” DeMatteis announced, “but only if Kevin Maguire draws the book!”

***

Okay, so maybe there's no such book, and no such person as Army Parsons, and maybe the idiocy above is really a piece I wrote, a few years back, for the first Hero Squared trade paperback. But most of it is true. Really! Y'know, except for the parts that aren't.

Which would be all of it.

ONE MORE THING

2011-10-26T14:27:00.000-04:00

Okay, I know I said I wouldn't be back for a week or so, but I forgot to mention that this Sunday, October 30th, I'll be appearing at the Albany Comic Con in Albany, New York. It's an intimate, one-day convention -- the polar opposite of mega-cons like SDCC and NYCC -- which allows fans and professionals to interact in a loose, informal atmosphere. The guests include Ron Marz, Jim Starlin, Todd Dezago, Lee Moder, Matthew Dow Smith, living legends Dick Ayers and Joe Sinnott—and many more. The best part? Admission is only five dollars. How can a comic book fan possibly go wrong? Hope to see you there!

BACK IN THE CYBER-SADDLE

2011-10-26T11:44:00.003-04:00

October has been a traveling month—ten days for a business trip to Los Angeles followed by a college-hunting journey with my wife and daughter—leaving very little time to nurse Creation Point along. But I’m back in the cyber-saddle and should be up and blogging soon. For now, though, I just want to say a quick hello and mention a few odds and ends that I hope you’ll find interesting.

First up: a gentle suggestion to amble over to your local comic book shop today, pick up a copy of the just-released Spider-Man #19 and read a ten pager I wrote that teams Spidey and the Silver Surfer in a fun, all-ages adventure. You can also hop over to Comic Book Resources where Sean T. Collins (who wrote the other story in the issue) and I have a lengthy and, I think, interesting talk about what it’s like writing the adventures of Peter Parker and Company.

Speaking of CBR, Brian Cronin, Lord and Master of the blog Comic Book Legends Revealed, is doing a Halloween-month survey of “the scariest comic books of all time.” I was surprised to find a story of mine—a short and, I believed, utterly forgettable piece from very early in my career—called “Mikey’s Friend” included in the list. I was even more surprised when I discovered that playwright, screenwriter and comic book scribe Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa read “Mikey’s Friend” when he was a kid and that, for him, it was anything but forgettable; in fact it gave the poor guy nightmares off-and-on for twenty years! Just goes to show you that the writer is often the last one to gauge the impact of his work.

I don't know what impact this will have on tender young psyches, but this Friday night at 7:30 (6:30 Central) my Ben-10 episode, "Ultimate Sacrifice," will be airing on Cartoon Network. I worked on this story with the enormously-talented, and profoundly-missed, Dwayne McDuffie—who did such a spectacular job producing the show—so I'm both excited and saddened by the opportunity to see how the episode took shape under Dwayne's care.

Finally, a reminder that my weekend writing workshop, Imagination 101, is coming up soon and there’s still room in the class if you’d like to register. (Zap an email to imaginationworkshops@gmail.com for more info.) We’ll be exploring the World of Story from both the practical and metaphysical perspectives. It’s going to be a fun, intimate three days of education and creative play. Come join us if you can.

That’s it for now. I’ll be back, in a week or so, with some thoughts about the value of simple human kindness in the writing life.

REMEMBER

2011-10-07T15:43:00.001-04:00

This Sunday, October 9th, is John Lennon's birthday: his 71st, to be precise. There always seems to be a new Lennon book out on this anniversary and this year it's Tim Riley's Lennon: The Man, the Myth, the Music—The Definitive Life. The buzz about the book is very good, but I doubt if it's definitive. In fact, I doubt if any biography of any human being can ever be called definitive; and when you're dealing with a complex and mercurial character like Lennon, the definitive will always be elusive. (I'll read it, of course: how could I not?)

If there is a single definitive element about John Lennon's life, it's his music. Here's one of his greatest—and most desperate—songs, performed live at Madison Square Garden in 1972. (He did two shows that day, one in the afternoon, one at night: I was in the audience for the evening show.)

Happy Birthday, John.

THE SECRET ORIGIN OF ABADAZAD

2011-09-25T14:54:00.000-04:00

When I was at the Baltimore Comic Con last month, I was touched by the number of people who—despite the fact that it’s been five years since the last new Abadazad material was published—expressed their sadness and dismay over the demise of the series and their hope that, some day, some way, it can return. (Needless to say, I share their sentiments!) So for all the loyal Zaddites out there, here’s a special gift: something that sheds some light on the story’s roots and at least hints at where it was headed. Consider it my "thank you" to all the people who have taken Kate Jameson and her friends into their hearts.

What you’ll find below is my original Abadazad proposal: the one I sent to CrossGen Comics back in 2003. The one that fired up editor Ian Feller and publisher Mark Alessi and lured the legendary Mike Ploog back into the comic book field. (And thank goodness for that: I can’t imagine Abadazad without our collaboration and friendship. You're a good man, Mr. Ploog!)

Keep in mind that, by the time we actually started working on the comics, and the Hyperion book series that followed, a number of the ideas presented here were jettisoned: most notably the scene of Kate sampling from her mother’s liquor cabinet. (Hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time.) This proposal was primarily a structure to hang the story on, a way to communicate, in a condensed form, how I saw the characters and what I hoped to do with the series. If, as we hope, Abadazad does indeed return, the story will no doubt head in directions not hinted at below.

And, for the record: Abadazad is © copyright 2011 Disney Enterprises, Inc.

Enjoy!

***

ABADAZAD
An Outline
by
J. M. De Matteis

Once upon a time:

Twelve year old KATIE JAMESON takes her six year old brother, MATT, to a street fair in Brooklyn. It’s instantly clear—in both the tender way Katie watches over her brother and the light in Matt’s eyes when he looks at his sister—that these two are joined by a profound bond of love. Their father left years ago, their mother works two jobs...and these two have become partners in survival; seasoned soldiers in the Divorce Wars, who hold tight to each other as the bullets whiz over their heads.

Matt’s on a kiddie ride, Katie watching delightedly as he sails in circles in a mini-boat: Matt sails around, happy...slips out of sight behind the center pole...sails back into view, happy...out of sight...sails back, happy...out of sight...and then the boat comes around again—

—and the boy is gone. And he is nowhere to be found. That day ...or any day thereafter.

Five years later:

FRANCES JAMESON, Katie and Matt’s mother, is a heavy drinker, who has never gotten over the loss of her son: She still puts up posters in the neighborhood. She’s got a closet filled with milk cartons with her son’s face on it.

Katie, now a surly teenager whose taste runs to black nails, gothic clothing, and Death Metal, has had enough of her mother’s clinging to the past. Her oft-repeated—and shockingly heartless—advice to her mother: “It’s been five years. He’s dead. Get over it.” Frances is at a loss as to how to handle Kate. (Which the girl now prefers to the more juvenile—or so she sees it—Katie.) She keeps insisting that her daughter go to a therapist. “I’d rather jump out a window,” Kate swears, “than go see some stupid shrink.”

But Kate’s cold cynicism masks a teenager in despair. Riddled with guilt, wondering what she could have done to save her brother.

Frances finds relief (and a kind of sweet pain) in retreating into the Tales of Abadazad: a series of children’s books—part Oz/part Narnia/part Doctor Seuss— that she and Matt would read all the time. Written, between l900 and l920, by Franklin O. Barrie, the twelve Abadazad books chronicled the adventures of a little Missouri girl named Martha, who journeyed, with the help of an Enchanted Blue Globe, into the fairyland of Abadazad.

(No, these books don’t really exist. They’re my creation.)

Matt’s room, left untouched since his disappearance, is a virtual shrine to the series —with Abadazad dolls, plastic figures, games, cups, posters, calendars. Thus the room itself becomes a kind of time-portal connecting Frances to her lost child. To the joy and innocence they shared.

Kate tells her mother that keeping the room untouched is sick: “Throw that junk out and get on with your life. Abadazad’s just a load of mindless crap. There’s no such thing as ‘happily ever after,’ Mother. Haven’t you figured that out by now?” But that doesn’t stop Kate from slipping into Matt’s room in the middle of the night, remembering hours spent under the covers with a flashlight, journeying to Abadazad with her brother. To lock herself away in that room is one of the few joys—however bittersweet —of Kate’s wounded young life.

Meanwhile, the woman in the apartment upstairs, an old African American woman in her seventies named MARTHA, corrals Kate for tea. Kate has always avoided the old woman (something about her gives Kate the creeps) but Martha’s invitation comes at a moment when Kate is feeling extremely lost and vulnerable—and she accepts.

Over tea, Kate notes a variety of Abadazad collectibles in Martha’s apartment. Martha, with conspiratorial glee, tells Kate that they’re not collectibles...they’re the Real Thing. “Straight from Queen Ija’s palace in Inconceivable.” “Excuse me?” says Kate. Martha, in fact, claims that she is the little girl from the books; that she related her adventures to the man her father worked for, Franklin O. Barrie, who then wrote up the tales, changing Martha from a little black girl to a little white girl because “let’s face it, no one in l900 would’ve bought it otherwise.” According to the books, Martha—who was six years old in l900—should be over a hundred by now. She’s not older, she insists, because Abadazad exists outside of time. You don’t age while you’re there. Eventually, Martha claims, the pull of adulthood, of life in the Real World, drew her away from Abadazad. “But Queen Ija and the Two-Fold Witch told me that when my time came, I’d be with them again. Reborn—a girl again!—in Abadazad. And, oh,” says Martha, tears streaming down her cheeks, “how my heart longs for that day.”

Kate is heading for the door, sure that she’s dealing with a certifiable lunatic, when Martha lurches after her, waving a bony finger in her face. “Your brother,” the old woman insists, “is alive. He’s been kidnapped by the Lanky Man.”   (One of the main villains of the Abadazad tales.) “He’s found a way to cross over into our world...he’s been stealing children...pure-hearted children like your Matt...and heaven only knows what old Lanks intends to do with them!” Martha says she only recently became aware of the Lanky Man’s excursions into The Real World —“If I was younger, I would’ve sniffed him out sooner!”—but she’s helpless to stop him. “I’m too old,” she admits. “But, you -- ! With my help you could cross-over to Abadazad, tell Queen Ija what’s happened. She’ll help you find your brother and stop Lanky from -- “

Kate, cutting Martha off, thanks her for the information—and bolts. This woman, she thinks, is totally bent.

Several days later, Martha passes away.

And leaves Kate the Blue Globe. Martha’s note informs Kate that this is indeed the magical device that—according to the books—can transport a person into Abadazad. Kate, of course, doesn’t take the thing to be real; just another reflection of the poor old woman’s lunacy. And yet, something about that globe seems...strange. Seductive. Magical. Kate, feeling like a fool for believing in the Globe for even a split second, stuffs the thing in the closet and forgets it.

Until one night—after a fight with her mother which ends with Frances, drunk and weeping, stumbling into bed—the Globe begins to glow...the light seeping out of the closet, flooding the apartment...drawing Kate to it. And there, in the depths of the Globe, she sees her brother...and then she sees THE LANKY MAN (ten-foot long pipe-cleaner legs, eight bony arms, a top hat that rises into forever, and a nose so pointy you could sew with it), laughing at her. She freaks, drops the Globe, it bounces away, then ricochets out the window into the alley below: Shatters.

Kate decides to follow her mother’s lead. Angry at Frances and herself and desperately trying to deny what she’s seen in the Blue Globe, she opens the liquor cabinet and attempts to get drunk. Despite her look of Gothic Terror, Kate’s a pretty straight kid, not into drink or drugs: One sip and she’s sick to her stomach. In her disgust and confusion, she trips on a lamp-cord...topples out the window.

But she doesn’t fall.

Because the Blue Globe has re-formed itself...risen up out of the alley. It bathes her in its blue light, holding her there, in mid-air, then sails through her bedroom window, carrying her safely inside.

Kate is awestruck. Then, all at once, she remembers the words from the book, the magic words that, if one’s heart is pure enough, true enough, will get you into Abadazad: She speaks the words. And she’s sucked into the globe. Into Abadazad!

In Abadazad, Kate meets Little Martha—who, after her death, was indeed reborn as a child in this magical land. Martha takes Kate up the Living Staircase to Inconceivable—the airborne capital city of Abadazad—where she meets the miraculous, whimsical characters she’s read about for so many years, including:

MR. GLOOM: part man, part dark and thunderous rain-cloud. A powerful and intimidating figure, like a wild-eyed Old Testament prophet. Everywhere he looks, everything he sees, is Gloom and Doom and End Of The World. (His sentiments punctuated with thunder and lightning.) Yet for all his gloomy talk, his actions are brave and idealistic. He never gives up hope.

MARY ANNETTE: A full-size, walking, talking marionette, long ago abandoned by the puppeteer that created her. Though many assume she’s a brainless toy, Mary is shrewd and tough and cynical (far more cynical than she was ever portrayed in any of the books Kate read); smarter than almost everyone in Abadazad. But, despite her cynical exterior, in her heart, the puppet’s deepest longing is to be reunited with her mysterious, and long-missing, creator.

PROFESSOR HEADSTRONG: An over-sized, bodiless head that rides in a clockwork cart. He’s all logic and intellect; professorial pomposity and arrogance. Or so he claims. But he’s really such a sentimental sap that the littlest thing makes him weep like a baby.

QUEEN IJA: An ageless beauty—like some sublime Hindu goddess—with blue skin, silver hair, and a third eye, whose feet literally never touch the ground. Whose winged throne floats and shimmers -- and who speaks, like all true oracles, in unfathomable riddles that ultimately contain the seeds of redemption. Ija is the youngest daughter of THE FLOATING WARLOCK, Creator of Abadazad, who died, centuries before, during the Great War with the evil kingdom of Horrozad. (Being dead, of course, hasn’t stopped him from making appearances in Abadazad -- where Floating Warlock sightings are as provocative, and as hotly debated, as UFO sightings are in our world.)

Kate isn’t sure if this is dream, delusion, or reality. All she knows is that she’s delighted to be there. And that the company of these odd, whimsical, innocent beings restores her faith and hope. (Professor Headstrong theorizes that -- from Kate’s perspective, at least -- Abadazad exists on another plane, a dimension of mind and imagination, where thought possesses life and substance. “What’s dreamed in your world, takes form here. Of course,” he goes on, “from our perspective, we dreamed you.”)

But the dream is rudely interrupted when The Lanky Man—aware of Kate’s arrival in Abadazad, and sensing that she is a threat to his power—sends his allies, the explosively nasty Rocket-Heads, to attack Inconceivable. The Rocket-Head army is repelled, but Kate, feeling responsible, sets off—accompanied by Martha, Mr. Gloom, Mary Annette, and Professor Headstrong—to find the Lanky Man and rescue Matt.

Amazing adventures follow (including an encounter with the Lanky Man’s scaled servant, THE BURPING DRAGON, and a glimpse of the Floating Warlock himself, sailing blithely past the moon) and the little group makes amazing progress as they wind their way through Abadazad toward The Wretchedly Awful City (a kind of Victorian nightmare, the industrial revolution gone mad) where The Lanky Man rules over a populace of enslaved, exploited children.

But the Lanky Man—who comes to Kate one night looking like her twin, claiming to be her unconscious mind given form—convinces Kate that all this is a delusion. At the moment her belief and trust dissolve, so do her friends, so does Abadazad...and Kate finds herself back in the Real World, on the very night she left, feeling desperate, alone. And uncertain about her own sanity. She picks up The Blue Globe, speaks the magic words -- and nothing happens. (Because she no longer has the conviction.) She curls up on the floor -- and cries herself to sleep.

Kate awakens in the morning to find her mother collecting the empty booze bottles and throwing them away. Collecting all the Abadazad memorabilia, too, and packing it in trash bags (inadvertently stuffing an old creased school-portrait of Matt in one of the bags, as well). She’s decided, she tells the amazed Kate, to take her advice. She’s called her job and offered her resignation. It’s time, she says to Kate, to put the past behind them. They’re going to move: out of this apartment, out of this city.

She takes the trash bags filled with Abadazad memorabilia—including the Blue Globe, Kate’s passport back to Abadazad—outside...just as the trash collectors arrive to take the garbage away.

But as the bags of trash are hauled toward the truck, one of them opens...and the photo of Matt flutters out, landing at Kate’s feet. Kate kneels there, holding the picture in her hand, staring at that beautiful, innocent face...realizing that no matter what, she can’t give up on her brother. Let the whole world call her insane, she cannot close her heart to the possibility that Magic Is Real. That Abadazad Exists.

“Wait!” she roars, as the garbage truck starts up. She leaps for it, rummaging, like a lunatic, through the bags, until she finds that precious Blue Globe. Till she cradles it in her arms: the Embodiment of Hope (however illogical). The Doorway to Dreams (however absurd).

She looks over at the trash collectors—and sees, to her fear and amazement, that they’re Rocket-Heads...sent to our world to steal the Blue Globe and prevent Kate’s return to Abadazad. They scramble toward Kate...

...but, with her faith and hope restored, she says the words...

...and flashes through the Globe...back to Abadazad.

Her companions, she discovers, have been caught by the Lanky Man; so she goes on alone to meet the Enemy...who’s got dozens of children working in a wild Dr. Seuss-like factory, constructing a Rube Goldberg-meets-Jack Kirby device with which he intends to invade and conquer the Real World.

The Lanky Man, we learn, has had his fill of making mischief in Abadazad, of being thwarted by Queen Ija and her allies. So he’s decided to conquer a world without magic: the so-called Real World. The Earth. But so far he’s only been able to manifest in the Real World for short times; and then, only because of children, like Matt, whose faith in the reality of Abadazad is so strong that he can tap into it, use it as a bridge.

Which is why he’s been kidnapping these children, plugging them in, like human batteries, to his World-Crossing Machine, using their belief to create the permanent bridge between Abadazad and Earth. Once there, he and his minions will use their dark magic to take over the Real World. And the machine is almost done. The day of invasion is almost here.

Aided by the Burping Dragon (who, we discover, loathes his master and has fallen head over heels in love with Kate), Kate finds Matt, plugged into the machine, unblinking, unseeing. Beyond her reach (for the moment, at least). She frees her Wonderful City friends—as well as Lanky Man’s most ferociously-guarded prisoner: THE TWOFOLD WITCH (a two-headed enchantress—she may, or may not, be the wife of the Floating Warlock and mother of Queen Ija—who has been locked in Lanky Man’s dungeons for thirty years)...

...and ultimately faces Lanky Man himself: Things don’t look good for Kate when Old Lanks traps her in The Bottle of Sorrows (in which she nearly drowns—quite literally—in her own liquified misery). But she overcomes the wretchedness, the pain, the cynicism that has encrusted her heart, bursts free of the bottle—and defeats the Lanky Man, destroying his World-Crossing Device and freeing the children.

Freeing Matt.

Kate and her brother embrace—there’s a wave of blue light...

And Kate finds herself back in her apartment, without Matt, facing a very worried Frances. Kate tells her mother everything. “Oh, sweetheart,” a profoundly-moved Frances says, “don’t you see? Your mind created this fantasy to free you of your guilt. You felt powerless to save Matt, to help him...and so you constructed this fantasy to work it all out.” “No, Mother,” Kate angrily protests, “you don’t understand. It really happened! And Matt, I saw him, he—” “Come on,” Frances says, pulling her daughter toward the door, insisting that she go with her —right now!—to see a therapist.

Then they hear something in the other room. They open the door -- and two dozen children come racing out, whooping, screaming, happy. UNAGED.

Including Matt.

Frances’s jaw hits the floor. She weeps, laughs uncontrollably. Embraces her beloved son.

The Twofold Witch performs a spell. The kids slowly begin to change...becoming the age they’re supposed to be in the Real World.

Martha and the Twofold Witch say they’ll get the other kids back to the homes they’ve been away from for so long. The Witch asks Kate, Matt, and Frances to please keep the existence of Abadazad a secret. They agree. (Well, Kate and Matt agree. Frances can barely grunt, she’s so stunned.) “But come visit once in a while,” Martha says. “You need it, you know—to keep you young.”

And off they go. The Lost Kids swept off across the city, across the country, across the world, to be returned to their families. We glimpse one of those families, grim and gloomy, sitting at dinner. Then, to their astonishment, the window opens, by itself, and their long-missing daughter flies in, accompanied by Martha and the Two-Fold Witch: Astonishment fades, replaced by recognition. Gloom becomes radiant joy.

But there’s no joy greater than Kate’s—as she and Frances and eleven year old Matt begin their new life together. And Kate knows—to the bottom of her heart, she knows!—that they’ll all live...

...happily ever after.

THE END...?

But must this be the end of the Tales of Abadazad? No. Because there are many more stories to tell. From the starting point of Kate’s journey to save her brother, Abadazad can branch out in two clear directions. First we have the past: the twelve original Abadazad books (which, of course, have yet to be written!) created by “Franklin O. Barrie,” detailing Little Martha’s adventures. And then we have the future: The continuing exploits of Kate and Matt as they return to Abadazad, again and again, for new adventures.

This first story can be the launching pad for two independent series of tales. And the magic of Abadazad can go on and on and on, stretching out, like the Living Staircase, as far as Imagination will allow.

***

Hope you enjoyed this glimpse into Abadazad's beginnings. With Queen Ija's blessings, I'd like to share more hidden Zaddian treasures with you all in the future. Time (that elusive illusion) will tell.

© copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

ONE LAST "BWAH-HA-HA!"

2011-09-21T15:02:00.001-04:00

Friday night at 6 pm (5 Central), the last of my Batman: The Brave and the Bold episodes airs on Cartoon Network. This is the final season of B & B and, as I've said here several times before, it was an absolute pleasure writing for the show and working with producers James Tucker and Michael Jelenic. James, Michael and their incredible creative team managed to inject a much-needed note of fun into the Batman mythos, but always remained respectful of Bats and the innumerable DCU characters that popped up on the series. (It's important to remember that, no matter what it says in the writing credits, when it comes to television, it's always a team effort.)

I enjoyed every story I wrote for B & B, but my three favorites are "The Eyes of Despero," "Hail the Tornado Tyrant" and this week's "Time Out for Vengeance"—which features the animated DCU version of the Giffen-DeMatteis Justice League. It's the second time I've had a chance to write the JLI for Brave and the Bold and, despite the fact that Keith G, Kevin Maguire and I said a fond, and definite, farewell to the comic book incarnation of the team with last month's Justice League Retroactive, I'd jump at the chance to write the animated League again. (I think it would make a great series: Warner Bros., are you listening?)

For now, though, this is goodbye to J'onn, Beetle, Booster, Fire, Ice and the rest. I hope you enjoy "Time Out for Vengeance": it really is a good one. In fact, through the magic of YouTube, you can watch the first part of the episode—which should then lead you to part two—here. That's right, you don't have to wait till Friday for this one. (Hey, it's already been on iTunes for months!) Enjoy one last "bwah-ha-ha" on me.

IF AT FIRST YOU DON'T SUCCEED...

2011-09-15T19:16:00.000-04:00

My Brave and the Bold episode "Scorn of the Star Sapphire," which features Batman teamed with Green Lantern, was scheduled to air back in May—but, for reasons that remain mysterious, the show was yanked at the last minute and B & B vanished from the airwaves for months. The good news is that it's back—and the GL episode airs tomorrow night at 6 pm on Cartoon Network. (I've embedded a teaser clip below.) It's a fun episode, and if you're a Hal Jordan fan I suspect you'll enjoy it, but the one I'm really looking forward to is next week's, which once again teams Batman with the Justice League International—as they go on a time-hopping mission with Rip Hunter. I think it's one of the very best of all the episodes I've written for the show. Be sure to let me know what you think.

ANNOUNCING IMAGINATION 101

2011-09-06T10:06:00.000-04:00

Having enjoyed my recent Masterclass experiences at the Ottawa Writer's Festival and the Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art, I've put together a weekend workshop that I'm very excited about. The first class will be in the fall and the official announcement is below. Hope to see you there!

IMAGINATION 101
writing for comic books, graphic novels and animation
with J.M. DeMatteis

When:   Friday November 4th, 7 pm to 9 pm

Saturday November 5th, 10 am to 5 pm (90 minute break for lunch)

Sunday November 6th, 9 am to 1 pm

Where:  Martin Aaron Office Complex in Kingston, New York

(two hours north of New York City)

Join master storyteller J.M. DeMatteis for a weekend exploring the realms of imagination, from the metaphysical to the practical. We’ll ponder the big questions...

~ Where do ideas come from?
~ What part does will play in the creative process?
~ Is the best writing actually an act of channeling?
~ Do we create the story or does the story create us?

...and tackle the day-to-day realities of a career writing superhero sagas, fantasy epics and animation:

~ What’s the difference between “Marvel style” and “full script”?
~ What’s the value of editors?
~ Are agents necessary?
~ How do you handle rejection without jumping out the nearest window?

Come prepared to listen—as JMD shares stories and insights gleaned from more than thirty years writing comics, television, film and novels—but be prepared to work: you’ll pitch ideas, dialogue artwork and help create a story from the ground up.

Bring all your questions, too: this won’t be a brief, two hour seminar. You’ll have an entire weekend, in an intimate setting, to explore your own creativity with J.M. DeMatteis as your guide.

Cost $415.00
Class size is limited. To guarantee your place, register now.

To register and for more more information about lodging and transportation: imaginationworkshops@gmail.com

BEAM ME UP, DENNY

2011-09-03T16:34:00.003-04:00

I’m a huge fan of the original Star Trek (back in the 70’s, in those twilight years between the end of the show and the beginning of the film series, it seemed that just about everybody my age was). In 1976—at the height of Trekmania—I attended a New York Star Trek convention (I’ve only been to two in my life and by the second one I’d had quite enough). The entire cast was appearing at the con and the auditorium was packed to the point of discomfort. Each actor came out to screams and applause and no one received a bigger ovation than the Captain himself, William Shatner (I was surprised at that: I always thought the Trek fans were more devoted to Nimoy and Spock).

Shatner seemed a little on edge at first; but, as the questions flew back and forth, he loosened up. Considerably. Sat himself down in a mock-up of Kirk’s command chair, stretched out a bit—and began a one-man show. Make no mistake about it, this was a real show: a performance of note.

The other cast members had done their bit (Leonard Nimoy read poetry, Nichelle Nichols complained about having to say “hailing frequencies open” so many damn times), and quite nicely, but Shatner went beyond that, launching into a tale of his Shakespearean days in Canada, when, as an understudy for Christopher Plummer, he unexpectedly had to play the lead in Henry V. Bounding back and forth across the stage, he acted out the part of Young Shatner, assumed the roles of his fellow actors, and brought the story to a rousing climax.

It was a lovely moment and one that transformed a fun but—let’s be honest— fundamentally kitschy experience into something approaching art. That was when I realized that there was more to Shatner than the guy with the phaser and the velour shirt.

All this comes to mind because my wife, daughter and I have spent a good part of the week gobbling down DVD episodes of one of my all-time favorite television series, David E. Kelley’s Boston Legal. (My wife bought me the entire set for my last birthday.) There were many reasons to enjoy BL during its five year run—not the least the brilliant writing by Kelley and his staff—but I think everyone who watched the show agreed that the two primary reasons were James Spader and, yes, William Shatner. The rest of the cast was amazing—Mark Valley, Julie Bowen, Christian Clemenson and, especially, Candice Bergen and Renee Aubjerjonois—but the relationship between Spader’s Alan Shore and Shatner’s Denny Crane was the heart and soul of the series: without them, Boston Legal might have popped like a soap bubble.

Here were two characters—and two actors—as different as one could possibly imagine: Shatner’s Crane was an ageing courtroom legend, a proud Republican, given to sexual recklessness and Alzheimer’s-induced buffoonery, while Spader’s Shore was an unabashed liberal, a brilliant, unconventional lawyer with a deeply troubled, one might even say twisted, soul. Together they created one of the most memorable male friendships, and one of the most memorable acting teams, in television history: the Kirk and Spock of the New Millennium. Each week’s final scene—which featured Alan and Denny on the balcony of Crane, Poole & Schmidt sharing cigars, drinks and the weird passions of their souls—brought a transcendent shine to even the weaker episodes.

One of Boston Legal’s hallmarks was its ability to shift from fourth-wall-breaking comedy to gripping drama. A perfect example of the latter was an episode called “Son of the Defender”: Kelley used footage from a fifty year old gem from the days of live television—a Studio One legal drama called “The Defender,” which starred veteran actor Ralph Bellamy and a twenty-six year old Shatner—as a backdrop for a powerful exploration of the Denny Crane character. The result—which concluded with perhaps the most poignant Shore-Crane balcony scene ever—was a magical hour of television. By aligning the youthful Shatner of l957 with the septuagenerian of 2007, “Son of the Defender” wove a story that was as much a testament to the performer as it was to the character he played. Shatner, who won two Emmys and a Golden Globe for his portrayal of Crane, gave a performance that was profoundly moving: Crane’s comic shell was stripped away and Shatner once again reminded me (as he did that day in 1976) that he’s not just a pop culture artifact, but an actor. When he puts his mind to it—as he clearly did on BL—he’s one of our best.

William Shatner’s career has fascinated, befuddled and delighted me for years: He began (as noted) on the Shakespearean stage, then moved on to award winning roles on Broadway, live television and in film. His screen debut was in MGM’s adaptation of The Brothers Karamozov—my favorite novel—and the role of the saintly Alexei was light years removed from Captain Kirk; but then so were most of the pre-Trek roles Shatner played (none moreso than Roger Corman’s The Intruder, a 1962 film about segregation that was so incendiary it was barely released. Shatner played the lead, a charismatic racist agitator, with horrifying brilliance). In the sixties, you could find Shatner on television constantly, giving memorable performances on The Twilight Zone, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, Thriller, the Defenders (spun off from the Studio One play), The Fugitive, Dr. Kildare (he turned down the title role that made Richard Chamberlain's career), The Outer Limits and so many more. Then came his life-altering stint aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise:

The paradox of Star Trek is that it made Shatner a star and, simultaneously, torpedoed his career. He was forever branded with the dreaded Science-Fiction Stamp. He wasn’t perceived as a serious actor any more: The world viewed him as a grandiose, outer-space ham. And he could be a ham, chewing through scenery with manic intensity—but that was, and remains, part of his charm. Shatner doesn’t just play a role, he attacks it (and, yes, sometimes rips it to unrecognizable shreds): pouring all of his energy and enthusiasm into every word. His portrayal of Kirk remains a TV classic. At his best, he gave the character a perfect balance of inter-galactic melodrama and down-to-earth humanity. But it did seem that the worse the scripts got, the more wildly exaggerated Shatner’s performances became, almost as if he was trying to compensate for the weak material. This was most evident in Trek’s third season when it sometimes seemed as if the man had completely taken leave of his senses.

The seventies saw Shatner teeter-tottering between art (George C. Scott’s PBS production of The Andersonville Trial), camp (appearing in low-budget dreck like The Devil’s Rain and Impulse) and every conceivable permutation in between. Despite the myth—much of it perpetuated by Shatner himself—that he couldn’t get a job after Trek’s cancellation, one look at the Internet Movie Database makes it clear that he was working constantly, doing guest-shots on established series and appearing in endless movies-of-the-week. Had Star Trek not come back, he might have quietly transitioned into character roles and stumbled into a kind of Denny Crane-ish revival decades earlier.  But the show was resurrected and Shatner was Captain Kirk again, starring in a series of successful films, giving performances that (Star Trek: The Motion Picture aside) were always interesting and, on occasion (The Wrath of Khan), truly exceptional. But the movies also completed the typecasting cycle: He became Kirk Forever. Oh, sure, he played Aaron Spelling robo-cop T.J. Hooker for a few years and hosted Rescue 911; but, to most people, Shatner was, and always would be, the Captain of the Enterprise: an indelible part of our pop culture. No longer an actor, he became an icon. Worse, he became a celebrity. He played along, but you got the feeling, watching him, that he wasn’t entirely comfortable in that role. Perhaps that’s why Shatner seemed the happiest spoofing himself—most memorably on Saturday Night Live and in the indie movie, Free Enterprise. Those performances seemed to free his inner comedian. When he was nominated for his first Emmy, it wasn’t for a dramatic role: it was for playing The Big Giant Head on Third Rock From The Sun.

David E. Kelley, in creating Denny Crane—a character whose wild contradictions mirrored those of the actor who played him—gave Shatner back his gravitas. Maybe Crane didn’t bury Captain Kirk, but he certainly nudged the old space dog into the wings. At a time when many of his peers were in the Old Actors Home or, worse, Forest Lawn, the man was doing the finest work of his career.

As much as I love Trek and Kirk, for me Denny Crane will always be the defining performance of William Shatner's career—and the character I love above all others he’s portrayed. Since Boston Legal’s cancellation, Shatner has been true to form, which means he’s been all over the map: starring in a short-lived sit-com, hosting several talk shows, writing another book (the soon-to-be-released Shatner Rules), recording another album (I don’t know how Seeking Major Tom will turn out, but Shatner's 2004 album Has Been was brilliant—and, no, I don’t mean that ironically), directing two documentaries and touring in a one-man show: quite a list of achievements for an eighty year old man. I’m still waiting for a part that will rival Denny Crane, giving Shatner a character, and a script, that will once again raise his game.

It was recently announced that Shatner will be guest-starring on USA’s Psych in the fall, but I’m hoping for a guest shot on 30 Rock: William Shatner vs. Alec Baldwin, there’s a match-up I’d love to see. Or how about a return to Broadway? Shatner recently took part in a Shakespeare performance in L.A.—with a cast that included Kenneth Branagh, Tom Hanks and Martin Short: he played Sir John Falstaff, Shakespeare’s great fool (and great wise man), the forerunner, in many ways, of Denny Crane. I’d pay good money to see that on the stage.   Till then, at least, there are all those Boston Legal DVDs. It doesn’t get much better than cigars and scotch on the balcony of Crane, Poole and Schmidt.

ADIEU, JLI

2011-08-25T18:22:00.000-04:00

Just a short one to let you all know that DC Retroactive: Justice League of America—the 90's is on sale right now. This is the final "Bwah-ha-ha" from the Giffen-DeMatteis-Maguire team (at least as far as the JL's concerned: we're already discussing new projects and one idea in particular has us seriously pumped) and, some unfortunate printing issues aside, the three of us are very happy with the way the book turned out. I've been playing in this sandbox with Keith and Kevin on and off for twenty-five years and it's been a fantastic run. Give the book a read if you're so inclined—and then check back here to share your thoughts.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RAY!

2011-08-22T12:02:00.000-04:00

If you're familiar with my work—and I suspect you wouldn't be reading this if you weren't—then you probably know that, of all the gods in my literary pantheon, no one has inspired me more than Ray Bradbury. As I've said here before, people call Bradbury a science-fiction writer, a fantasist, but I don’t think either label applies. He’s a preacher, a rhapsodist, an interfaith—no, interdimensional—minister. I’ve rarely encountered anyone who more eloquently encapsulates the sheer sacred joy of life. When I read a Bradbury story, I not only want to race to the computer and create literary wonders of my own—the greatest gift a fellow writer can give you—I want to race out the door and up the street with my arms wide, embracing the entire universe.

Today is Ray B's 91st birthday and we're all blessed that this great writer, this great man, is still with us. (And apparently planning a movie adaptation of his glorious novel Dandelion Wine.) So join me in wishing Mr. Bradbury a heartfelt happy birthday: may he be inspiring us all for many years to come.

SONG OF THE PETALARS

2011-08-18T10:45:00.000-04:00

If you missed my ThunderCats episode last Friday, I've embedded it, in two parts, below. But watch it sooner than later. I have no idea how long these links will remain active.

MIND-EXPANSION

2011-08-13T16:52:00.001-04:00

Brian Cronin, the man behind CBR's wonderful blogs Comics Should Be Good and Comic Book Legends Revealed has a new book coming out in 2012 called Why Does Batman Carry Shark Repellent? It's a history of comics told through a series of lists, and Brian has asked a group of comics professionals—myself included—to, essentially, guest-star in the book, presenting some lists of our own. (Other contributors include Mark Waid, Fred Van Lente, Dave Gibbons and Joe Casey.) I wrote up my list—Five Writers Who Expanded My (Comic Book) Consciousness—the other day and, although I can't share the entire piece with you here (you've got to buy Brian's book for that), I will share my thoughts on one of those mind-expanding writers: the great Will Eisner. Enjoy!

***

I had the honor of sitting on a panel beside Will Eisner—one of few comic book creators who crossed, then utterly erased, the line between pop culture entertainment and genuine literature—many years ago, but we never had the opportunity to really talk, really connect. And yet we did connect, through his work, and he spoke to me, via words and pictures, in eloquent, unforgettable—and deeply personal—ways.

There have been times, in a career that’s lasted over thirty years, when I’ve grown tired of comics, when I’ve felt that there’s nothing left for me to say; when I’ve looked at the form with a cynical, dismissive eye. Better, I thought, to just focus on my television and film work, on novels, on anything but those damn comic books.   And then, I’d pick up some Eisner graphic novel—Dropsie Avenue, To the Heart of the Storm, or my absolute favorite, one of the single most brilliant works this medium has ever seen, A Contract With God—and the scales would fall from my eyes, the cynical words would dissolve on my lips, the innocence and enthusiasm of a kid reading his first comic book would burn bright in my heart.   

Will Eisner didn’t traffic in costumes and super-powers: He looked at the (apparently) mundane, everyday world and revealed the infinite universes within each person’s heart. His work, unfailingly, inspired me and taught me, again and again, that the true potential of comics has only begun to be tapped; that we, as writers and artists in this medium, can, and must, tell stories of intelligence, emotion—and heartbreaking, uplifting humanity.

Eisner inspired me in another way, as well: He never stopped. The man kept working, producing graphic novels of unparalleled quality—producing art—till the day he died. May we all follow his example and keep creating new worlds of imagination into our eighties and beyond. Aspiring, as Will Eisner clearly did, to always be better at our craft.  

***

So who are the four other mind-expanders on my list? Feel free to hazard a guess in the comments section—or you can just wait till next year and pick up a copy of Why Does Batman Carry Shark Repellent? (But you were going to do that anyway, weren't you?)

©copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

SWORD OF OMENS

2011-08-10T17:47:00.000-04:00

The first of my ThunderCats episodes airs this Friday night, at 8:30 (7:30 c), on Cartoon Network. It's called "Song of the Petalars" and the story details the T-Cats' encounter with a race of beings who live out their entire lifespan in twenty-four hours. There's always a significant evolution from script to screen, so I'm very interested in seeing how this one turned out. I've embedded two teaser clips below. Enjoy!

HAIL STAN AND JACK!

2011-08-08T10:50:00.002-04:00

Fantastic Four #1 came out fifty years ago today, kick-starting the Marvel Comics revolution. If it hadn't, if Stan Lee and Jack Kirby hadn't cast their magic spell over the comic book industry, changing the creative rules of the game, there's a very good chance I would have left comics behind in junior high school (for the record, the first F.F. I remember reading was #54, at the tail end of the seventh grade) and never even considered writing them. And I'm sure there are dozens, if not hundreds, of comic book creators who would say something similar. You simply can't underestimate the impact that Lee and Kirby had—and still have. Hail the power of imagination! Hail Stan and Jack!

PARADIGM SHIFT

2011-07-28T17:47:00.004-04:00

    “Do you remember,” the old woman said gravely, “what Rajah Merogji told Prince Imaginalis, at the end of Flight From Forever? That he had to defeat Pralaya, but do it without violence? Without vengeance?”
    “Yes,” Mehera said. “How could I forget? That’s my favorite scene in all the books. I even did a report on it for my English class and—”
    “Don’t interrupt,” Morice-Gilland snapped.
    “Sorry,” Mehera said, meekly. Facing down Pralaya was one thing, Mrs. Morice-Gilland was quite another.
    “By restoring Pralaya,” the old woman went on, “you did precisely what the Rajah of the Swan instructed. Brought down the enemy with compassion, not brutality. I had no idea how that could happen...I was terrified that I’d written myself into a corner...but you...” She shook her head in amazement. “You did it.”
    “I didn’t do anything,” Mehera said. “It was the Silver Queen.”
    “Did it even occur to you,” Morice-Gilland said, “that what you thought was the Silver Queen was just the deeper, the better, the truer part of yourself? That your unconscious mind just manufactured the image of the Silver Queen as a way to do something that is the very essence of Imaginalis?” Mehera looked at the old woman blankly. “You pushed past your limits,” Mrs. Morice-Gilland continued. “You aimed for the impossible and hit the target, dead-center.”.
    “Are you saying.” the lion growled softly, with evident displeasure, “that our Silver Queen—isn’t real? That the tales about her are lies?”
    “Not at all,” Morice-Gilland replied. “I’m just saying that the line between Silver Queens and little girls, between gods and men, between who we think we are and who we really are is thinner than we can imagine.”
    The lion nodded his shaggy head, apparently satisfied. Mehera, on the other hand, didn’t understand the explanation at all and Mrs. Morice-Gilland read the bafflement on her face. “Let’s just say,” the old woman offered, “that you helped create a new kind of story today...”

My novel Imaginalis is a fantasy about the interface between life and fiction, imagination and reality, the manifestation of our highest dreams and—as evidenced by the above sequence—the need for a new kind of story. I love—and love might be too small a word—working in the fields of pop culture, but I also think that much of what we do boils the richness and complexity of life down to violent confrontation. No matter how hard we try to disguise it with psychology and philosophy, social commentary and humor, popular stories of fantasy, science-fiction and adventure too-often come down to characters beating the hell out of each other while bombs explode, phasers shoot, magic spells crackle, entire cities collapse. In the end, the villain lies dead and the hero rises from the rubble while the audience, primed by years of devouring similar tales, reflexively cheers. We’ve seen this same story play out, on page and screen, again and again and again; and it’s become clear that we’re stuck in a narrative feedback loop, endlessly regurgitating old myths. With the world at a point where it seems that every choice we make could lead us to either a golden age or an incredibly dark one, perhaps it’s time to widen our imaginations and create new myths, new stories, new solutions. As writers—and as human beings sharing the planet—we need to dream new dreams and feed the broader culture in a more nourishing way.

I know there are those who say that it’s not a writer's business to nurture, that we live in a violent, perhaps even evil, world and we have to tell tales that reflect what we see in the dark heart of what I call the CNN Reality. I also understand that the classic good versus evil scenario is therapeutic: a way for us to deal with the primal fears brought on by life’s often hideous uncertainties; and, as my wife recently reminded me, these battles often echo, in ways that are healing to both psyche and soul, the various battles being waged inside ourselves. So, yes, I know the value—and, let’s be honest—the sheer fun of these stories. (I’ve written many a super hero slugfest and had a fine old time doing it. I’m intimately familiar with the child-like awe and joy that can be derived from writing a scene where Captain Marvel drops an entire building on Superman’s head, where Spider-Man knocks Venom across half the city.) But I think that, after a certain point, the personal mirror we hold up to the world mirror becomes a kind of a negative reinforcement, each vision feeding the other; and those stories that reduce human beings to simple-minded cliches—they’re bad, we’re good, kick their asses—and celebrate the idea that complex problems can be solved through violence just keep gaining more power in the consensus reality. Someone recently said to me that it’s simply the way of the world: there are no new stories, just a set of myths that we, as humans, have been recycling since the dawn of time. And there’s truth in that: Yes. we've been repeating one set of primal tales; but aren’t there other myths kicking around in the collective unconscious, waiting to be reinvented? New paradigms for drama that can feed new paradigms for life? As a writer, I’m in complete control of the paradigm: characters punch and shoot and kill only if I say they do. So why keep saying it?

These thoughts aren’t new, of course. Anyone who’s followed my work knows that I’ve been wrestling with these issues, on the page and in my heart, for as long as I’ve been writing. I’ve created numerous stories over the years—most recently Imaginalis and The Life and Times of Savior 28—that have attempted to upend expectations, shift perspectives; tell exciting, challenging stories of fantasy and adventure in unexpected ways. Some have been successful, some have failed miserably. I’m certainly not alone in this endeavor: one look at the fictional landscape reveals many other like-minded dreamers offering up their unique visions of the new paradigm. (Why, some might ask, even bother telling tales of myth and fantasy? Why not use more “mature” narrative forms? For me, myth and fantasy reflect the interior landscape, the spiritual and psychological worlds, far better than allegedly realistic fiction. And not just the interior: it’s been my experience that, when we look that Real World square in the eye, it’s far more fantastic, mystical and surreal than anything you could ever find in the pages of a comic book.)

What’s interesting to me is that I’ve sometimes been criticized—both in my mainstream and more personal work—for being too spiritual, too preachy. I’ve also heard the complaint that I’ve written one-too many stories that resolve conflict through the power of love. Fair enough: I have no problem with sincere, intelligent criticism—the best of it has contributed to my creative growth—but here’s the interesting part: I don’t ever recall anyone criticizing any story of mine for sending out the message—as superhero tales inevitably do—that a fist is in the face is a viable solution. No one has ever accused me of preaching violence. Love, God, compassion: these are the issues that seem to set people off. (Which, in the end, isn’t necessarily a bad thing.)

All of this was swirling in my head when I saw the most recent Harry Potter film. I’m rereading the first Potter right now and I’d forgotten how light, how playful and charming, that book is. (The back cover copy, very rightly, evokes the spirits of Roald Dahl and P.L. Travers.) By the end of the saga, the story has turned very grim; in its transition to film, almost unbearably so. (Call it Dark Knight syndrome.) This is a problem when you lose the author’s voice; and also, when you’re translating prose to a primarily visual medium. The tendency in film is, understandably, to go for the spectacle‚—which is why I was so disappointed to see Deathly Hallows Part Two, however beautifully-crafted, reduced to yet another fantasy-fueled war movie.  

I had a similar feeling a few years back when the first of the Narnia films came out: in both cases, it was almost as if I was watching an Army recruitment film—a sure-fire guarantee that we’ll have piles of warm bodies to fight our ever-increasing number of wars. Look, kids, grab your wands, put on your armor, and head off into battle! There’s an evil White Witch out there and we’ve got to stop her! Lord Voldemort’s on the loose—he’s bad, kids, bad—and we can’t stop till he and his minions are all annihilated! Substitute the names of those literary villains with the names of Our Latest Enemies—they seem to change with alarming regularity—and you can see how easily those images can root in the unconscious, filling young, impressionable minds with the idea that war is a given, a solution not to be rejected, but to be embraced. (One of the things I love most about the final Potter book, and it’s the highlight of the movie for me, is the revelation that Snape—exquisitely played by the great Alan Rickman—the hissing snake of a man we’ve been loathing for years, is, in actuality, the true hero of the series. Rowling upends the readers’ expectations beautifully and forces them to reassess their idea of what an enemy really is.)

In the end, the “realists” may be right: maybe human nature will never change, maybe war will always be with us, maybe the violent solution is sometimes the best one. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if we all decided to laugh in reality’s face and not accept that? If we focus exclusively on the way things have always been, if we lock ourselves into the vision of a world where hideous violence is accepted as the way things are, then that’s the world we’re going to be living in.   I believe that there’s a deeper, a truer, reality beneath the skin of the world, one that has the potential to transform both the individual soul and the entire planet. The microcosm, as they say, is the macrocosm: The smallest acts of kindness and compassion can act as a bridge between those inner and outer universes, rippling out and transforming the world. The old model—the one that clings to the concept of war as just and necessary—can collapse in the time it takes us to change our minds. To change our dreams. To change our stories.

Ten or so years ago, when I was writing The Spectre for DC Comics, I gave the main character, Hal Jordon, the following monologue:

It could be that I’m wrong. Heaven knows I’ve been wrong before. But what if I’m not? What if we aren’t standing on the threshold of extinction—as so many doomsayers so desperately want us to believe—but on the edge of a glorious new world?   

And if I am wrong...? There are worse things than focusing my energy and will, my passion and faith and love, on a dream of hope. On your redemption...and mine.

Those words were written from the very core of my heart. Time has only deepened those convictions.

Understand: I’m not saying that we need to destroy the old template; as noted, I’m incredibly fond of it, both as a writer and a member of the audience. (Yesterday I saw the new Captain America movie—how could I not?—and walked out of the theater with a grin on my face: the creative team told Cap’s story with such intelligence, style, wit and, most important, heart, that the old myth felt brand new again. The recent X-Men and Thor films were equally enjoyable. And if you think I wouldn’t have been delighted to contribute to any of them, think again.) What I am saying is that the time has long-since come to seed the collective consciousness with as many new dreams, new myths, new paradigms as we can imagine. Who knows? They might eventually sprout from the fertile ground of our imaginations and forever alter this shared dream we call the world.

©copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

MULTICOLORED MIRRORS

2011-07-16T15:34:00.000-04:00

Since I'm rereading Philip Norman's wonderful book, John Lennon: The Life, I thought I'd dust off a review I wrote for the Lost Amazon Archives back in 2008. Enjoy.

***

Some people, attached to the cuddly mop-top Beatles image, are shocked that Lennon—who was, by most accounts, profoundly idealistic, generous to a fault, fiercely intelligent and a brilliant wit—could also be a perfect idiot: rude, angry, cynical, cruel, and, on occasion, violent. That’s precisely why I’ve always felt a profound connection to the man: He was wonderfully, horribly, fully human—trapped in a yin-yang spiral, constantly seeking transcendence through mind-altering substances, God, politics, family. Throughout his career, his songs painted the portrait of a man always reaching for Heaven—and often tumbling straight into Hell along the way: forever questing—desperately, defiantly, and always with a sense of humor—to understand himself.

I wrote those words in a post a few years ago, discussing my lifelong fascination with, and admiration for, my one true rock and roll hero: John Lennon. That fascination was reignited—not that it ever really dimmed—with the arrival of Philip Norman’s wonderful new Lennon biography, John Lennon: The Life. Norman’s book on the Beatles, Shout, is a classic and his admiration for Lennon shone through on every page. The same can be said for The Life. As Norman noted in a recent interview, “(Lennon) behaved badly, but we all behave badly... The overwhelming number of people who met him really adored him." And that’s the overwhelming feeling this incredibly detailed, and incredibly compassionate, book leaves you with: admiration for a flawed man, and towering artist, who lived the full spectrum of his humanity.

Strange, then, that a number of reviewers have written about The Life as if it’s a scathing portrait of a violent, drug-addled, womanizing monster, whose idealistic and political stances were hypocritical poses. It’s as if they simply can’t fathom that a man can contain opposites or comprehend the vast difference between hypocrisy and contradiction. (Or perhaps it’s just that they can’t bear to look at the contradictions in their own souls.) “Good and evil,” as another hero of mine, Dostoyesvsky, wrote, “are monstrously mixed up in man.” John Lennon lived that. More important: he knew it.

The joke here—and one that, I think, Lennon would appreciate—is that most of the “shocking revelations” in The Life aren’t new: any fan with more than a cursory knowledge of the Beatles has heard them before—and from Lennon’s own lips. “I used to be cruel to my woman I beat her and kept her apart from the things that she loved.” That unsettling line came smack in the middle of “Getting Better,” an optimistic piece of McCartneyism turned on its head by Lennon’s naked admission of his violent past. How about this, from the brilliant Walls and Bridges track, “Scared”: “Hatred and jealousy, gonna be the death of me, I guess I knew it right from the start. Sing out about love and peace, don't wanna see the red raw meat, the green eyed goddamn straight from your heart.” No biographer could capture the contradictions of John Lennon’s soul more forcefully than the man did himself, both in song and in his always honest and revealing interviews. “I used to be cruel to my woman, and physically,” Lennon told interviewer David Sheff, a few months before his assassination, “any woman. I was a hitter. I couldn't express myself and I hit. I fought men and I hit women. That is why I am always on about peace, you see. It is the most violent people who go for love and peace. Everything's the opposite. But I sincerely believe in love and peace. I am a violent man who has learned not to be violent and regrets his violence. I will have to be a lot older before I can face in public how I treated women as a youngster.”

John Lennon: The Life isn’t perfect: no single biography could be. A man’s life—especially a man like Lennon, who was the focus of an entire generation’s dreams and aspirations—is a mirror. A biographer often sees more of himself in that mirror than he does of his subject. (The same can be said of the people who review those biographies—myself included.) Despite its great length—more than 800 pages—I would have liked a little more psychological insight, a little more spiritual depth (Lennon was as much a fervent spiritual seeker as his bandmate, George Harrison). Although it’s refreshing to see a book that presents Yoko Ono as a vulnerable human being and an artist of worth—as opposed to the Dragon Lady caricature that’s marred one too many Beatle-related books—Norman seems to accept Yoko’s version of events too easily and without question. That said, when you’re chronicling the life and times of a man with kaleidoscope eyes and multi-colored mirrors on his hobnail boots, the definitive account will always be elusive.

© copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

ZONING OUT

2011-07-11T12:32:00.003-04:00

The SyFy Channel ran a Twilight Zone marathon over the July 4th weekend. Despite the fact that I own all the episodes on DVD, I ended up watching one after another after another, filled with the same wonder, terror and delight that I felt when I was a kid, seeing those imagination-exploding shows for the first time. Inspired by the marathon, I decided it was long past time to put together a list of my ten favorite Zone episodes. By the time I was done, I’d included sixteen episodes, but let’s all pretend it’s a top ten list. It sounds better that way.

“Time Enough At Last” which is first on the list, is probably my all-time favorite, perhaps because it’s the first one I remember seeing; but, really, the numbering doesn't matter: they all hold an equal place in my heart, continuing—even after all these years—to echo on in the deeps of my psyche and soul.

1) “Time Enough At Last”
Written by Rod Serling. As noted, the first episode I remember seeing—I think I was five or six—and one that’s never let me go. Burgess Meredith is brilliant as the bookish Henry Bemis: a man, abused by the world, who’s never happy unless he’s reading. The ending is the most tragic, and unfair, in all the Zone; but what touched me as a child, and still does to this day, is Bemis’s love of literature and the strange charms of being the only person left alone in the world. By becoming a professional writer—someone who spends a good part of his life alone with his own imagination—you could say I became a Henry Bemis myself.

2) “Nightmare at 20,000 Feet”/”Nick of Time”
Written by Richard Matheson. Two classic episodes starring the incomparable William Shatner. In “Nightmare...”, Shatner gives a career-defining performance as a passenger fighting for both his life and his sanity on an airplane. It’s a tribute to Shatner, Matheson and director Richard Donner that the first time I ever got on a plane, the first thing I did was look out the window to check and see if there was anything...strange out there on the wing. In “Nick of Time,” Shatner is equally terrific in another Matheson story, this one delicately, and brilliantly, walking a fine line between the supernatural and the psychological. And who could forget that bobbing devil-head?

3) “Walking Distance”
Written by Rod Serling. “Walking Distance” owes something to the work of Ray Bradbury—filled as it is with a longing for a simpler age of childhood innocence and merry-go-rounds—but the bittersweet soul of the story is pure Serling. Gig Young gives a heartfelt—and heartbreaking—performance as a desperate man seeking solace in his own fragile past. As perfect a TZ as was ever filmed, this is Serling at the very top of his game, using the show’s format to explore the human condition with a power and eloquence rarely seen on television, then or now.

4) “A Stop At Willoughby”
Written by Rod Serling. A companion piece to “Walking Distance,” this wonderful episode features James Daley—who went on to appear in one of my favorite Star Trek episodes, “Requiem for Methuselah”—giving a superb performance as a businessman longing for escape from the pressures of his life. He finds it in a place called Willoughby—which may very well be Heaven itself. Despite hints of misogyny—there are one too many harpy wives in Serling’s work—this is a deeply moving, and deeply magical story, that manages to transform tragic death into eternal triumph. Many a time I’ve been on an Amtrak train wondering if the conductor would shout out, “Willoughby! This stop is Willoughby!” If he did, would I get off? Would you?

5) “A World of Difference”
Written by Richard Matheson. Another Matheson gem, one of the very best of the Zones that question both personal identity and the nature of reality. Howard Duff is perfectly cast as a man trying desperately to escape an existence he believes is a lie and return to a life that everyone else claims is a madman’s delusion. The moment when Duff is sitting in his office at work and an offscreen voice yells, "Cut!"—revealing the world we've been watching to be a movie set—is one of the most thrilling and disturbing in the series.

6) “The After Hours”
Written by Rod Serling. Another challenge to personal identity, perhaps to our humanity itself. “The After Hours” terrified and fascinated me as a kid. It also had me wondering, every time I passed a department store mannequin, if there was more to them, and to the universe, than met the eye. That, to me, was the greatest gift of The Twilight Zone: it exploded safe assumptions and challenged you to look, really look, and discover the miracles hidden just beneath the skin of the world.

7) “The Purple Testament”/”A Quality of Mercy”
Written by Rod Serling. This pair of superb episodes, both inspired by Serling’s experiences fighting in the Pacific during World War II, always seemed of a piece to me. Both are resonant with sorrow, outrage and compassion—and could only have been created by a man who’d witnessed the horrors of war first hand. “Mercy’s” ability to shift perspective, to let us see war from the enemy’s POV, was a real eye opener to me as a kid. It broke apart the simplistic good guy/bad guy paradigm that mass media, and our political culture, had been feeding my young, impressionable mind and helped me to understand that all of us—so-called heroes and so-called villains alike—are united by our humanity.

8) “King Nine Will Not Return”
Written by Rod Serling. Only Twilight Zone could give you thirty minutes of Robert Cummings staggering around in the desert alone, speaking primarily through interior monologue, and make it a classic. Cummings, who learned his craft in movies but became a household name as the star of amiable, unchallenging sitcoms, proved that his dramatic chops were still intact with this wonderful portrayal of a man caught between past and future, guilt and madness. The sand in the shoe at the end was the icing on the cake.

9) “The Eye of the Beholder”
Written by Rod Serling. Okay, go to the mirror, pull down your bottom eyelids, push up your nose and scare the hell out of yourself the same way those doctors and nurses scared the hell of you the first time you saw this episode. A perfect mix of the aural and the visual, “The Eye of the Beholder” is skillfully directed by Douglas Heyes and beautifully acted by Maxine Stewart, who, hidden as she is beneath bandages, gives what is essentially the greatest radio performance in the history of television. (When the bandages come off at the end, it’s a little disconcerting to find Elly May Clampett underneath.) Serling loved to rail against conformity and totalitarianism (among other things)—and sometimes the railing overwhelmed the writing. Here everything is in perfect balance. Yes, there’s a point to be made, but it’s the humanity of the story that stays with you.

10) “The Odyssey of Flight 33”
Written by Rod Serling. A simple, brilliant premise: a passenger jet lost in time. What’s amazing about the show is that—despite a few briefly-seen effects shots, some equally brief stock footage and a handful of passenger reactions—the bulk of the story takes place in the cockpit of the plane. It’s all talk. And yet Serling manages to make us believe that we’re trapped on that plane along with the crew and passengers, adrift in the timestream—and that we may never return. That’s called great writing, folks.

11) “Night of the Meek”
Written by Rod Serling. The great Art Carney as a down-on-his-luck boozer who, on a snowy December night, finds himself transformed into Santa Claus. Be forewarned: this is no Tim Allen Disney comedy. It’s a genuinely moving tale of redemption: Serling at his sweetest, but not losing his edge, either. A show that demands re-watching every 25th of December.

12) “It’s a Good Life”  
Written by Rod Serling. Billy Mumy wishing people into the cornfield. What more needs to be said? Just this: the moment when Mumy’s six year old terror Anthony Fremont turns Don Keefer’s character, Dan Hollis, into a human jack-in-the-box is one of the most chilling moments ever broadcast on television. And what makes it work is how little we actually see. Most of what we get is shadow and suggestion, letting our imaginations fill in the horrifying details.

13) “To Serve Man”
Written by Rod Serling. Three little words: “It’s a cookbook!” Yes, it’s all a little goofy, and there are some obvious plot holes, but, c’mon, “It’s a cookbook!”

14) “Death Ship”
Written by Richard Matheson. The best of the hour long episodes, “Death Ship” is another Matheson gem that—as Marc Scott Zicree points out in his wonderful book, The Twilight Zone Companion (still the best TZ book out there, if you ask me)—skillfully straddles the line between science fiction and horror. The performances by Ross Martin, Fred Beir and Zone repeat offender Jack Klugman are uniformly excellent. This one sends a chill down your spine and pierces your heart at the same time: an uncommon feat. But, then, Matheson is an uncommon writer.

There are so many other episodes I could write about—”A World of His Own, “ “Nothing in the Dark,” “The Midnight Sun, “ “The Trade Ins” and “Number Twelve Looks Just Like You” spring immediately to mind—but I’ve got to stop somewhere. And, since the entire series is available on DVD and Blu-Ray, you should have no trouble tracking any of them down and losing yourself in the wonders and terrors of The Twilight Zone.

All that said, I’m compelled to mention one more extraordinary episode that was part of the 1980’s reboot of the series. (I sold my first television script to the 80’s Zone and I’ll be blogging about that memorable experience one of these days. Soon I hope.) The episode, “Her Pilgrim Soul,” written by the brilliant Alan Brennert, isn’t just one of the finest episodes of any incarnation of the Zone—right up there with the best of Serling, Matheson and Charles Beaumont—it’s one of the finest pieces I’ve ever seen on television. In fact, it’s so good, you’ve got to click on this link and watch it right now.

SHHHHHH...

2011-07-10T13:32:00.000-04:00

It's Silence Day.

STARS AND STRIPES

2011-07-03T14:48:00.003-04:00

Since we're coming up fast on Independence Day, it's a good time to mention The Veteran's Site: With one click of a mouse—and not a dime out of your own pocket—you can help feed homeless veterans, who are often forgotten in the flag-waving, bombs-bursting-in-air celebrations of the July 4th weekend.

Also in the spirit of the weekend (and, in anticipation of the soon-to-be-released movie), I thought I’d offer up an edited version of an afterword I wrote for Robert G. Weiner's book Captain America and the Struggle of the Superhero: Critical Essays. Enjoy!

***

The first time I ever laid eyes on Captain America was on the cover of Sgt. Fury and his Howling Commandos #13. It’s a tribute to the character, and the man who drew that cover, Cap's co-creator Jack Kirby, that the image has remained lodged in my memory and imagination ever since. The Marvel covers of the era were—in contrast to their streamlined and sedate DC counterparts—gaudy and garish, crammed full of copy: simultaneously cheap, raw and incredibly vital. Cap’s costume—the stars and stripes, the fat A on his forehead—was equally garish, even by super hero standards; and the look in his eyes...well, the guy seemed a little crazy.

I had no idea who Captain America was. Despite the fact that the cover copy proclaimed Cap and his young partner, Bucky, “the overwhelming stars of the Golden Age of Comics,” I’d never heard of them. Even the phrase “Golden Age” was new to me. To my ten year old mind, any comics that existed before I was born were as ancient and unfathomable as an Egyptian tomb. Which, of course, made the character seem bizarre and appealing. Add in that dynamic Kirby artwork, with Cap—in an impossible, but somehow believable, pose—dominating the scene, and I just had to read that story. Read it? I devoured it.

Flash forward fifteen or so years. I’m brand new to the comic book business, having written a number of stories for the DC anthology titles, and just getting my foot in the door at Marvel Comics—where editor-in-chief Jim Shooter hands me an assignment. “There’s a new Captain America TV movie coming out,” he says, “and we want to do a tie in. Come up with a story.” I’d seen the first Cap TV movie—let’s just say it was disappointing and leave it at that—but I dutifully set to work, weaving Cap, his long-time enemy, the Red Skull, and real life actor Reb Brown into a story that, I hoped, was more than just a cheesy TV cash-in. By the time I’d finished the plot outline, someone at Marvel came to his senses and Reb Brown was removed from the story, along with all references to the movie. I was told to rework the story as a three-parter for the monthly Cap comic, which I did: it finally saw print in Captain America #s 261—263.

The story wasn’t a classic by any stretch of the imagination—in fact, the opening sequence, which featured Steve Rogers getting a little drunk with his buddies, was a major blunder—but it did get me a regular gig writing Cap’s adventures. (You can read this early effort, warts and all, in a brand new collection called Captain America vs. The Red Skull.) Working primarily with Mike Zeck—the starting point of a fruitful collaboration that would reach its peak seven years later with our Spider-Man saga Kraven’s Last Hunt—and British superstar Paul Neary (with some terrific fill-in work from the amazing Sal Buscema), I got to spend the next three years exploring the life, times and psyche of one of the great American icons.

I’d been a loyal Captain America reader, of course—with a special fondness for the Lee-Kirby, Englehart, Gerber and Stern-Byrne eras—but I can’t say that Cap was a major god in my comic book pantheon: I enjoyed the stories immensely, but, to my mind, Cap was no Silver Surfer, Superman or Doctor Strange. Of course reading about a character and writing that character are two very different experiences—and the deeper I submerged myself in Steve Rogers’ world, the more I appreciated Captain America: not so much the icon as the man. In costume, Rogers was larger-than-life: “the whole country—squeezed into one pair of pants.” (That line, spoken about theater legend George M. Cohan, is from Yankee Doodle Dandy—one of the great movie musicals—and it describes Cap The Icon better than I ever could.) I was more intrigued by the person behind the mask. Rogers—to dip into movie lore once more—was the George Bailey of super heroes: a simple, honest man of inherent decency, who always struggled to do the right thing—no matter how difficult it was. He wasn’t concerned with ideologies or the politics of the moment. He was concerned with the American Dream. He believed, to the core of his being, in what America could be. Rogers was certainly well aware of the many times the United States had failed to live up to its own ideals—and those failures disheartened him—but he never gave up believing because his faith and hope weren’t invested in any elected official or political party. They were invested in the spiritual core of America: something deep and true and unchanging that lay beneath world affairs and shifting political currents.

To my mind, Captain America’s greatest power wasn’t the strength he gained from the super-soldier formula: it was the depth of his compassion, his caring. His belief in the revolutionary power of simple human decency.

The nature of the character dictated that the stories I wrote explored issues larger than the latest hero-villain slugfest. The canvas had to be huge—encompassing action, psychology and broader political, spiritual and philosophical issues. Some of my attempts failed spectacularly, some succeeded—but I thought I’d finally hit my stride during my last year on the book: an ongoing saga involving Captain America’s final battle with the Red Skull that was to reach its turning point with a double-sized Captain America #300 in which the Skull dies and Cap, after (at the time) forty-plus years of solving problems with his fists, begins to wonder if there’s another way to live his ideals and change the world. (Despite my love of the super hero genre, the inherent—and often mindless—violence in super hero comics has always disturbed me. This story was my way of attacking the issue head on.) In the proposal I presented to my editor—the late, great Mark Gruenwald—Cap was, ultimately, going to disavow violence as a tool for change—essentially rejecting the fundamental super hero mindset—and start working for world peace. (Keep in mind that this was at the height of the Reagan “evil empire”/cold war period, so it was a pretty radical idea for its day.) There was much more to the story—including Steve Rogers’ apparent assassination by his then-partner, Nomad, and the emergence of a new Captain America, a Native American named Jesse Black Crow—and I was eager to spend the next year exploring these challenging issues.

Gruenwald approved my proposal, I wrote the double-sized Cap #300 then went ahead and plotted the next two or three stories in the arc; but Jim Shooter, hearing what we were planning, shot the idea down. Jim thought my idea violated Cap’s character, that Steve Rogers would never do the things I was suggesting. Captain America #300 was then cut down to a normal-sized issue and substantially rewritten, I think by Jim himself—or perhaps Gruenwald under Jim’s direction. (Which is why I used a fake name in the credits and immediately quit the book.) At the time I was angry but, in retrospect, I totally understand Shooter’s POV. Jim—a brilliant editor who really helped me along in the early days of my career—was the custodian of the Marvel Universe: he had to protect the characters as he understood them. Me? I think my Cap saga would have been an emotional and thought-provoking piece of pop fiction.

(This idea—a long-time super hero finally realizing that violence is a dead end—obsessed me, in various forms, from the moment I conceived it in l983. The concept evolved considerably over the years and finally saw print in 2009 as The Life and Times of Savior 28: for my money the best superhero story I've ever written.)

My journey with Captain America ended then—but the character remains as fascinating as he seemed when I first glimpsed him on that Sgt. Fury cover more than forty years ago. Some people view Cap as an anachronism, a throwback to another era. Worse, some see him as a symbol of American Imperialism. They miss the point. Captain America, the costumed hero, is the embodiment of all that’s best and brightest in the concept of America: a concept that transcends the nation that birthed it. Steve Rogers, the man, represents everyone who seeks a better world for himself and his neighbors; who strives to live a decent, compassionate life. That makes him one of us—all of us, no matter our country of origin—and insures that the character will still be with us, in all his gaudy, vibrant glory, for decades to come.

©copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

COME TO BALTIMORE

2011-07-01T06:58:00.001-04:00

Do you remember when comic book conventions were just that: places where fans and creators of comics could come together for a weekend of mutual appreciation—and mutual love of the medium—and there were no movie studios, actors, wrestlers, video game companies or porn stars in sight? In recent years, it seems that many comic cons have mutated into multi-media events that have pushed the hardcore comic book fans farther and farther into limbo.

Not in Baltimore.

As some of you know, I'm not a big convention goer—massive crowds and I don't always get along—but, a few years back, urged on by Mark Waid, I attended the Baltimore Comic Con and was delighted to find that it was one of the most relaxed and enjoyable conventions I've ever attended. Best of all, it was all about the comics. No other distractions. (The only celebrity I saw the entire weekend was 30 Rock's Scott Adsit and he wasn't there promoting anything: he was wandering the floor as a fan, apparently in a state of nerdish bliss.) Which is why I'm very happy to be returning to Baltimore in August for another weekend of panels, signings and—best of all—talking to the folks who read, and appreciate, my work. And this year, two old friends will be joining me. I'll let the official press release explain it:

The Baltimore Comic-Con is pleased to announce the addition of Keith Giffen, J.M. DeMatteis, and Kevin Maguire to the line-up of creators attending this year's show, taking place the weekend of August 20-21, 2011.

Keith Giffen, who will be making his only convention appearance this year at the Baltimore Comic-Con, is a writer/artist who has worked on such title as Legion of Super-Heroes, Nick Fury's Howling Commandos, T.H.U.N.D.E.R. Agents, and his creator-owned series, Hero Squared. Most recently, Giffen was named artist on the DC title O.M.A.C., launching in September.

Writer J.M. DeMatteis began his career in the late '70s working on DC Comics' horror line of books. In 1980, he moved over to Marvel, where he worked on The Defenders and Captain America. Over the next 30 years, DeMatteis would write nearly every major character in both the DC and Marvel Universes, including Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, Spider-Man, Silver Surfer, Daredevil and Doctor Strange. In 2010, he teamed up with long-time collaborator, Keith Giffen on DC's Booster Gold series.

Artist Kevin Maguire, who has worked with both Giffen and DeMatteis on several books, began his a career in 1987. He has worked on such high-profile titles as Batman Confidential, Captain America and X-Men. Most recently, he worked on the latest relaunch of Doom Patrol at DC Comics.

Giffen, DeMatteis and Maguire are well-known for their run on DC Comics' Justice League in the late '80s, which added a humorous brand of storytelling to the superhero team dynamic. Their appearance at the Baltimore Comic-Con marks only the second time they have all been together at a show. In addition, all three creators will be appearing on a panel together at the show. "The three of us have only been together at a convention once before - and that ended in screaming, physical violence, and millions of dollars in property damage," said DeMatteis. "I look forward to doing it again!"

"With the recent release of the latest Justice League International trade from DC, we couldn't be happier to have the creative team behind that book at this year's show," said Marc Nathan, show promoter of the Baltimore Comic-Con. "That series' lighthearted tone and fantastic humor added something different to a comic landscape that was filled with 'grim and gritty' books and should be on everyone's essential reading lists."

It's a rare thing to find all three of us stooges together in the same place at the same time, so if you'd like a chance to meet us, talk with us—or hit us with a rubber chicken—think about coming to Baltimore in August. Some guy named Stan Lee is going to be the Guest of Honor and the rest of the guest list is pretty impressive, too.

Oh, and speaking of the Giffen-DeMatteis-Maguire Justice League, Newsarama ran a nice piece the other day about our upcoming JLI Retro project and you can read it right here.

See you in Baltimore!

REMEMBERING COLAN

2011-06-24T22:04:00.000-04:00

Gene Colan, one of the giants of the comic book industry, passed away today.

One of my first jobs at Marvel Comics was a black and white Hulk story drawn by Colan: I couldn't believe my good luck. I didn't know him personally—beyond a short phone chat when we worked on that story—but his art is woven into my consciousness. Gene's work on Captain America, Daredevil, Doctor Strange and, especially, Howard the Duck and Tomb of Dracula—two of the greatest comics of the 70’s—is Colan at his finest: radiant with mood, texture, humanity and a reality all its own. Gene was totally unlike any other artist working in comics at the time—he was a genre unto himself; in the mainstream but with one foot always outside of it—and there’s still no one who can touch him.

My heartfelt sympathies to Gene’s family and friends.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKING

2011-06-24T16:16:00.002-04:00

Apologies for the last-minute notice, but the National Audio Theater Festival's production of my play "Knocking on Heaven's Door" will be streamed live tonight at 7:30 Central Time/8:30 Eastern on KDY-FM. (You can also listen at the NATF site: a stream link should appear at 7:15). "Knocking..." is a half hour, Twilight Zone-ish fantasy about the afterlife. If you've followed this blog for any length of time you know what a lover of old time radio I am, so you can imagine what a kick it was writing my first audio drama. There'll be two more plays on after mine, one of which was written by fellow comics scribe—and co-creator of Starstruck—Elaine Lee. Please listen, if you're so inclined!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SIR PAUL

2011-06-18T15:29:00.001-04:00

If I was going to list the creative titans whose work—in any artistic field—has entertained, uplifted and inspired me, Paul McCartney would be near the top of the list. From the moment the Beatles stepped onto the stage of The Ed Sullivan Show and electrified my ten year old brain, McCartney's music, with and without the Beatles, has provided an ongoing soundtrack for my life. Yes, it's true I'm a hard-core Lennon fan, and, overall, I prefer John's work to Paul's; but that's like saying I prefer breathing to the beating of my heart: both are essential for survival.

In honor of Paul's 69th birthday, here's a classic clip of the Beatles performing his greatest song (hell, it's one of the greatest songs ever written): "Hey Jude."

And here's a shimmering gem from McCartney's extraordinary solo catalog; one of his most beautiful, and moving, ballads: "Waterfalls."

If you're not familiar with McCartney's non-Beatles work, I'd recommend four albums that feature Paul at the height of his creative powers: Band on the Run, Tug of War, Flaming Pie and Memory Almost Full.

Happy birthday, Paul. And here's to many more years of heartfelt, transcendent music.

WHO'S DREAMING WHO?

2011-06-14T14:25:00.004-04:00

In the third of Hyperion’s Abadazad books—The Puppet, the Professor and the Prophet—Zad’s resident genius, Professor Headstrong, gave a little discourse on the nature of reality: “I am thoroughly convinced,” he said, “that Abadazad exists on a dimensional plane wholly separate from...but intersecting with...Earth. Now ours being a realm composed primarily of mind and imagination—where thought and, more important, belief possess malleability, it is highly likely that inspirations and assumptions, ideas and ideals, from your world are constantly seeping into our dimension and taking form. This suggests that the dreams of Earth might literally have created Abadazad, and that Abadazadian dreams—which are, by definition, monumentally potent—have manifested on Earth.”

If you’re a follower of this blog, then you know how fascinated I am with the creative act: specifically, those sublime moments when the stories I write appear to come from someplace far beyond that limited terrain known as the self; when the Cosmic Download kicks in and dialogue, scenes, sometimes entire epics, beam down from the ethers, manifesting like holograms in my head; when it seems as if these fantastical worlds exist, as Headstrong said, on another vibrational plane and I’ve been chosen to chronicle their histories. I certainly felt that way when I was writing Abadazad and, most memorably, when I was writing the third issue of the CrossGen comic book series that predated the Hyperion trilogy.   At that point, the Abadazad concept had been years in development—many a holographic movie had been watched in the theater of my mind—and I had a very clear idea of where the story was going: I’d mapped out Kate Jameson’s quest, I knew how it was going to end and I knew everyone she was going to encounter along the way. Mike Ploog—who was surely experiencing cosmic downloads of his own—had done detailed sketches of the characters, bringing them to perfect visual life. After only two issues we were caught up in a heady rush of collaborative energy, the kind of creative symmetry between writer and artist that you can’t consciously manifest: it’s either there or it isn’t. (With Mike it was there from the first time we spoke on the phone.)

I was excited about our third installment because it was going to introduce a new group of characters: the Knights of Abadazad, a collection of completely inept and utterly unthreatening bunglers who were charged—or so they believed—with guarding Queen Ija’s palace. (Ija was more than capable of guarding her kingdom without their help, but she just didn’t have the heart to tell them.) I’d spent time figuring out who each knight was, what his role would be, and Mike had done a wonderful job designing them. But when I sat down to write the issue, something very odd happened.

I was crafting one of the prose sequences that ran throughout the series: excerpts from the original Abadazad novels that were published in the early 1900’s. Of course there were no original Abadazad novels—I made them up—but I loved putting myself in the place of Zad’s alleged creator, Franklin O. Barrie (he morphed into Franklin O. Davies in the Hyperion series) and writing in the formal-but-playful style of the children’s books of the era. I tended to just flow with these sequences, putting down whatever popped into my head and then shaping it as I went along. These were the first words I typed (keep in mind that—since this was supposed to be a random page taken from one of Davies’ books—I began in mid-sentence):

weeping violently. “Don’t cry, Master Wix,” Little Martha told him. “Be brave.”   

Wix looked at her through his paraffin tears and mustered a courageous, heartfelt, and utterly pathetic smile. “If you say so,” he whimpered, allowing the girl to dab at his cheeks with the hem of her dress; “but,” he continued, “I really don’t see why I should stop. We are doomed, after all.”

Nothing odd or unusual in that—except for the fact that, until the name “Master Wix” showed up in that first sentence, I had never heard of him. In all the preliminary work I'd done—all the biographies, back stories, histories—the vaguest concept of this character (a self-styled tough guy with a soft heart and a candle head) had never so much as flitted across my mind. I wasn’t even thinking about him while I was typing: the words tumbled out and Wix simply appeared, new born and full grown, on my computer screen—as if he’d been plucked out of a magician’s hat (or, in this case, a magician’s head). 

Open as I am to happy accidents and cosmic surprises, and finding Wix an intriguing character, I pondered fitting him into the Zad saga somewhere down the line, then finished off the prose section and moved on with the story of Kate’s adventure with the Knights of Abadazad. Problem was, no matter how hard I tried to wrestle that beast to the ground, it kept swatting me off and thrashing wildly out of control. I don’t know how long I kept struggling with the story, trying to get it to do what I wanted, before I realized what was happening. I could feel it, feel him, in the back of my head: Master Wix. He wanted to be in that story, in that particular issue of the comic book. “But I can’t do that,” I protested. “I’ve got this issue all worked out.” He made his request again. “Okay, okay,” I replied, “maybe I’ll give you a little cameo, but later. First I’ve got to get this sequence with the Knights to work.” Only it wasn’t working: it was falling to pieces and it felt as if Abadazad, my beloved dream project, was falling to pieces with it. I, of course, leaped to conclusion that any neurotic writer would: “I’ve blown it, I’m a failure, everyone loved the first two issues but now they’re all going to see what an utter fraud I am.” But then Wix returned, more insistent: “Just put me into the story. Put me in now. I promise you, it will all work out.”

There was really no choice: I took a deep breath, tossed the Knights of Abadazad out on their armored butts, and brought Wix into the story right at the beginning. As soon as I did what he requested—no, what he demanded—the third chapter started flowing. All the pieces came together easily, effortlessly and joyfully. By the time I was done with the issue, I’d realized that Wix was incredibly important not just to that sequence but to the entire series. As for the Knights of Abadazad: they’d been booted clear out of Zad. I think the point Wix was making was that they’d never belonged there in the first place.

As noted, I’d been channeling plenty of holographic movies from Abadazad—sent, no doubt, via the Blue Globe, direct from Queen Ija’s palace in the city of Inconceivable—but somehow, in all the mass of characters and events, I’d missed Master Wix and downloaded these other characters, these comical knights, from a totally different universe. Happily, the gods of Zad wouldn’t let me turn their story upside down. They made sure Wix came through, loud and clear. They made sure he assumed his important role in the Abadazad tapestry.

Mystics have said that all we can imagine exists somewhere on another dimensional plane, all our thoughts and dreams, fears and nightmares, playing out in the astral realms. But, as Professor Headstrong suggested (and who am I to gainsay his wisdom?), it might also work the other way around: perhaps Abadazad existed long before I was born and some confluence of cosmic forces brought us together. All I can say for sure is that, in that magical moment on that magical day, Master Wix and the Abadazadians made it clear to me just how deep and wonderfully unfathomable our creative union was.   

So I ask: Who created Master Wix? For that matter, who really wrote the story of Abadazad? Did I dream Zad, did Zad dream me, did we simultaneously dream each other? If I had to pick one theory, that last one would be it: dreamer creating dream, dream creating dreamer, all at the same time.

If you have a hard time believing that, I suggest you talk to my old friend Wixy: I’m sure he’ll convince you that it’s true.

 ©copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

THE SHOWS THAT WEREN'T THERE

2011-06-05T17:30:00.000-04:00

Last week, while exploring the mystery of the vanishing Batman: The Brave and the Bold episode, I discovered that—despite being yanked from the schedule at the last minute—my Green Lantern story, "Scorn of the Star Sapphire," was available for download at the iTunes store. Today I discovered that my next scheduled episode, "Time Out for Vengeance"—which was originally supposed to air this past Friday—is also on iTunes. "Time Out," which features Batman, the JLI and Rip Hunter (as well as a cameo by the Creeper) is a fairly epic time-travel story and, having just watched it, it's instantly become one of my favorites of all the B & B episodes I've written. Producers Michael Jelenic and James Tucker, director Michael Goguen and the whole Batman team did an incredible job with this one. (One of these days—soon, I hope—I'll devote a post to explaining what it's like, from a freelancer's perspective, writing for these animated shows.)

Both "Scorn of the Star Sapphire" and "Time Out for Vengeance" will air sometime in the near future, but if you want to see them now, hop on over to iTunes and hit that download button.

BROOKLYN DREAMING

2011-05-31T10:21:00.001-04:00

With signed contracts now in hand, I can happily announce that there's going to be a new, hardcover edition of Brooklyn Dreams coming out in the fall from those fine folks at IDW. Seems like a good time to share the following piece that was written two years ago for a French edition of BD.

***

In the mid-1980’s, I was writing a very strange, and deeply personal, space saga called Moonshadow for Marvel Comics’ groundbreaking Epic imprint. Moonshadow was the project that cracked me open as a writer, allowing me to step outside the confines of the Marvel and DC universes and be myself. For the first time I wasn’t “writing comic books,” I was just writing, exactly the way I wanted to, telling exactly the story I wanted to.

Moonshadow was, in many ways, an autobiographical work, but the autobiography was filtered through the phantasmagoria of Moon’s adventures. It was my life, shoved into the deepest waters of my unconscious and then yanked up from the depths: flapping like a fish, dripping with imagination and allegory. One of the reasons I re-cast my life as a work of fantasy was because I always viewed existence itself as a work of fantasy. I believed then—and believe even more now—that the best way to truly capture this fathomless, hallucinatory, profound, absurd and joyfully sacred thing we call Life is through stories of the fantastic. So-called “realistic fiction” often spends so much time dwelling on the details of the “real world” (something I maintain doesn’t even exist), studying that ashtray in the corner of the room or that childhood trauma in the corner of the mind, that it misses the infinite layers and levels of psychic and spiritual wonder we walk through, and interact with, every day. Put simply: If life is a dream—and I believe it is—you’d better write a dream. If life is a fairy tale—and, again, I believe it is—then you’d better write a fairy tale.

So why, then, did I write Brooklyn Dreams? It, after all, presents itself as the true-life adventures of a thinly-veiled version of myself, struggling through adolescence amidst the chaos and euphoria of an extraordinarily dysfunctional Brooklyn family: not a spaceship, ghost, magic book or super-hero in sight.

Despite my belief that tales of the fantastic are often the best doorways into the truth of our lives, I’m a great admirer of authors who can create stories about the allegedly real and then push so deep into the soil of that world that they come out the other end in Wonderland. Henry Miller could do that. My literary hero, Dostoyevsky. J.D. Salinger. Isaac Bashevis Singer. And, of course, my other literary hero, Ray Bradbury. What? You say Bradbury is a science-fiction writer? Well, yes, he’s been justifiably celebrated for his extraordinary, and extraordinarily poetic, tales of outer and inner space; but my favorite Bradbury book, one of my favorite books of all time, is Dandelion Wine: a simple novel that tells the simple tale of a single summer in the life of a twelve year old boy named Douglas Spaulding. Only it’s not simple: Bradbury fixes his X-ray eyes on the mundane aspects of Doug’s life, sees right through them and exposes the magic and wonder, the cosmic terror and cosmic joy, hiding beneath the surface.

As I finished work on the final issue of Moonshadow, I wondered if I could do the same with a coming-of-age saga of my own.

Of course I didn’t grow up in the well-scrubbed, All American Green Town of Bradbury’s youth. I grew up in the far noisier, messier and wildly unstable terrain of Brooklyn, New York, in an era—the late 1960’s and early 1970’s—when questioning the nature of reality was the order of the day. As much as I adore Dandelion Wine—it’s forever imprinted on my consciousness, swimming in my bloodstream—I saw my gestating story as a fusion of Woody Allen’s Radio Days and Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha. Mel Brooks meets Be Here Now.

I’d already attempted something like it, albeit on a small scale, with Moonshadow. Every issue included sequences that I referred to as “Brooklyn Interludes”: stories—some fabricated, some pulled directly from my own experiences, most of them a collision of the two—that detailed the life of Moon’s mother, Sheila Fay “Sunflower” Bernbaum. I loved writing those sequences, loved exploring the world of Sheila’s Brooklyn childhood, conjuring the spirits of her lunatic relatives. With Brooklyn Dreams I wanted to bring my own childhood, my own lunatic relatives, directly onto the stage, turning those interludes into the main act. Using the eyes of youth to expose the miracles hidden beneath the Brooklyn streets.

Whether I succeeded or failed is up to the reader to decide. One thing I think is beyond dispute, though, is the brilliance of Glenn Barr’s illustrations. I remember the book’s original editor, Mark Nevelow (who later turned the project over to Andy Helfer and Margaret Clark) showing me Glenn’s samples and my astonishment as I realized that this was the style I’d been envisioning for Brooklyn Dreams all along. I’d been seeing pictures in my head and there they were, in front of me: I knew immediately that I’d found my artist.

No matter what I asked of Glenn—and I asked plenty—he always rose to the challenge and, more often than not, not only met it but transcended it. His work was a breathtaking mixture of realism and cartoon, New York apartment buildings and surreal inner landscapes. Somehow—and in the end, it’s the will of the gods, we really had nothing to do with it—Glenn and I fused our visions seamlessly and the result was one of the most satisfying collaborations of my career. (A fellow writer once told me he’d always believed that the best graphic novels were birthed by a single creator, that a writer-artist team could never approach that kind of unified vision. Brooklyn Dreams changed his mind. And that’s a compliment I still treasure.) Writing the original four-volume series was both exhilarating and terrifying: I’d never exposed myself so nakedly in my work and I often felt like I was tottering on a high-wire, one trembling step away from falling. But, with a little luck and grace—and the safety net of Glenn’s illustrations—I made it across to the other side.

Every writer has favorite literary children. Looking back over a thirty year career, I can think of two or three other works that mean as much to me as Brooklyn Dreams. I can’t think of any that mean more.

© copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

THE CASE OF THE VANISHING EPISODE

2011-05-27T21:36:00.000-04:00

If you tuned in earlier tonight to watch "Scorn of the Star Sapphire" on Batman: the Brave and the Bold, you might have noticed that my episode...wasn't there. Someone—a member of Batman's infamous rogue's gallery, perhaps—swapped it out for a rerun of an earlier episode. Who did it? And for what cryptic purpose? This is surely a mystery for the world's greatest detective, but, until Bruce Wayne himself calls me to explain, the best I can do is scratch my head and wonder why Cartoon Network would promote the episode with multiple preview clips and then pull it at the last moment. I'm sure there's some logical reason and I hope the episode will be rescheduled soon. Till then, my apologies for hyping The Show That Wasn't There.

BATARANGS AND POWER RINGS

2011-05-27T11:31:00.000-04:00

My next episode of Batman: the Brave and the Bold airs tonight at 6:30 pm on Cartoon Network. As previously mentioned, this one—titled "Scorn of the Star Sapphire"—features Bats teamed with hero-of-the-moment Green Lantern. It also features Wonder Woman, in what I believe is her first B & B appearance. Here's a preview:

I've got another episode—my final one—coming up next week. It's a fairly epic story that teams Bats with the Justice League International and the king of time travel, Rip Hunter. It's one of my favorite scripts of the eight I've written for the show. (Having a chance to write the animated versions of the Giffen-DeMatteis JLI might have something to do with it.)

Check back tomorrow, if you're so inclined, and let me know what you thought of the GL story.

END OF A WORLD

2011-05-21T17:15:00.003-04:00

Contrary to Harold Camping’s prediction, the world didn’t end today. That, of course, didn’t stop the media from covering this alleged story ad nauseam, nor did it stop the internet from spreading it like a particularly virulent disease (to be fair, a good percentage of the net-chatter was mockery, but we often mock that which we fear).   We’re all, it seems, obsessed with Doomsday. Just turn on your TV and watch Nostradamus predict the end of the world on the History Channel while the Weather Channel does its best to terrify us by predicting disasters that “could happen tomorrow.”

The news broadcasts—from NBC to CNN, NPR to Fox—are all about throwing mountains of coal into our collective furnace of fear. Disaster looms around every corner, from the recalled headache pills in our medicine chests to the terrorists swarming our shores to annihilate us. Some of these fears are rooted in reality, of course, but our mass media loves to put it all under a magnifying glass till these events are hideously distorted: the better to scare you into raising their ratings. Abandon hope, all ye who watch this channel.   

Our pop culture has become fear culture: the action movie blockbuster has, more and more, become a gruesome parade of endless wreckage and loss of life, often on a global, if not a galactic, scale. End of the world scenarios play out with such regularity in films and video games and, yes, comic books (my hands are far from clean: I’ve destroyed my share of universes over the years) and it’s no wonder that, when some operatic preacher begins predicting that we’re all going down in a ball of fire (well, some of us: the lucky few will be lifted up to Heaven by a God who apparently enjoys playing favorites), everyone stops and takes notice.

But what if Camping was right? What if the world did end today and some of us just didn’t notice? (A moment while you scratch your head and wonder if my last brain cells have parachuted out on a suicide mission.)

I’ve written before about the idea—explored, in differing fashions, by both mystics and scientists—that the universe is just dreamstuff: an infinite ocean of primal energy that’s only given form by our perceptions. In other words, it’s all an illusion, tailored to, created by, the individual consciousness: every one projecting our dream-universes into the Void. From my perspective, I’m manifesting the entire Creation, including you; from your perspective, you’re manifesting it all, including me. (Which means, essentially, that right now you’re reading your own words, not mine.) And with each choice we make, each mental step we take, each thought we send vibrating out into that ocean of energy, we birth new universes, an infinite stream of shimmering bubbles blown through the wand of our minds. (Of course, in the end, it's all God dreaming through us and as us, but that's another essay for another time.)

So imagine Camping and his followers, all profoundly invested in this idea of Judgment Day and the Rapture, focusing their collective will and imagination (just like our old friend Green Lantern) on that ocean of energy and manifesting it. Today, this very morning, they all found themselves raised up by the hand of God, soaring off into the Heaven they’ve always longed for. Because that’s the dream they chose to manifest.

For those of us who didn’t buy into this dream, well—we’re still here, and we’ve dreamed up a Harold Camping who’s a failed prophet. (I don't think this invalidates the faith of Camping and his followers—but it is further proof that God is far bigger than any one belief system.) But where do we go from here? Perhaps Camping has done us a valuable service. Perhaps this mass focus on the End Times is a reminder for all of us to step back and ask a fundamental question: What kind of world are we dreaming into being? A world of suffering, where war never ends, where famine and disease and natural disasters dog us till it all really does “happen tomorrow”? Or will we dream something better: a world, a time, when peace and abundance, cooperation and compassion, flower across the planet?

The Golden Age, it’s been called.

Yes, doomsday scenarios have been around for as long as the human race has existed—they echo through all religions and spiritual paths—but they’re usually connected to paradise scenarios: humanity reborn, either on Earth or in Heaven, into a new and glorious order. From suffering comes redemption, from the ashes the Phoenix rises. My problem is I've never had much faith in a God whose method of redeeming us is through annihilating us. Why destroy the planet just to raise it up again? Why inflict all that suffering?   

Back in the mid-eighties I wrote a Doctor Strange graphic novel—co-plotted and illustrated by my old friend Dan Green—called Into Shamballa that explored that question. In it, Doctor Strange is ordered, by a group of spiritual sages called the Lords of Shamballa, to weave a spell that will obliterate three-fourths of mankind and usher in a new Golden Age. “A cataclysm beyond imagining,” they tell Strange, “will leave the world a ravaged wasteland, burying the Old Humanity and birthing the New.” Doc is resistant but, at first, simply assumes that these Cosmic Sages know more than he does; so he travels the globe assembling the multi-part spell. In the end, though, he can’t do it; he refuses to do it—until he has an inner realization (prompted, he believes, by the inner voice of his guru, the Ancient One) that transforms his perspective completely. The spell is completed and, to the astonishment of the Shamballese Lords, the world remains intact. No Apocalypse, just another morning on Planet Earth. “I saw,” Strange tells the bewildered Lords, “that your ultimate cataclysm will take place, not without...but within. The purge you foretold will occur in every heart. The fires you foresaw will burn in every soul. The Golden Age you predicted will come to each man in his own time.”

An interpretation that made far more sense to me. But something still didn’t sit right: Why, I eventually came to wonder, is this inner purge even necessary? Why does every soul have to burn in fire, even if it’s only an internal one? I saw how attached I’d been to the old model, the old belief that we’ve got to pay the price if we want to get the glory; but the universe (via the inner voice my own master, Meher Baba, who, strangely, was known as the Ancient One long before Dr. Strange creators Stan Lee and Steve Ditko coined the name) finally dragged me, kicking and screaming, toward a more positive view; a perspective that said we can unfold through joy as easily as we can grow through suffering. More easily. (I don't claim to have mastered this path—not by a long shot—but just walking it has been transformative.)
 
Ten or so years ago I read a book by Gregg Braden, The Isaiah Effect, that explored a similar idea. What if, Braden wrote—and I’m totally paraphrasing here (and, I hope, not distorting his point)—the ancient prophecies weren’t talking about a sequence of events (destruction, then rebirth; End of Days, then New Beginning)? What if they were talking about a choice? An opportunity to step over Harold Camping’s Apocalypse and walk straight through the gates of the Golden Age? Braden talked about the power of our collective consciousness to initiate global transformation—a valid and valuable goal—but I think it goes even further than that. If this world is literally a dream (and I believe, to the core of my being that it is), then isn’t it up to each of us to become lucid dreamers and choose the most beautiful dream we can? To manifest the Golden Age—not in some distant future, not in some faraway Heaven, but here and now?

In concert with God (in whatever form you see Him, Her or It), we make a choice, every hour, every minute, every instant, about which cosmos we want to dream into being. And each choice spins out a chain of events, a new world, a virgin universe.

Which means that today actually is Judgment Day.   

So what’s it going to be: the Apocalypse or the Golden Age? Heaven-on-Earth or endless Hell? Which newscast are you going to anchor, what story are you going to tell, what movie are you going to direct? Judgement Day is in your hands. You can take everything I've written literally or metaphorically, but, either way, it's up to you to make your choice, create your cosmos, dream your dream. I’ll go off and dream mine and, with a little luck and grace, perhaps our dreams will intertwine and manifest an even larger dream, a greater dream than we can individually imagine.   As Into Shamballa's narrator observed at the end of Doctor Strange's adventure: “Remember: the Golden Age is now. Remember: We are all, each and every one of us, the Lords of Shamballa.”

©copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

THEY'RE BAAAACK!

2011-05-18T19:19:00.000-04:00

DC RETROACTIVE: JUSTICE LEAGUE OF AMERICA – THE ‘90S #1
Written by KEITH GIFFEN and J.M. DEMATTEIS
Art and cover by KEVIN MAGUIRE

It’s time to “Bwah Ha Ha” all over again as this classic JLA team tells a lost tale from one of the JLA’s most popular eras. The Injustice Gang is back! Not the truly menacing, more recent incarnation, but their not-so competent predecessors. Still, when they stumble upon a device they should never be allowed to have, the results might prove more disastrous than if they actually knew what they were doing! A previously released story from the era rounds out the issue.

ONE-SHOT • On sale AUGUST 24 • 56 pg, FC, $4.99 US • RATED T

MOCCACHINO

2011-05-18T11:13:00.004-04:00

Last night’s Masterclass at the Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art was an absolute pleasure: My old and dear friend Danny Fingeroth—MoCCA’S Sr. VP of Education (Danny also co-curated the current Will Eisner exhibit, which you should go see right now)—poked and prodded me with fascinating questions and we spent two immensely enjoyable hours discussing the craft, and art, of writing for comics, television, film and novels. I’m profoundly grateful to everyone who attended the class (especially those two guys who came all the way from Toronto): As I’ve said before, spending a good part of my life alone in a room playing with my imaginary friends is an amazing way to make a living, but it’s nice to get out in the world occasionally and meet those living, breathing humans who read, and appreciate, my work.

I was surprised, and delighted, to find writer and producer John Semper in the crowd. I worked for John years ago when he was producing the 90’s Spider-Man animated series at Fox. (Among his many other credits, John wrote the English language script for Hayao Miyazaki’s classic animated film Kiki's Delivery Service—a movie my daughter and I watched over and over when she was younger.) These days John is directing a live-action film based on his web series Creeporia: here's hoping it’s a huge success for him.

Before the class, I had a mini Marvel Comics reunion with Danny (who was the Spider-Man Group Editor for many years), former Editor-in-Chief—and all around swell guy—Tom DeFalco, Alien Legion mastermind Carl Potts and writer/editor Glenn Greenberg. It was wonderful catching up over dinner with this group of old friends I have so much respect and affection for.

Deep thanks to Danny—and the entire MoCCA staff—for making the evening so memorable.

And now the bear returns to his cave to dream and write and dream some more.

A GENTLE REMINDER

2011-05-14T16:15:00.001-04:00

My MoCCA Masterclass—"Oh, the Humanity: Writing Successfully Across Genres and Media"—is this coming Tuesday, May 17th, from 7—9 pm. For more details, and to register, call 212-254-3511 or click right here.

How's that for a soft sell?

GREEN LANTERN'S LIGHT

2011-05-10T11:37:00.000-04:00

My next episode of Batman: The Brave and the Bold is coming up in a few weeks on Cartoon Network and you can watch a couple of preview clips here. The episode, called "Scorn of the Star Sapphire," features one of my all-time favorite comic book characters, Green Lantern. (As I've said before, GL's formula—will plus imagination equals manifestation—doesn't just make for cool stories, it's a wonderful recipe for living our lives.) The episode, of course, is timed to help build anticipation for the new Green Lantern movie that's coming out in June—and that's also the reason why DC Comics is re-releasing a favorite project of mine, Green Lantern: Willworld: a surreal, and fairly whimsical, tale about about the multi-dimensional nature of reality. (The link above will take you to the original edition, still available over at Amazon. You can find the new edition here.)

Willworld is one of those stories where, within the context of a cosmic fantasy—it's really more like a children's book than a super hero story—I was able to share my views on life, the universe and everything. But, as happy as I am with the story, it's the art—by the late, great Seth Fisher—that steals the show. Seth was a massive, major talent: the kind of artist who would take the script, funnel it through his outsized imagination and create a visual world that was both completely true to the story's intentions and yet utterly unique—and constantly surprising.

Seth's death, at the age of thirty-three, was a genuine tragedy: I suspect that, had he lived, he would have become one of the most celebrated fantasy artists around. If you're a connoisseur of great comic book artwork—and I know you are—check out Willworld. It's astonishing what Seth manifested with pen, ink, will and imagination.

©copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

TO OTTAWA AND BACK

2011-05-07T10:25:00.005-04:00

Spent a few wonderful days at the Ottawa International Writer’s Festival and I have to thank Artistic Director Sean Wilson, Founding Director Neil Wilson, Program Coordinator Kira Harris and everyone on the festival staff for making my time in Ottawa an absolute delight, both personally and professionally. One of the highlights of the trip was meeting Mike Carey—author of Vertigo’s The Unwritten, as well as the Felix Castor novels—and his wife Lin (who, under the pseudonym A.J. Lake, has written a fantasy adventure series for young readers called The Darkest Age). Mike and I did a Masterclass on comics and graphic novels that lasted about an hour but could have gone on for several more. (The picture below was taken by photographer Jowan Gauthier during the class. I love that backdrop.) I also had the pleasure of doing talks—and Imaginalis readings—at two local schools: When you’re a writer of kids’ fantasy fiction, you just can’t beat the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a couple of hundred nine and ten year olds.

As a guy who, perhaps, spends too much time alone in a room playing with his imaginary friends, it was a real treat to get out into the world and interact with the folks who read my work—as well as fellow authors and literary enthusiasts. The Ottawa festival goes on twice a year, every year, and if you’re a lover of books—as I suspect most of you reading this are—I urge you to attend.

YOU MAY SAY I'M A DREAMER

2011-04-26T16:27:00.002-04:00

I've been fascinated with lucid dreaming—the idea that we can be aware that we're dreaming when we're dreaming and thus take command of our dreamworlds—for years; especially because it's such a powerful reminder of the fact we can be lucid here and now in this dream we’re dreaming in the so-called waking world. But for all my fascination with the concept, I’d never actually experienced a lucid dream. Until...

I woke up at five the other morning, my mind instantly deep in worry mode, endlessly dissecting a personal issue that had been weighing on me (I’ll save the details for my therapist). I eventually jettisoned the worry and spent some time in prayer—which helped considerably—then slowly drifted back to sleep and had an astonishing dream (I’ll save those details for my therapist, too—but I will say that, for the most part, the events unfolded at the Meher Baba Center in South Carolina and included, among others, Disney’s Tinker Bell, William Shatner, Leonard Nimoy and a galloping creature out of Dr. Seuss). At the climax of the dream I was in a museum, walking past a marble rack—Grecian in style—with a note Scotch-taped to it. I studied the note—on closer inspection, I saw that it was some kind of receipt—and started to read the words on the paper. And, as I was reading, something shifted in the core of my being and I suddenly understood: This is a dream. I'm dreaming.  And then the deeper, thunderous revelation: And I can do ANYTHING. I can FLY!  And, with that thought, I started to lift up, out of my dream-body (as if there was an astral body beneath the dream body), feeling exhilarated, extraordinarily powerful—and a little frightened, too, by the realization of the limitless power I possessed. The world in front of me exploded into white light...

...and I awoke: electrified, uplifted, consciousness expanded beyond all boundaries. It was one of the most wonderful experiences, one of the most wonderful feelings, of my life; and, as I digested the experience, I realized that what was true in the dream is true here and now: This is a dream. I'm dreaming.  And I can do ANYTHING. I can FLY!

Those words flooded my cells with magic, my heart with hope—and every fiber of my being with the certainty that, whatever our apparent troubles, this world is literally a dream of our own making; and, if we embrace our roles as lucid dreamers, we have the ability to change the dream, utterly transform it—and make it into anything we desire. (Did I believe this before? Yes. Do I know it in a whole new way? Absolutely.) So now I have my new mantra, repeated, again and again, throughout the day: This is a dream. I'm dreaming.  And I can do ANYTHING. I can FLY!

And so can you.

© copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

THE BAT IS BACK

2011-04-18T10:22:00.000-04:00

Batman: The Brave and the Bold returned to Cartoon Network a few weeks ago for its final season. I've got three episodes coming up and the first one airs this Friday at 6:30 pm: "Shadow of the Bat" features vampires, Jack Kirby's Demon, the Giffen-DeMatteis era JLI (well, the animated version, which uses the current Blue Beetle, Jamie Reyes, in place of our old friend Ted Kord) and it's one of my absolute favorites among the eight episodes I've written for the series.

My final two episodes feature another round with the JLI (this time accompanied by Rip Hunter, so expect some time-traveling) and an adventure with Green Lantern (not unexpected given the coming movie). It's been an absolute pleasure working on B & B—thanks, in no small part, to the efforts of producers Michael Jelenic and James Tucker. Both as a writer and a viewer, I'm sorry to see the show reach its end.

BLAME LEVITZ

2011-04-09T13:53:00.000-04:00

As a follow-up to my recent post about my first published comic book story, the not-exactly-classic “Blood Boat,” I thought I’d re-present the True Shocking Tale of how I made my first comic book sale. (Okay, it’s not remotely shocking, but it is true.) Enjoy...

***

A few years back, the New York Times ran an article about DC Comics’ then-new web venture, Zudacomics.com, described as a “virtual slush pile,” a place for new writers and artists to break into the business. Near the end of the article I came across the following:

Like book publishing, the comic book industry has a history of authors who vaulted to prominence after their work was plucked from a heap of unsolicited manuscripts. “One of my proudest moments as an editor was buying a Marc DeMatteis story out of a slush pile,” said Mr. Levitz of DC. Mr. DeMatteis has gone on to write countless titles for DC, Marvel and other publishers.

“Mr. Levitz” would be Paul Levitz, DC’s president and publisher. Aside from being both delighted and deeply touched by Paul’s comment, his words got me thinking about the fact that I sold Paul my very first comic book script in December of l977. Which means that I’ve been at this game for more than thirty years. It’s true that it took a few more years of struggle, elation, depression and head-banging to get regular work that I could actually depend on, but that first script was the Big Breakthrough.

Comic books were a passion that grabbed me at a very early age (I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: I don’t recall a time when I didn’t read comics) and never let go. Sure, I moved on to Dostoyevsky, Bradbury, Hesse and Vonnegut but I never abandoned Lee, Kirby, Broome, Kane and the other comic book masters who inspired and nurtured me growing up.

I was always creative, obsessed with drawing, playing guitar, writing stories and songs. In many ways, these things weren’t just my passions, they were what defined me. They were me. Which meant I didn't just want to read comics, I wanted to write them—as desperately as I wanted to be a rock and roll star. (I’ll save the story of my musical adventures for another time, but if anyone’s interested in hearing some of my songs, feel free to click here or here to check out my l997 CD, How Many Lifetimes?)

I made several aborted attempts to enter the comic book business before my success with the legendary Mr. Levitz (who was, I think, all of twenty at the time. He’d been working at DC since high school): Five years earlier, I’d written a script sample and sent it to Marvel Comics. I had no clue what a comic book script looked like and I’m sure that what I submitted was less-than brilliant. The assistant editor who read my sample thought so, too, and told me just that, in no uncertain terms. (I’ve learned, over the years, that it’s important to encourage new talent regardless of the face value of their work. Even if the samples you’re evaluating are abysmal, you have to find something encouraging to say. Humans—especially the sensitive, neurotic, artistic variety—desperately need encouragement. The smallest crumb of kindness becomes a mountain of hope. I suspect that nameless assistant editor was overwhelmed, having a rough day, and he simply couldn’t bear to plow through yet another wretched submission. But he could have made my day much brighter by simply saying, “You’re not there yet, kid, but keep at it. Don’t give up.”)

A year or two later, DC began a short-lived apprentice program: a rare opportunity for novices to be trained by seasoned pros in the craft of writing for comics. Aspiring writers were encouraged to submit their work and those with the best submissions would be chosen for the program. (David Michelinie—a wonderful writer who went on to script Spider-Man, Iron Man, Avengers, Superman and many other titles—got his start as a DC apprentice). I decided to write a Justice League script, a fact I now find hilarious: Team books are difficult for even the most experienced writer—I don’t think I’ve ever mastered the form—but there I was, nineteen years old, and ready to give it my all.

I didn’t make it into the program—frankly, I didn’t deserve to—but I received some extremely helpful feedback from a woman on the DC staff named Val Eades. It was the first time I was encouraged by a professional and it meant the world to me. Understand: I was just some kid from Brooklyn who grew up in a lower middle class family. My father worked for the New York City Parks Department, raking leaves and shoveling snow in a local park. My mother was a switchboard operator. Growing up, I’d never encountered anyone even vaguely resembling a professional writer or artist. (My best friend’s older brother was a working musician, part of a Las Vegas lounge act: that was the closest I ever came to hobnobbing with the rich and famous.) Making it as a writer seemed about as easy as scaling the Monolith from Kubrick’s 2001. Which is why that small encouragement from Val Eades was so important to me. (Ms. Eades, if you’re out there, God bless you!)

A few years later, a fellow student, and comic book fanatic, at Brooklyn College—his name was Warren Reece—actually made it over the Monolith: he got a job at Marvel, working in the production department. Warren, very kindly, submitted some of my material to the folks at Marvel Editorial, but I never received a response (which, in some ways, was worse than being rejected). Warren then encouraged me to submit some samples to Crazy magazine (Marvel’s attempt at a Mad-style humor publication...although I don’t think Mad was worried). Truth is, I had no interest in writing for Crazy—I possessed zero skills in that arena—but, miraculously, editor Paul Laikin bought one of my pitches and, even more miraculously, I got a check in the mail with Spider-Man’s picture on it. (So blessings to Mr. Laikin and Mr. Reece both.) I’d hoped that selling something to Crazy would get me an “in” with the comic book side of Marvel, but it didn’t. Still, it allowed me to say that I was a (kinda/sorta/maybe/but not really) professional.

Not long after that, I sent another batch of samples to DC. (I still have them filed away in my office: a Superman script, a Plastic Man script, and an original piece called Stardust—which was a very raw prototype for what would, seven or eight years later, evolve into Moonshadow.) I got a letter back from Somebody's Assistant saying, "We're not going to buy Superman scripts from a writer we've never heard of, but Paul Levitz is looking for material for House of Mystery and Weird War Tales." These were two of the many anthology comics that DC was publishing then. I never read those titles, hardly knew they existed, but you can bet I ran out and bought a stack of them, devoured them, and quickly (perhaps too quickly) developed some story ideas that I mailed off to Paul.

Paul’s reply, dated August 22, 1977 (yep, that's still in the files, too), very politely, succinctly—and accurately—tore my stories to shreds. The last line was a classic: "You’re welcome to submit more ideas in the future, but I suggest you use a professional typing service or type more slowly. The physical presentation of your manuscripts leaves something to be desired.” He was right: This was the troglodytic era before computers and, in my hunger and enthusiasm, I had crossed things out, scrawled in the margins, written up and down the sides of the paper.

Paul’s criticism didn’t bother me. The only thing that mattered was that wondrous phrase, “You’re welcome to submit more ideas in the future.” Which is what I immediately did: submitted again (and again) until, finally—this must have been November of that year—I made an appointment to go up to the DC offices (a thrill in itself) and meet with Paul. I remember sitting across the desk from him, nervous and intimidated, pitching ideas. When Paul actually liked one of my stories and asked me to work up a draft, I had a moment of dizzying, euphoric confusion: Wait a minute...WAIT a minute! Is he saying he actually wants me to WRITE THIS?!

The story in question—which eventually saw print in House of Mystery—was called (brace yourselves) "The Lady Killer Craves Blood." (I warned you.) It was based on the Son of Sam killings that had traumatized New York the previous summer. In my version, the Sam-like maniac murders a woman, not knowing that her husband is a (what a brilliant twist!) vampire. The vampire then hunts down the serial killer and, still mourning his lost love, submits himself to the obliterating rays of the morning sun. All in eight pages!

A week or so later, back to DC I went, script in hand, ready for Paul's dissection of my work. "No more than five panels per page," he wrote, on a piece of yellow lined paper (I've got that in the files, too), "no more than thirty-five words per panel, no more than two sentences per caption, clear transitional captions, don't forget your splash panel." I raced home, wrote another draft, incorporating Paul’s suggestions (well, as far as I was concerned, they were orders. My philosophy in those early days was simple: the editor is always right. I didn’t want to argue, I wanted to learn) and then, to my astonishment and delight, the next time we met, he bought it. What came next was one of the greatest moments of my professional life: Paul shook my hand, looked me square in the eye and said, "Welcome to the business."

I didn't need the D-train. I could have floated back to Brooklyn.

So here I sit, more than thirty years on, looking back on a career that has allowed me to write most of Marvel and DC’s iconic characters (from Spider-Man to the Justice League) and birth original visions from the deepest, truest parts of my soul (from Moonshadow to Brooklyn Dreams). Just as important, my work in comics has opened magical doors into the worlds of television, film and children’s books. The journey hasn’t always been easy—some of it has been incredibly difficult—but I’m grateful for every bit of it. All of which, I suppose, is my long-winded way of reiterating advice I've offered before (and I'll no doubt offer again):

Don’t get sidetracked by practicality. You’re a writer. If you were practical you’d be doing something else. Let your passions carry you forward and don’t listen to the Naysayers and the Practical People who are always around to tell you exactly why your dreams can never be realized. I’m here to tell you that your dreams CAN be realized, if you pursue them with all your heart. FOLLOW YOUR BLISS.

If it worked for this clueless kid from Brooklyn, it’ll work for anyone.

©copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

BLAME CANADA

2011-04-07T10:33:00.001-04:00

In early May, I’ll be flying to Canada to participate in the Ottawa International Writer’s Festival. Along with speaking—and reading—at a variety of local schools to promote Imaginalis, I’ll be joining fellow novelist and comic book scribe Mike Carey (perhaps best known for his much-praised Vertigo books Lucifer and The Unwritten) for a talk at the Ottawa Public Library called Worlds Within Worlds: A Masterclass on Novels and Graphic Novels. (Mike C and I have both done promotional interviews with poet and blogger Rob McLennan. You can read mine here and Mike’s here.) I’ve been to the OIWF before and it was a wonderful experience. I suspect the second visit will be even better. Please join us if you can.

BLAME HELFER

2011-04-04T10:20:00.002-04:00

Now that DC has officially announced its "Retro-Active" one-shots—including a Justice League International story which reunites the Giffen-DeMatteis-Maguire team—I thought it would be fun to resurrect a JLI essay from the Great Lost Amazon Archives (thus saving it from disintegrating in the bowels of cyber-space). Hope you enjoy this look back at one of the most purely delightful gigs of my comics career.

***

I didn’t want to do it. Really. It was late 1986 and I’d just completed the four-part “End of the Justice League of America”—wrapping up the infamous Justice League Detroit era and clearing the path for a JLA reboot—and I was anxious to move on to More Important Personal Projects. But Andy Helfer—one of the best editors I’ve ever worked with (which makes sense since he grew up in the same Brooklyn neighborhood I did)—kept saying, “Yeah, well, I might need you to dialogue the new Justice League book.” “But Andy,” I said, “I don’t want to dialogue the new Justice League book.” Andy nodded, puffed out a stream of cigarette smoke and smiled.

Just a little thing, that smile. But it spoke volumes. “I’ve got you, DeMatteis,” that smile said. “You’re mine.”

And, somehow, he did get me. Andy gave me copies of the first issue pencils, done by some new kid named Kevin Maguire. He just wanted me to look it over, he said. Keith Giffen—who plotted the story—had already dialogued it, but neither Andy nor Keith (who, in those days, was primarily known as an artist) was pleased with the finished product, he said. I protested. “Just look at it,” quoth the Helfer. And he smiled again.

So I looked it over. This Maguire, whoever he was, was pretty damn good—Andy had Terry Austin lined up to ink, so I knew this was going to be a beautiful-looking book. (For the record: Kevin, Master of the Expressive Face, was in no small part responsible for the new League’s instant popularity. He set the tone for all the artists to follow.) Despite what I’d been told, I thought Keith had done a great job on the dialogue. It was fast and funny and yet the characters seemed three-dimensional and real. “Andy,” I said, “you don’t need me. Keith’s doing a terrific job and—” “Keith doesn’t think he can do it every month. He’s afraid he’ll choke up.” “But—” He smiled again.

So there I was, rewriting Keith’s script. I didn’t know why I was doing it—I don’t remember ever actually agreeing to do it—but there I was. And maybe, just maybe, it was fun. Kinda. Not that I was going to admit it to that bum, Helfer. Anyway, I was sure I could weasel out after the first issue.

But, somehow, the second issue plot arrived at my door. No script from Keith this time, just his delightful, Harvey Kurtzman-like layouts, with the foundation of the story mapped out in fairly succinct word balloons. Well, I thought, the story’s pretty good. And Keith’s situations are pretty funny. And he’s sure got some terrific one-liners in here. And...

Five years went by. Five years of what evolved into one of the most enjoyable gigs I’ve ever had in comics. Every month I’d get another Giffen plot dropped into my lap, I’d write the first—and very often the silliest—things that would pop into my head, filling up the pages with all the fast-and-loose repartee I could muster, and Helfer and Giffen would tell me what a terrific job I’d done: This wasn’t work, this was play. And they were paying me for it. And not only that:

An odd thing began to happen. Our outrageous—some would say obnoxious—cast of characters began to (I know it’s a cliche, folks, but it’s true) come alive for us. Something about those Martians and ice-goddesses and time travelers was very real. Far more real, I think, than many—if not most—of the ever-so-serious super-heroes out there in Angst Land (and keep in mind that this observation is coming from a writer who’s made his reputation trafficking in angst). Most people would say that the key to the Giffen-DeMatteis Justice League’s success was its humor; that people read it for the goofy dialogue and the wild situations. And that’s certainly a large part of it. But the humor wouldn’t have worked if we—readers and creators alike—hadn’t believed in those characters.

The Leaguers reminded me of the gang of friends I grew up with in Brooklyn, sitting around on Saturday nights, putting our feet up, dropping our defenses, ragging on each other, sharing our problems. Just being ourselves, without the pressures of the world intruding. Justice League became my comic book Saturday night. A place I could go to drop the Serious Writer mask and just write for the sheer fun of it. Keith and Andy had the real headaches: they had to make up the stories! I just had to put words in the mouths of my friends. No problem.

Another wonderful thing that began to happen was the chemistry between myself and Mr. Giffen. Ours was (and remains) a collaboration based on two ingredients: spontaneity—people don’t believe me, but I often had no idea what was coming up in the next issue until Keith’s plot arrived—and trust. The trust was the key, I think. No, I never knew what to expect in a given month, but I knew that Keith—one of the most purely creative human beings I’ve ever met; the guy comes up with more viable story ideas in a day than I do all year—would deliver the goods. And Keith—the fool!—trusted me enough to give me all the rope I needed to hang myself. Sometimes I stayed tightly within the parameters of the Giffen universe, but other times I took off for universes of my own. Whole new relationships and plot twists emerged in the dialogue. What saw print was sometimes far removed from Keith’s intentions. And never once did Keith complain. Never once did even a hint of ego arise. Writing Justice League was like a relaxed game of tennis: Keith would lob the ball to me, I’d lob it back to him, he’d lob it back again, and, with each whack of the racket, the stories would grow far beyond what either of us intended.

And all the while that guy Helfer would sit in the bleachers, coaching us, cheering us, occasionally chewing us out, and always puffing on that cigarette, smiling that devilish smile.

At the end of five years (during which we also worked on a seemingly-endless array of JL-related spin-offs) Keith, Andy and I were all exhausted and pretty much done with the League. I continued to work with Helfer on projects—Brooklyn Dreams was done for DC’s ahead-of-its-time Paradox Press imprint, which Andy supervised—but Keith and I rarely saw each other: our creative paths just didn’t cross. Over the years, there was occasional talk of a reunion project, but I don’t think any of us—and that included the folks at DC—were all that enthusiastic about it. We’d moved on. The past was the past.

In 2003, editor Dan Raspler managed to convince both Keith and the Powers That Be at DC that a Giffen-DeMatteis-Maguire reunion would be a good thing. I wasn’t so sure. In fact, I was afraid that the result would be just the opposite. My mind was flooded with visions of all those execrable TV reunion movies (y’know, Mary, Rhoda and Gilligan Return To Mayberry?): embarrassing endeavors that only ended up tarnishing the reputations of everyone involved. But it had been more than ten years since I’d worked with Keith and I was eager to collaborate again, so I took a deep breath and agreed.

I received Keith’s plot for the first issue and it was, unsurprisingly, terrific. I, on the other hand, felt myself stumbling and stalling as I scripted the first five or six pages. But then a funny thing happened: the characters began talking—to each other and to me—the words started spilling across the page and it was 1987 all over again. Only better. The result, perfectly visualized by Kevin Maguire, was Formerly Known As The Justice League, which won the 2004 Eisner Award for Best Humor Publication. But, for me, the real award was the startling revelation that Keith and I were a damn good writing team. That may sound strange—okay, it is strange—but I swear it wasn’t until we worked on that reunion series that the two of us realized just how special our collaboration is.

Back in the 80’s we were two freelancers recruited by a brilliant and crafty editor to do a job. We did it, we had fun—but it was Just Another Gig to us. With Formerly Known As and its sequel, I Can’t Believe Its Not The Justice League, we were old (but not too old) and wise (but not too wise) enough to finally understand that, however good we were individually, something unique happened when we put our two warped and graying heads together.

Andy Helfer knew it right from the start. I guess that’s why he was smiling.

THAT WHICH IS MOST NEEDED

2011-03-31T10:37:00.000-04:00

The older I get the more I realize that the most important thing any of us can do in life is strive to live compassionately, keeping our hearts open, treating others with understanding and, most important, simple human kindness. “That which is most needed,” as Buddha said, in words that have echoed through my life for decades, “is a loving heart.” I truly believe that the microcosm is the macrocosm. That our smallest acts of compassion resonate across the planet. That one heart can quite literally change the world.

Of course it’s one thing to make compassion an intention in our lives and quite another to live it. Oh, I try, I honestly do, to be as good and decent a person as I can—I’ve been consciously working on myself, on my connection to the Divine, since I was in high school—but the truth is, for all my work, for all my striving, I’m regularly astounded by my ability to say or do spectacularly stupid or hurtful things.

I’ve found that ninety-nine percent of the time, when I’ve done something to wound another person, I’ve done it unconsciously: I was so clueless I wasn’t even aware of my idiotic actions. When I discover my transgression, my response is usually the same: guilt, misery, shame, and abject apologies. (The first three, I’ve decided, are fairly useless. The abject apologies are absolutely necessary.) Then—what else can I do?—I get up out of my pool of self-pity and determine to be more conscious of my actions in the future, to open my heart a little wider, to be more aware.

That said, I think that no matter how hard we try to live our highest ideals, we are, at some point—and, I suspect, with some regularity—going to screw up: say or do the wrong thing. Make idiotic mistakes. Hurt someone’s feelings. The fact is we’re human—if we were meant to be pure and perfect angels we’d have been born with wings—so all we can do is our best. Sometimes our best is extraordinary, sometimes it’s pathetic; but it’s the effort that counts, I think.

In Kurt Vonnegut’s wonderful 1965 novel, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater (one of my all-time favorite books), the main character—a man who cares so much about his fellow humans that it’s driven him to the brink of madness—is asked to baptize newborn twins. Eliot Rosewater then improvises a succinct, honest and heartfelt welcome to Planet Earth that concludes like this: “There’s only one rule that I know of, babies—: ’God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.’”

Those words, like Buddha’s request for a loving heart, have stayed with me for decades. Neither quote is especially poetic, but both contain enough truth to change the world.

One heart at a time.

©copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

TWO LITTLE WORDS

2011-03-22T10:40:00.000-04:00

It's William Shatner's 80th birthday. (How did he get so old while the rest of us haven't aged?) A few years back I wrote, at length, on my old Amazon blog about the reasons why I'm an unrepentant, unapologetic Shatnerd—the essay seems to have vanished into cyberspace, so I may re-post it here at some point—but, really, it can all be summed up in two little words: Denny Crane. Of course I love Captain Kirk and the Priceline guy, the unhinged airline passenger who flew through The Twilight Zone, Third Rock's Big Giant Head and the Shakespearean prosecutor of The Andersonville Trial (among many others), but Shatner's portrayal of Boston Legal's legendary lawyer is the role that folded all his personas into one larger-than-life—and yet heartbreakingly human—package. So, in celebration of Shatner entering his ninth decade, here's a little taste of the inimitable Denny Crane.

SHOEMAKERS AND ELVES

2011-03-21T17:55:00.004-04:00

I’ve written before about those transcendent moments when it becomes clear that I’m not really the author of my work; when I understand that I’m a channel, tuning in to another frequency, another dimension, and bringing that information down into the physical world until it takes shape as that astonishing creature called a Story. Opening to that cosmic download, then transcribing, embellishing and editing the information, is a profound and magical event; but, for all my participation, I know it has very little to do with me. I’m experiencing a kind of visitation: a descent of story-angels, of narrative grace. I’m not the initiator, I’m the vessel. And grateful for it.

Storytelling is woven into my DNA; hell, it’s almost an addiction: I couldn’t stop doing it if I tried (and there have been several occasions when I have tried—and, thank God, failed). As blessed as I’ve been all these years, making my living doing something I genuinely love, there are times I find it insanely difficult (accent, as my wife will attest, on the insane); moments of frustration and despair—sometimes brought on by the intransigent story itself, sometimes by the economic realities of the freelance life—when I think I’ll never be able to create again. Why, I wonder, can’t I just turn on the divine download at will? I imagine a kind of channeling that goes beyond what I’ve experienced in the past, where I simply close my eyes and allow the Story to take complete control of me. My conscious mind ascends into a warm, spiritual void while themes, plots, characters and endless words flow down from the astral heights, electrifying my fingertips, urging them to dance across the keyboard with lightning speed. I emerge from the void, perhaps minutes later, perhaps hours, to find the finished story waiting for me. No effort on my part: it’s simply there.   

In another version of this fantasy, I’m not even at the keyboard. I go to bed at night, only to discover—when I turn on my computer in the morning—that a new story has appeared on my desktop: in need of minor editing, but essentially complete. How has this happened? Perhaps, in some ineffable altered state, I’ve staggered out of bed at three in the morning and written the piece in a hypnotic daze; or, better yet, perhaps entities from the Celestial Realms have sailed into my office while I’m fast asleep and written the entire story for me. It’s the writer’s version of the classic fairy tale—one that’s fascinated me since I was a child—The Shoemaker and the Elves. The cobbler sleeps, the elves work. In the morning: shoes!

It may come as no surprise to you that that this hasn’t happened yet (being a firm believer in the miraculous, I always hold out hope), but I’ve come close a few times—although not in an overtly mystical way. What’s happened instead is that, going through old files, I’ve unearthed a story that was written years earlier: a proposal, a detailed outline, a completed screenplay that was pitched for sale and then—when met with rejection—abandoned like a foreclosed house. Sometimes, leafing through this forgotten work, I discover that there were excellent reasons for abandonment; but, more often than not, I find that the story was actually strong: it was the timing that was wrong. So I blow off the dust, make some minor changes, pop the tale in a boat and sail it back out into the world.

Now here’s where the magic emerges from the mundane: because the outline was written so many years before, reading it is virtually a new experience. Oh, I may have vague memories of working on the piece—but the time spent, the effort expended, has all the substance (or lack of substance) of a long-ago dream: hazy, distant and profoundly unreal. There are times, in fact, when it feels like I haven’t written the story at all. It’s as if the work has manifested—in a blaze of light and a swirl of pixie dust—in my files: a gift from the elves.

This happened to me recently when I was approached by the National Audio Theater Festivals about being a guest playwright at their yearly celebration. If you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, then you know how enthusiastic I am about what some people call “Old Time Radio”—from The Mercury Theater on the Air to The Jack Benny Show, Suspense to Dimension X. Audio drama is one of the great art forms—with rare exceptions (BBC Radio, to name one), it’s a lost art form—and the opportunity to contribute an original script, to actually watch it performed and recorded, was too good to pass up. (Too good? It’s a dream-come-true.) I proposed doing a thirty-minute, Rod Serling-like supernatural drama about the afterlife that had been rattling around in the back of my head for a few years. NATF Vice President Lance Roger Axt, who’ll be directing my piece, loved the idea—and I was off. At least I thought I was until the morning I woke up with a completely different tale of the afterlife flooding my brain, demanding to be resurrected for audio: a story I’d written back in the 80’s called Knocking on Heaven’s Door. I think I may have pitched KOHD to CBS’s revival of The Twilight Zone (my first television sale was to the 80’s Zone and you can watch the episode here) or maybe to a Zone clone called Tales From The Dark Side. In any case, the story hadn't sold and I tucked the outline away. The question was, did I still have it?

I rushed into my office, dropping to my knees beside a hulking file cabinet that’s been my companion for decades, hurling papers left and right as I ransacked the drawers. Eventually I found it: an ancient document, on parchment-crisp paper, produced not by a computer and printer, but by an actual typewriter. (For years I worked on a massive IBM Selectric, an advanced-for-its-era behemoth that had a then-extraordinary feature: it could “remember” and, if necessary, erase up to two entire lines of text. And it only cost me $2,000.00!). (A moment, while you fall out of your chair laughing.)

I read the outline over and was amazed, delighted, not just by the fact that Knocking On Heaven’s Door was an excellent story, but by the simple fact that it was there at all, patiently waiting more than twenty years for me: a complete tale, with a compelling plot and interesting characters. An outline, perfectly suited to the audio format, that required absolutely no effort on my part. Yes, once, in some previous incarnation, I’d written it—but I certainly had no recollection of the toil and thought that went into the piece. In fact, as clearly as I recalled the story itself, I had no memory whatsoever of the process that went into its creation. So wasn’t it, I wondered, just as likely that I hadn’t written Knocking On Heaven’s Door; that it had been secreted away in that cabinet by the elves: a beautiful pair of story-shoes, crafted just for me?

You can call this channeling or selective memory, happenstance or a small miracle; but whenever I’ve had this experience—whenever I’ve found a long-forgotten artifact locked away in my thirty-year pyramid of work—it’s felt like a gift from the universe.   

And, in that moment, I’m the happiest shoemaker on the planet.

© copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

YOU CAN'T ESCAPE THE PAST

2011-03-10T17:17:00.001-05:00

Over at Comic Book Resources, they've posted the first six pages of my very first published comic book story, a Weird War Tales piece called "The Blood Boat." WWT—which was captained by a way-too-young editor named Paul Levitz—was just what the title implied: war stories infused with horror elements. This particular story was—to put it in Hollywood parlance—PT 109 meets Dracula.

Although it was the first of my comics stories to see print, "Blood Boat" wasn't the first one I sold. That honor goes to a House of Mystery story with an almost unforgivable title: "The Lady Killer Craves Blood." (Yes, it's another vampire story. I wrote lots of them in those days—for the astounding rate of thirteen dollars a page.) I sold "Lady Killer" in December of 1977, just as I was turning twenty-four, and, as I've said elsewhere, working on DC's horror anthologies (actually, they didn't use the word horror back then, they called them "mystery books") was a fantastic way to learn my craft. (It helped that I had wonderful teachers like Paul, Jack Harris and Len Wein—who became a mentor to me, encouraging and developing my talent in a way no one else had—showing me the ropes.) Those anthologies were the vaudeville of comics: so under-the-radar of the average super-hero reader that I never had to worry about my work being noticed, or savaged, by the fan press. It was a safe place to try out material, fail spectacularly, and get up again, wiser for the experience. And a thrilling experience it was: I didn't care about the money, I didn't even care if anyone was reading the stories, I was working in comics, I was part of the business, and that was what mattered.

A final note about "The Blood Boat": I actually sold that story three times, taking the basic premise and re-working it into a science fiction story ("Howl" in Mystery in Space #112) and again for a Joseph Conrad-lite saga of the high seas ("The Seas Run Red" in House of Mystery #291). Hey, at thirteen bucks a page, you did what you had to to survive!

The first page of "The Blood Boat" is below. Hop on over to CBR for the rest.

GET IT WHILE YOU CAN

2011-03-08T15:06:00.000-05:00

I'm a bit brain-fried right now as a result of spending ten hours at an airport yesterday waiting for a thirty-five minute connecting flight. Didn't get home till one in the morning. I hope to be back up and running—and posting—in another day or so. Meanwhile, here's something to keep you occupied and, I hope, entertained: my recent Sym-Bionic Titan episode, "I Am Octus." If you'd like to watch it, do it soon: I have no idea how long this will be available.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MEHER BABA

2011-02-25T09:41:00.000-05:00

"Love is essentially self-communicative; those who do not have it catch it from those who have it. Those who receive love from others cannot be its recipients without giving a response which, in itself, is the nature of love. True love is unconquerable and irresistible. It goes on gathering power and spreading itself until eventually it transforms everyone it touches."

Avatar Meher Baba

REMEMBERING DWAYNE

2011-02-22T16:41:00.000-05:00

I’m stunned, and deeply saddened, to hear that writer and producer Dwayne McDuffie has passed away. I didn’t know Dwayne well, but I had tremendous respect for him—both as a writer and a man. Dwayne was close friends with my old buddy Stan Berkowitz—they worked together on Justice League Unlimited, among other projects—and the three of us would sometimes go out for lunch or dinner when I visited Los Angeles. The last time I actually saw Dwayne was in April of 2010 (we shared an extraordinary Persian meal and Dwayne graciously, generously, picked up the check), but we worked together last summer, when I wrote a Ben 10 script for him. Dwayne was, as always, fiercely intelligent, profoundly creative, and a genuine pleasure to collaborate with.

He was also far too young to leave us.

I send heartfelt condolences, and waves of prayer, to Dwayne’s family and friends.

PLOOG, BELL AND THE WATERLOGGED WARLOCK

2011-02-16T14:29:00.001-05:00

The third book in my Abadazad series, The Puppet, The Professor and the Prophet, only came out in England—which frustrated me for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that it was unquestionably the best of the bunch. (Sad to say, P, P and P is incredibly hard to find and when you can track a copy down—as the above link clearly shows—it's hugely expensive.) With two books under our belts, the creative team had made the adjustment from comic books to the hybrid prose-comics form and we were really firing on all thrusters. The story was coming together the way I'd always hoped it would and our extraordinary art team—the mad genius Mike Ploog and the equally-brilliant colorist Nick Bell—were topping themselves with every page they turned in. As proof, here are a few amazing illustrations that most of you have never seen before. Enjoy! (And let's not forget that Abadazad is © copyright 2011 Disney Publishing.)

(NOT SO) ADVANCE WARNING

2011-02-14T09:20:00.001-05:00

This coming Wednesday, at 7 pm, Cartoon Network will be running the first of my Sym-Bionic Titan episodes. SBT, if you don’t know, is a new animated series, created by Genndy Tartakovsky (creator of the Emmy-winning Samurai Jack), that features an odd and wonderful mix of space opera, high school angst, monsters and giant robots—all delivered with the powerful visual punch that Tartakovsky is famous for.

This week’s story—which focuses on the show’s resident robot, Octus—was written early in the show’s development, so I had very little sense of how these characters would sound or move or what the Sym-Bionic Titan universe would look like. Now, having watched a number of episodes, I’m very excited to see “I Am Octus” come to life. Tune in, if you’re so inclined, and feel free to post your thoughts here at Creation Point.

BURIED TREASURE

2011-02-10T18:51:00.006-05:00

I was going through some old, moldy files today, looking for an ancient contract, when I came across buried treasure that I thought had fallen into the Crack Between Worlds years ago: letters from two of my literary heroes, Kurt Vonnegut and Ray Bradbury.

Back in 1985, when the first issue of Moonshadow came out under Marvel’s Epic imprint, I knew that I’d created my first piece of work with genuine substance. As I’ve said before, when I sat down to write Moon, it didn’t feel like I was Writing Comic Books, it felt like I was Writing: Real Writing, without the preconceptions and burdens of someone else’s spandex universe. I was liberated, I was intoxicated, and, like a proud student, I wanted to share my work with two of my greatest teachers. No, I’d never met Kurt Vonnegut, but there’d be no G’l-Doses—the Pop! Poof! Pinging! alien zoo-masters of the story—without KV’s Tralfamadorians, and the mixture of wry skepticism and heartfelt compassion that ran through all his novels and short stories had a profound impact on me. (God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater remains one of my all-time favorite books.) As for Bradbury—well, I wouldn’t be the writer, or perhaps the person, I am today if I’d never encountered his work.   There's no writer I admire more.

Yes, Moonshadow was the story that helped me find my own voice as a writer, but in order to do that, I summoned the spirits of every literary influence I’d ever had. Dostoyevsky and J.M. Barrie, William Blake and Hermann Hesse, weren’t accepting mail at the time, but, happily, Vonnegut and Bradbury were; so I sent copies off to them via their respective publishers, not really expecting a reply, just hoping that maybe, maybe, they’d read Moonshadow and enjoy it. (I knew there was a slight chance I’d hear from Ray B, as I’d written to him a few years before—a rhapsodic essay in praise of his brilliant novel Dandelion Wine—and he’d been kind enough to respond. That letter, I’m sorry to say, really has vanished into the Crack Between Worlds.)

Imagine my delight when I received answers from both of them. Keep in mind this was long before email: these were actual letters, created on actual typewriters, which, I suppose, makes them glorious antiques.   First came Bradbury, with this short, sweet missive (I never did get to have that visit I’d requested. When I went out to L.A. on business, later that year, there was a Writer’s Guild strike and RB was off picketing):

Dear Marc Matteis: Thanks, much thanks for MOONSHADOW. Handsomely, beautifully done. My bravos to you and JON MUTH. When you hit L.A. call my office number... Around noon, Tuesdays thru Fridays. I’ll try to ask you by for a brief chat, at least! Good luck meanwhile, and again, bravo to you and JON M. Yours,

Bradbury
Jan. 20, 1985

He signed it RAY B in a sweeping hand, in silver marker, then drew an arrow, in red marker, leading to the side of the page where he typed this, in response to a question in my letter:

Yes, please send future issues!

That would have been enough to keep my writer’s soul glowing for several months, but then, a week and a half later, this arrived in my mailbox, dated January 31st:

Dear J. Marc DeMatteis --

I thank you for the perfectly beautiful MOONSHADOW 1. The great-great-grandfather of all such enterprises is, of course, my hero William Blake: words and pictures all of a piece.

I note that you are a city person gone rural. I did that on Cape Cod for twenty years, until my kids were grown. I then discovered that those kids were really the only friends I had made in all that time, and that the immune system of the locals had in fact never accepted me. Their work at no point touched on mine. When I moved to the Cape, I was an experienced volunteer fireman from a little town outside of Schenectady -- Alplaus. So, as a good citizen, I immediately offered my services to the Barnstable Volunteer Fire Department. It was as though I had walked in off the street in rags and naked to join the New York Yacht Club.

So here I am back in the city, where there are plenty of people with whom I can talk shop.

Cheers --

Kurt Vonnegut

And he signed it in a charming—and utterly distinctive—way; as if he was holding two pens simultaneously as he wrote. (I love that the bulk of the letter is taken up with what is, essentially, a one paragraph short story, a miniature gem, told in that unmistakable Vonnegut style.)

As I recall—and let’s face it, it’s been twenty-six years—I sent each subsequent issue of Moonshadow off to both of them, and Bradbury, to my amazement, always replied with a short note of gratitude. (In retrospect, it’s not amazing at all. It seems completely Bradburyian: an action radiant with all the grace, enthusiasm and generosity of his written work.) Not only that, but some months later, when I screwed up the nerve to ask for a promotional quote to use on the cover of one of the later issues, he readily agreed. (You can find part of that quote on the cover of The Compleat Moonshadow.)

When I asked Vonnegut for a promotional quote he, very respectfully, declined. “I admire Moonshadow a lot,” he wrote...”But I have had to stop endorsing anybody’s masterpieces, since about every third letter I get ends with a request that I supply some kind of praise in writing.” (Yes, I found that letter from KV, too.) Much as I would have loved to plaster a Vonnegut quote across the front cover of the book, I completely understood. The truth is, I was just grateful that the man who’d created Billy Pilgrim and Eliot Rosewater, who'd made “so it goes” into one of the philosophical catchphrases of a generation, had taken the time to read—and appreciate!—my work. That I’d had a chance to connect with him at all was a genuine gift from the universe.

Today, when I told my son I’d found the long-lost letters, he suggested I get them framed. It had never occurred to me before—I’m dense, I guess—but that’s just what I’m going to do. These twin treasures have to be preserved: I'm not going to lose them again.

ADVANCE WARNING

2011-02-07T12:54:00.001-05:00

With urging from my old pal Danny Fingeroth, I've signed on to do a class at Manhattan's Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art: a two hour symposium called "Oh, The Humanity: Writing Successfully Across Genres and Media." It's a slightly intimidating (to me, anyway) title for what I hope will be an enjoyable evening, talking about the art and craft of writing for comics, novels, television and film. Here's how MoCCA describes the class:

While it's not unusual to see comics writers also work on animation or prose in similar genres to their comics work, relatively few work in different genres and media at the same time. J.M. DeMatteis is one of the handful of authors who have worked simultaneously and successfully on popular corporate franchise characters, surreal tales of fantasy, hilariously funny satire, and intensely personal dramatic material, in comics, and also in animation, novels (the non-graphic kind), and screenplays. In this rare teaching appearance, DeMatteis (with kibitzing and inappropriate comments by his longtime editor, Danny Fingeroth), explains what stories in all genres and media have in common: universal human characters and situations (also known as “heart”), and how you can use that fact to be more than a “one-trick-pony” writer.

The class will be happening on Tuesday May 17th—from 7:00 to 9:00 pm—and you can register for it here. I've never done anything quite like this before, but I'm hoping it will be an enlightening, and entertaining, few hours spent discussing my more than thirty years of wrestling with that formidable beast called Story. Join us, if you can.

AMARTITHI

2011-01-31T11:55:00.000-05:00

"This whole universe, with all its vastness, grandeur and beauty, is nothing but sheer imagination."

Avatar Meher Baba

A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS

2011-01-24T13:32:00.000-05:00

Back in 1991—which, to my internal chronometer, feels like five or six years ago, not twenty—Marvel Comics put out a trade paperback called The Very Best of Marvel Comics. (It’s out of print, but you can still find copies here.) Writers, artists and editors were asked to list their all-time favorite Marvel stories and the winners were collected together, with introductions written by a small group of creators—myself included.

I was cleaning up my office the other day and pulled The Very Best of Marvel off the shelf, paging through the stories and re-reading the introductions and end-notes I wrote for two of my all-time favorite comic book classics: “This Man, This Monster” from Fantastic Four #51 and the two-part “End of the Green Goblin” from Amazing Spider-Man #39 and 40. Those introductions got me thinking that it would be fun to periodically look back on my most beloved comics stories here at Creation Point, starting, of course, with the aforementioned F.F. and Spidey classics, then moving on to others that imprinted on my heart and imagination in the years before I became a comics professional. With that in mind, I’ll run these two short appreciations today...and return for more in a month or so. Enjoy!

Amazing Spider Man 39-40

What I remember most vividly is the cover: the Green Goblin gliding through the sky with a bound and defeated Peter Parker—his Spider-Man costume visible beneath his street clothes—in tow. To my twelve year old eyes—conditioned as they were to the neat and tidy DC Comics of the era—this was mesmerizing: a villain who’d actually unmasked the hero! A hero so utterly helpless! As with all great comic book covers, this one fired my imagination. I didn’t even have to read the story: that one picture alone suggested dozens of wonderful tales. And the truth is I didn’t read the story—not then. I didn’t become a regular Spider-Man reader until the following month, with the story’s concluding chapter in issue #40: it didn’t disappoint me; in fact it exceeded all my expectations (as did the preceding issue, which I tracked down at a local used book store. There weren’t such things as comics shops in those ancient days). The writing, the art...even the sound effects...were wildly different from what I was used to in the pages of Superman, Batman and—my favorite of the day—Justice League. I think it’s impossible for a young comic book reader today to conceive of just how different the Marvels of the sixties were from everything that had come before.

I’m older now, more than a bit jaded when it comes to funnybooks; but when I look back at Spidey’s desperate fight to the finish with the original Green Goblin, I can feel that twelve year old coming alive inside me. He’s there right now, standing, wide-eyed, in front of the comics rack in a Brooklyn candy store.

And he can’t take his eyes off that cover.

Fantastic Four 51

Hyperbolic opinion time: Marvel’s greatest achievement of the sixties was undoubtedly The Fantastic Four. Amazing Spider-Man may have been more popular, the “Doctor Strange” feature in Strange Tales may have been more mind-blowing, but the F.F.—well, they were the cutting edge of mainstream super-hero comics. The energy, the emotion, the dialogue that managed to move effortlessly from celestial pomposity to zany wisecracks, the artwork that was (and, for my money, still is) the very best the genre had ever seen: Lee and Kirby were at the peak of their craft—creating serialized extravaganzas, entertainments that were thoughtful, funny and just plain fun; equally accessible to children and adults.

But for all the epics—the “Galactus Trilogy,” the introduction of the Inhumans, Dr. Doom’s theft of the Silver Surfer’s power (and what a shocker that was, back in the eighth grade)—the story that stands out in my mind was a single-issue tale. Sure it had its cosmic angle, with the introduction of Sub-Space (which later morphed into the Negative Zone), but it was a story of great simplicity; a tale of the human heart called “This Man, This Monster.”

The splash page said it all, quite eloquently: no heroes and villains duking it out, not a word of dialogue—just the Thing, standing silent in the rain, lonely and vulnerable. That melancholic feeling permeated the entire story, which was as much about the unnamed villain of the piece as it was about Ben Grimm; for, in becoming the Thing, in becoming a monster, what that nameless scientist learned was how to be a man.

Looking back from the vantage point of today’s so-called sophisticated comics, it all seems a little trite, a little corny. But there’s an emotional chord that all the best stories strike, a chord that keeps vibrating every time we go back to them: a chord of genuine emotion and emotional truth. “This Man, This Monster” struck that chord.

And, to its eternal credit, still does.

© copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

REMEMBERING KING

2011-01-17T10:34:00.000-05:00

Given the madness and violence that erupted in Tucson a little over a week ago, how fitting—and how necessary—that today Americans take a collective breath and celebrate the life of a man who was dedicated to peace. Martin Luther King didn’t just talk about pacifism, he lived the ideal in a profound, and practical, way—and gave his life for it.

There’s no shortage of people who’ll tell you why war is terrible but necessary, why violence is tragic but often justified, why the dream of a peaceful world has to remain a dream. For one day, at least, let’s not listen to them. Let’s believe, with every fiber of our being, that war is never necessary, that violence is never justified, and that peace is a dream that can, that must, be manifested.

And let’s remember a dreamer who showed us the way.

A CHRISTMAS RERUN

2010-12-23T16:38:00.000-05:00

A few years ago—born out of my inordinate love for this heart-filling, soul-transforming, sacred and transcendent season—I wrote a short Christmas tale called The Truth About Santa Claus. Last year, I offered it here at Creation Point as a cyber Christmas present: my way of wishing all of you who visit this site the happiest of holidays and the most magical of Christmases. I offer it again this year: call it a Christmas rerun. So grab a plate of Christmas cookies, pull a chair up close to the fireplace and enjoy.

Here's to a healthy, happy, joyful, abundant, prosperous, peaceful and -- most important of all -- love-filled 2011. See you all in January.

THE TRUTH ABOUT

SANTA CLAUS

SPEAKING OF CHRISTMAS

2010-12-21T10:32:00.000-05:00

Yes, this is the season of Christmas feasts and gifts piled high under the tree, but it’s also the season of giving to those in need. Of course, in this difficult economy, when people everywhere are struggling just to meet their bills—let alone provide a memorable Christmas for their families—it can be hard to find the extra cash to contribute to a worthy charity; which is why I want to draw your attention to The Hunger Site, a truly wonderful website that allows you to help bring food to those who desperately need it—just by clicking a mouse. Want more information? Here it is, directly from the site itself:

The Hunger Site was founded to focus the power of the Internet on a specific humanitarian need; the eradication of world hunger. Since its launch in June 1999, the site has established itself as a leader in online activism, helping to feed the world's hungry and food insecure. On average, over 220,000 individuals from around the world visit the site each day to click the yellow "Click Here to Give - it's FREE" button. Its grassroots popularity has been recognized with Web awards in the activism category — a Cool Site of the Year Award and a People's Voice winner at the Webby Awards. Since its inception, visitors at The Hunger Site and shoppers at The Hunger Site store have given more than 671 million cups of food.

The staple food funded by clicks at The Hunger Site is paid for by site sponsors and distributed to those in need by Mercy Corps, Feeding America (formerly America's Second Harvest), and Millennium Promise. 100% of sponsor advertising fees goes to our charitable partners. Funds are split between these organizations and go to the aid of hungry people in over 74 countries, including those in Africa, Asia, Eastern Europe, the Middle East, Latin America and North America.

Got that? You click, they feed. Simple, elegant—and something that could only happen in this miraculous Internet Age. If you’re so inclined, click over to The Hunger Site not just at Christmastime—but every day.

SPEAKING OF LENNON

2010-12-20T09:14:00.000-05:00

Back in 1971, John and Yoko took the bare bones of a traditional folk song called "Stewball" and transformed it into a Christmas classic. "Happy Christmas (War is Over)" is a heartfelt mix of clear-eyed Lennon honesty and starry-eyed Lennon idealism. It's also—in my hyperbolic opinion—one of the greatest Christmas songs ever written. So let's officially kick off the Creation Point Christmas Celebration with the video below. And feel free to sing along.

MEETING LENNON, PART TWO

2010-12-13T13:58:00.004-05:00

Between the celebration of John Lennon’s 70th birthday in October—which included the release of the wonderful Double Fantasy Stripped Down and Ken Sharp’s equally-wonderful book on the making of that classic album—and the thirtieth anniversary of JL’s assassination last week (capped by Paul McCartney singing a memorable medley of "A Day in the Life" and “Give Peace A Chance” on Saturday Night Live), the pop culture world has been in a state of renewed Lennonmania for months now. Seems like the perfect time to chronicle my second encounter with my one true rock and roll hero.

Back in April, I wrote about that magical night in January of 1975, when I found myself sitting on the floor of a small rehearsal room in New York’s famous Record Plant East recording studio, watching Lennon, who was standing perhaps ten feet away, teaching my old friend—and master piano player—Jon Cobert’s band, BOMF, the basics of a then-new musical style called disco. (We’d never heard of disco before that night—but Lennon was predicting, correctly, that it would be “the next big thing.”) Unforgettable? Absolutely. But a few months later—March 18th according to Wikipedia (although they got the name of the recording studio wrong, so who can say for sure?)—thanks to Jonny C’s gracious invitation, I got to spend the good part of a day in JL’s presence, watching him film—again accompanied by BOMF—videos for the recently released Rock 'n' Roll tracks “Slippin’ and Slidin’” and “Stand By Me.” (The videos were intended for a British television show called The Old Grey Whistle Test. You can see one of the clips—along with a short interview Lennon did for the show—at the end of this post.)

Looking back, it’s amazing that I was allowed in at all. Jonny C and I were good friends, of course, but I suspect it helped that we were also songwriting partners (Jon provided the music, I provided the lyrics): a number of songs we created together were part of BOMF’s repertoire and, as a result, we were both under contract to Roy Cicala: BOMF’s manager, Lennon’s principal engineer and the man who ran the ship at the Record Plant. (The contract sounds impressive, but it didn’t lead me to rock and roll fame and fortune. Jonny, on the other hand, has had a long, successful—and well-deserved—musical career.) In any case, on that sunny March day, I skipped my classes at Brooklyn College (something I was in the habit of doing, anyway), hopped the subway into Manhattan and hustled over to West 44th Street, where the Record Plant was located.

As I recall—and, in retrospect, it’s fairly astonishing—there was no security detail to pass through: I just walked in, headed straight for the studio and opened the door.   There, leaning over the sound board was John Lennon, who looked up, peered over his glasses and said, in that sharp, utterly distinctive Liverpudlian voice, “Is this the place?” I scanned the room, looking for Jonny C—who was my ticket in—but he wasn’t there; so, utterly intimidated (just because I’d encountered Lennon before didn’t mean I was any less overwhelmed by his flesh-and-blood presence), I muttered, “Uh...yeah, it is, but I’ll wait outside...”, closed the door and retreated to a nearby couch. I probably would have sat out there all day if a couple of the BOMF boys hadn’t come by, noticed me and alerted Jon to my presence.

Jonny C promptly appeared and ushered me into the studio—where I was soon sitting comfortably in a chair in the engineer’s booth while, on the other side of the glass, John Lennon and the band ran through take after take of “Slippin’ and Slidin’” and “Stand By Me” for the film crew. (BOMF was actually miming to prerecorded tracks from the Rock ‘n’ Roll album. Lennon, though, was doing a live vocal.) Anyone who’s followed this blog for more than five minutes understands how profoundly JL—as a Beatle, as a solo artist, as a human on the planet—has inspired me; so I think you can imagine what it was like for me to sit there, for hours, watching him perform, running the band through their paces (miming, as I learned that day, isn’t as easy as you’d think); one of the greatest vocalists in the history of rock and roll singing take after take: laughing, joking and, well, being John Lennon. (In 1972 I’d seen John and Yoko at the One-to-One concert at Madison Square Garden. I was way up, in the cheap seats, and he was a small figure, haloed in light, on a stage that seemed miles away. Now I had the best seats in the house. Maybe in the universe.)

And yet as I watched Lennon work, it seemed as if—despite more than a decade as one of the most famous, admired men on Earth—being on camera, the center of all that attention, made him uncomfortable. His attitude, his bearing, wasn’t that of the Clever Beatle, the peacenik sage, the political firebrand: it felt as if he’d retreated into Hamburg John, the young, rock and roll tough guy. It was a subtle thing and there was certainly none of the aggression or anger that often got him in trouble: he was, as expected, charismatic and charming. Still it seemed to me that he was wearing a mask to protect himself and keep the world at bay. In a few short months he’d retire completely from music to concentrate on being a husband and father (by March of ’75 “Lost Weekend” girlfriend May Pang was gone and Lennon had reunited with Yoko, who was pregnant with Sean) and it’s clear—in retrospect, at least—that he was, in fact, sick of "riding on the merry-go-round" (as he sang in "Watching the Wheels") and was preparing for his retreat. Soon he’d be shedding all his personas and reconnecting with the person he’d been before the Beatles. Until then, he’d keep pretending to be some version of Famous John Lennon.

There was a telling moment when, during one break between songs, he muttered—it was more like a discussion with himself than a request to the group—”Anybody got any coke?” (And, no, he wasn’t talking about Coca Cola.) A second later he shook his head. “Nah,” he said, retracting the request, “if I do that, I’ll probably bite Tom Snyder’s head off.” (He was scheduled to tape an interview for Tom Snyder’s Tomorrow Show that night. You can watch it here.) The coke request seemed like an old reflex, the immediate denial of the request reflecting a high level of post-”Lost Weekend” self-awareness—and a signpost to the new, family-centered life that was waiting for him at the Dakota. (It’s very possible I’m reading into this—after all, I didn’t know the man, who am I to analyze him?—and yet, given my own intuition and the insights Lennon himself provided in interviews he gave after his emergence from his five years of House Husbanding, it feels true.)

After they ran through both songs a number of times, Lennon and the band took a break and the musicians filed back into the engineer’s booth. Everyone was standing around chatting, the vibe amiable and low-key (well, I was low-key on the outside, but in my head I was doing backflips and screaming “John Lennon! I’m standing here with John Lennon! Dear God—how is this even possible?!”). Jonny C took this opportunity to formally introduce me to Lennon. “John,” he said, trying hard to sound casual (yet knowing full well what a Momentous Occasion this was for me), “have you met Marc, my lyricist?”

Lennon quickly looked me over and then offered a perfect, deadpan Lennon greeting. “Hello, Marc my lyricist,” he said, as if "my lyricist" wasn't a description, but my last name.

So there I was, standing face to face with John Winston Ono Lennon. He’d just greeted me with a clever quip and I desperately needed something to say in reply. It was like flash cards were flipping over in my mind, each one stamped with a possible answer: I could tell him, I thought, studying the cards, how much he means to me; how his Beatles music—from “I Want to Hold Your Hand” to “I Am The Walrus”—completely rocked my world and my consciousness; how John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band—aside from being one of the greatest albums in the history of popular music—helped get me through an incredibly difficult period in my life; how brilliant I think Walls and Bridges is. There were so many things I could have said, but I rejected them all. I kept returning to the fact that Lennon had greeted me with “Hello, Marc my lyricist”—and I knew I needed to come up with a matching quip, something sharp and witty. In the name of symmetry, it had to begin with “Hello, John my...” But “John my” what? My internal computer frantically scanned the Lennon archives, recalling a story about JL meeting Chuck Berry, during the taping of a Mike Douglas Show; how Lennon—always a teenaged rock and roll fan at heart—greeted Berry by calling him his hero. (Keep in mind that all of these mental acrobatics actually happened in a matter of, at best, two or three seconds. Subjectively, it felt like an eternity.)

And then it clicked—and I had my reply.   “Hello, John, my hero,” I said. As soon as it came out of my mouth I felt like a total fool. This wasn’t cleverness, this was revealing myself as a transparent Beatles fanboy. I was certain my idiocy would get me ejected from the building, unceremoniously tossed out onto 44th Street and banned from the Record Plant for life. To my immense relief, the group laughed—not at me, they actually seemed to find my answer amusing (or perhaps they were just acknowledging the unspoken fact that they all felt the same way)—but Lennon had an odd reaction. For a moment—just for a moment—he pulled back, as if he couldn’t believe One Of Them had gotten in: another wide-eyed, open-mouthed Beatlemaniac trying to make him into the god he didn’t want to be. He recovered quickly, but I’d noticed—and it underlined the sense I had about how uncomfortable he was wearing the fame he’d been cloaked in since 1964.

Soon after that, Lennon and the band went back to work, finishing up the videos. The last bit of filming was of the musicians in the booth, gathered around the sound board, listening back to the tracks. I was hoping no one would realize I was still there and I’d get myself immortalized on film with John Lennon—but Jonny C quickly gave me A Look and I knew I had to retreat. In the end it didn’t matter: the film of that day had been forever imprinted on my mind.

A little later, Jonny and I were heading upstairs to the band’s rehearsal room and we found ourselves standing in the elevator with Lennon, who was also heading up. This would have been the perfect chance to say something, anything, else and perhaps atone for my humiliating “my hero!” outburst—but I couldn’t get a word out. The elevator stopped, Lennon went his way and we went ours.

My time with John Lennon was over that day, but Jonny’s wasn’t. Not long after the Rock ‘n’ Roll videos were filmed, Lennon recruited BOMF to appear with him on a television special called A Salute to Sir Lew Grade. This time the band didn’t just mime, they actually got to record—and perform—a new version of “Imagine.” This turned out to be the last public performance of John Lennon’s lifetime.   Have a look. (If you’re wondering about the two-headed masks BOMF had on, this was apparently Lennon’s way of commenting on Sir Lew’s two-faced business dealings.)

As for me, looking back with the wisdom of hindsight, and the knowledge of the tragic fate that awaited Lennon outside the Dakota in 1980, I’m far less embarrassed by what I said to him at the Record Plant that day—and far more grateful. He was my hero and I got to tell him that.   That’s not humiliation, that’s grace.