CITIZEN OF THE ZONE

This month marks the 50th anniversary of The Twilight Zone.  Given this auspicious occasion—well, it's auspicious to me, anyway—I've decided to republish a post I originally wrote for my Amazon.com blog three years ago.  Enjoy!  

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Our psyches are so tender, so innocently open, when we’re children that stories enchant us in primal ways they rarely can again.  As a kid, I was a story addict—devouring everything from comic books (didn’t matter if it was Richie Rich, Archie, Superman or Spider-Man.  I adored them all) to the legends of King Arthur (I was fixated on a knight named Sir Tristram, who, I decided, was so much cooler than that overrated bum, Sir Lancelot); John R. Tunis baseball novels (interesting, considering I was in no way a sports enthusiast) to history (I was obsessed with Remember the Alamo! by Robert Penn Warren.  What boy in the 60’s, raised on TV Westerns, could resist Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie fighting, and dying, side by side?).  And then there was the singular genius of Dr. Seuss:  I have a clear memory of clutching my parents hands as we walked to Brooklyn’s Avenue J Library; then sitting, transfixed, in the children’s section, discovering Theodor Geisel’s absurd, illuminating universe for the first time. 

All of those wonderful books impacted and influenced me (and, in the case of comic books, launched me on my career path), but some of the stories that left the deepest echoes in my young soul were stories that, for the most part, I first encountered on television:

There was The Wizard of Oz, played once a year, every year.  (Can a child today, able to watch the film ad infinitum on DVD, possibly imagine the thrill of pulling a chair up close to the TV and waiting, with almost desperate anticipation, for that MGM lion to roar?)  A Christmas Carol, which, every Christmas Eve in New York, would be played at least three times (on The Late Show, The Late, Late Show, and The Late, Late, Late Show.  Two runs for the absolutely perfect 1951 version with Alistair Sim, with the 1938 Reginald Owen interpretation sandwiched in between.  My mother would eventually shuffle off to sleep, but my father and sister always stayed up with me to watch them all).  I adore Disney’s Peter Pan (the scene of Peter and the children flying over London is one of the most thrilling in screen history), but it was the Mary Martin version—which appeared on television with less frequency than Oz and so, in some ways, was even more of a special event—that first captured me.  Especially the ending:  The eternally-young Peter returns to London, not realizing that decades have passed, and is horrified to find Wendy ”ever so much more than twenty.”  I was horrified, too—and deeply moved, in ways my young mind couldn’t really fathom, by the strange, sad tricks of Time.

Then of course there was the King of the Modern Imagination—a man who remains one of my heroes—Walt Disney:  feeding me his dreams through the movie houses, certainly (the first movie I remember seeing was a re-release of Disney’s Cinderella, when I was two or three:  sitting on my mother’s lap, watching those birds and mice caper across a mind-bogglingly huge screen), but far more intimately through weekly doses of Walt Disney Presents—which later became The Wonderful World of Color (made no difference to me, since we had a black and white television).  The Disney story that impacted me more than any other was Pinocchio.  I’m pretty sure I saw the movie—the Citizen Kane of animated films—when I was a kid, but what I remember most was a record I owned (yes, a record.  Those large, disc-shaped objects that existed before CDs) which featured Jiminy Cricket himself narrating Pinoke’s story, with music and dialogue from the film.  I would listen to that recording again and again and again; lost, in terror and amazement, in the belly of the great whale, Monstro.

When I finally got around to actually reading those childhood classics, my respect for the tales deepened even more.  Okay, so I never actually finished Collodi’s Pinocchio—the Disney version is so perfect that it pretty much ruined me for any other interpretation—but Barrie, Dickens and Baum quickly became friends; Dickens and Baum two of the greatest friends I’ve ever had.  I could write essays about all of these extraordinary tales—and, with time and luck, I will—but there’s another television-borne story I’d like to focus on here; actually a series of stories that permeated the deeps of my child-mind in wonderful—and wonderfully chilling—ways:

The Twilight Zone.

Unquestionably my favorite television show ever (the original Star Trek is a close second; but, sorry Captain Kirk, not close enough).  I don’t know how many times I’ve started writing a new story and then suddenly realized that, in some way, it was done before, and better, on The Twilight Zone.  Go to the movies, turn on your television, and you’ll see Rod Serling’s fingerprints everywhere.  (And let’s give credit to Serling’s brilliant collaborators, Richard Matheson, Charles Beaumont and George Clayton Johnson—as well as to the man who influenced all of them, the literary god who looms so large on my altar, Ray Bradbury.)

I have a clear and powerful memory of the first Zone episode I ever saw (I was five years old, staying up late at my Aunt’s house on a Friday night):  it was called “Time Enough At Last” and if you’re a TZ aficionado you probably know that it’s the episode featuring Burgess Meredith as a bespectacled bookworm who inadvertently survives a nuclear attack and becomes the last man on Earth (or at least in New York).  Meredith’s character, Mr. Henry Bemis, is miserable, lonely, despairing.  On the verge of suicide he stumbles through the ruins, looks up—and sees a library:  a massive, glorious library that wouldn’t look out of place in Emerald City.  In the next scene, Bemis has got books, miles of books, spread out across the library steps. He’s happier than he’s ever been.  “Time enough at last,” he says, ready to begin the feast.  And then his glasses slip from his sweaty face, fall—and shatter.  An absolutely heartbreaking ending (so much so that my daughter, who, thanks to her cultured father, has received an in-depth TZ education, refuses to watch it.  Oh, she knows what the ending is, she made me tell her.  But just hearing about it made her cry).

Despite the tragic ending, despite the haunting—and, at the time of broadcast, frighteningly relevant—images of post-nuclear devastation (the episode never addresses the fact that Bemis will undoubtedly die of radiation poisoning; or perhaps the broken glasses themselves are the metaphor), the image that mesmerized me was the library.  Equally significant was Mr. Bemis’s extraordinary solitude.  I’ve always been someone who enjoyed the universes inside his own head as much as—sometimes more than—the alleged Real World, so, even at that young age, the idea of one man absolutely alone with all the books he could ever want was tantalizing.  Magical.

In a strange way I grew up to become a kind of Mr. Bemis, spending decades alone in a room with stories as my only companions.  Okay, so I’m writing them, and Bemis was reading them; but, in both cases, it’s about immersing your consciousness in alternate worlds; in preferring those worlds to the bogus reality being fed to us daily by the maya-weavers at CNN.  And I have to wonder:  Did my impressionable young mind respond so powerfully to that episode because it was in my nature to?  Or did “Time Enough At Last” somehow dictate what that nature would be?  Who I would become as I grew older?

Even more significant, I think, is the world view that those collective TZ episodes created.  Serling, Matheson and the rest birthed a vision of a universe that moved and had purpose.  A universe that was alive:  conscious and interactive.  Looking back, the vision could be cynical on occasion, cruel and unfair (the fate of poor Mr. Bemis being a prime example)—but, at its best (“Walking Distance,” “A Stop At Willoughby,” “Nightmare at 20,000 Feet” and “The After Hours” come immediately to mind), the Zone universe was one that responded to our deepest wishes and our soul’s needs.  It offered up opportunities for redemption (often to people society viewed as beyond saving) or, when necessary, a swift, cosmic kick in the pants.  Years of spiritual search have convinced me that Serling and his collaborators were right:  the universe is very much alive and interactive; is in fact a reflection of our own minds and hearts and truest, deepest Selves.  Every day of our lives is a journey through “a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity.”

And again I wonder:  Did the Zone somehow prepare me for the spiritual search that gripped my soul at a young age, perhaps even inspire it in some way?  Or did I respond to those stories because, in my heart, I understood that The Twilight Zone reflected the truth of our lives far better than stories that claimed to be, excuse the expression, “realistic”?  I tend to think the latter is true:  When our souls are set aflame by an idea, a philosophy, a story, it’s because we’re responding to eternal truths that we already know and believe—even if they might seem (to our conscious minds) blazingly, brilliantly, new.  Our deepest wisdom, our deepest joy, is already there, like a long-buried memory, inside us, just waiting to be reawakened.   

At five years old, up past my bedtime, bathing in the television’s blue glow, Rod Serling’s universe wasn’t alien to me:  I recognized it.  I was home.  So you could say I was born a citizen of The Twilight Zone.  For that matter, I was born a citizen of Oz and Neverland, Dickens’s London and The Magic Kingdom.  All these stories continue to echo through my consciousness and influence my work, and my life, in strange, miraculous ways I still don’t completely understand.

©copyright 2009  J.M. DeMatteis

ESCAPE FROM THE TOWER

I don't appear at comic book conventions very often—I'm an extremely private person and I don't deal with crowds all that well—but, the next few weeks, I'll be appearing at two:  the Baltimore Comic Con in, well...Baltimore (I bet you saw that coming, didn't you?) and the Big Apple Comic Con in New York City.  What makes these appearances worthwhile for me is the opportunity to meet the folks who read, and appreciate, my work and talk to them, one on one.  If you're in Baltimore this coming weekend or in NYC the following week, please stop by and say hello.  Before you know it my keepers will be carrying me back to my tower, in that misty land between Abadazad and Imaginalis.  Who knows when they'll let me out again?

CLONE WARS

Nope, I'm not talking about George Lucas, I'm talking about Peter Parker.  Over at Comic Book Resources, there's an interview with yours truly, discussing the infamous Spider-Man Clone Saga and my upcoming story—bringing back the classic CS character, Kaine—in Web of Spider-Man #1.  If you're a Spideyphile—especially one who came of age reading 90's comics—I suspect you'll enjoy it. 

BWAH-HA-HA

This morning I had a talk with my old buddy—and certified mad genius— Keith Giffen to discuss the current Metal Men story we’re collaborating on.  (We’re doing ten pages a month, illustrated by the amazing Kevin Maguire, in the back of the new Doom Patrol series.)  Back in the 80’s, when we worked on Justice League, Keith and I didn’t talk much at all:  things were incredibly spontaneous.  Keith would write the plot (well, actually, he drew it out, creating a little mini-comic) and I wouldn't see it till it arrived at my door.  Then I'd sit down to dialogue and pretty much write the first thing that came into my head.  Sometimes what I wrote hewed closely to Keith's story and sometimes I created entirely new plot lines and character relationships that had nothing to do with what Keith had done. The real fun was watching Giffen take the twists and turns that I'd injected into the story and build on them in ways that always surprised me.  Then he'd throw it all back in my face and I'd twist it again.  It was an incredibly exhilarating way to work:  no egos involved, we just kept trying to top each other. 



These days, we’re more likely to talk about a series, discussing the characters, the stories, where we want them to go—but, because our approach remains as anarchic as it was back in the JL days, our conversations don’t necessarily reflect what ends up on the page.  Once Keith starts plotting, the final product might have nothing to do with what we've talked about.  Once I start scripting, I'll go off and follow the muse wherever it leads me.  I don't know if that kind of creative relationship would work for other people, but it certainly works for us, pushing us both to be better.  (I think the Hero Squared series we recently completed for Boom! Studios is the best thing we’ve ever done together.  And we’re having so much fun on Metal Men that I’d do it for free.  Almost.)

It still amazes me that Keith and I have been working together this long—more than twenty years, on and off.  Well, maybe it’s not so surprising:  Despite the fact that Keith desperately wants people to think that he’s surly and cynical, Earth’s Biggest Malcontent, he’s actually an incredibly nice guy.  As gifted, and generous, a collaborator as I’ve ever had.  When people ask me what it’s like to work with Giffen, one story always comes to mind.  I’ve told it before—apologies if you’ve heard it—but it really defines the man. 

It’s the late 80’s.  We’re standing in the halls of DC Comics on a Friday afternoon.  Keith is telling me his idea for a new story:  the secret origin of one of our most ridiculous characters, the brain-dead Green Lantern named G’nort.  Keith spends five or ten minutes spinning the entire tale, in detail.  You can see he’s excited.  He likes this wonderfully goofy story and he wants to do it—just the way he’s envisioned it.

The problem is, I don’t like it.  And I tell him that I don’t.

Does Keith get angry?  Does he tell me I’m a talentless jackass who has no right passing judgment on his incandescent genius?  No.  He just looks at me for a second, takes a breath, shrugs—and then launches into an entirely new origin of G’nort, which he’s creating on the spot.  And it’s perfect.  I can’t think of many people who could switch creative gears like that, but Keith has more raw creativity than just about anyone I’ve ever known:  a tsunami of stories and characters and odd, brilliant notions.  


It’s been a joy working with Keith all these years.  But don’t tell him I said so:  it’ll wreck his self-image.

© copyright 2009 J.M. DeMatteis





THE IMPORTANCE OF OFFSPRING

Right now I’m listening to Time to Die by the Dodos.  The past few weeks I’ve been pretty much submerged in the gorgeous musical landscapes of Finally We Are No One by Múm and the serpentine pop of Bitte Orca by the Dirty Projectors.  I point this out not to prove how sharp and contemporary my musical tastes are:  it’s actually the opposite.  I wouldn’t have heard of any of these bands if not for my son, Cody.  There was once a time when I prided myself on being up on the best new music out there—as both a musician and music critic, I had to be—but those days are long gone.  For more than a decade now, I’ve depended on Cody’s uncanny ability to take my stuck-in-the-past tastes and translate them to Now.  Back when he was a teenager—he’s a full-grown human now, editing comic books for Devil’s Due—Cody was the one who turned me on to Oasis and Radiohead and, over the years, he’s force-fed me some amazing music:  everything from Death Cab For Cutie (and their brilliant spin-off, the Postal Service) to Sigur Rós, The Album Leaf, Coldplay, Robert Rich—well, the list goes on and on.

There are many wonderful reasons for having children and “because they’ll keep me from being an old fart mired in musical nostalgia” clearly isn’t at the top of the list—but it’s up there.  Thanks, Cody.

©copyright 2009 J.M. DeMatteis

KIRBY

The comic book world is abuzz with the news that the heirs of Jack Kirby have filed notices of copyright termination for characters Kirby co-created while freelancing for Marvel Comics back in the sixties.  (The list includes the Fantastic Four, Thor, the Hulk and X-Men.  Some of you may have never read the comics, but I bet you’ve seen at least one of the movies.)  I’m not the person to step into the legal waters and analyze the situation, but I do want to comment on some of the internet chatter I’ve seen:  extraordinarily nasty, and infantile, attacks on the Kirby family, calling them, among other lovely names, “leeches” for doing this.

“Leeches”?  Really?

Jack Kirby was a genius, yes, but he was also a husband and father who worked tirelessly to provide for his family in a business environment that was often hostile.  One of the reasons Kirby turned out as many comic book pages as he did was because he had to.  If he didn’t, the mortgage wouldn’t get paid, there wouldn’t be food on the table.  He wrote and drew stories for the joy of creation, certainly, but, by all accounts, he also did it for the love of his family.  And that family deserves everything they’re legally entitled to.  These name-callers, who are allegedly devoted to the characters Jack created, should look into their hearts and find a little more devotion, and a little more compassion, for the man behind the stories.  And for the people he loved.

The characters Kirby co-created are the reason Marvel Comics has grown into a multi-billion dollar entertainment conglomerate.  If not for Jack, the comic book business as we know it wouldn’t exist.  Hell, it might not be here at all.  Those of us who write and draw comics, and those of us who read them, are all in his debt.  At the very least, we owe him—and his family—our good will and support.

©copyright 2009  J.M. DeMatteis

WORDS AND MUSIC

In 1997, I fulfilled a dream and released a CD of my songs called How Many Lifetimes?  Despite the fact that I've spent the past three decades as a professional writer of fantasy stories, I was making my living—such as it was—as a musician, singer and songwriter first.  Music touches a space in me, sacred and magical, that few things can and recording How Many Lifetimes? was one of the single most satisfying creative experiences of my life.  

Writing stories is a bit more problematic.  As Oscar Madison—quoting Dorothy Parker—sagely observed, "I hate writing; I love having written."  I suspect Parker was exaggerating to make a point.  I certainly don’t hate writing (well, most days I don’t):  there are times when I catch a story wave—or, more likely, the wave catches me—and storytelling becomes a blissful act of channeling.  Something deeper, truer and higher enters through the doors of my unconscious and won't let go until I've given it expression.  (For instance, I'm convinced that Abadazad truly exists and that I was simply chosen to write about it by the inhabitants of that extraordinary world.  Writing those stories often felt like taking other-dimensional dictation.)  I live for those moments of grace and, as the years pass, that door seems to open more and more easily.  That doesn't change the fact that writing sometimes feels less like bliss and more like wrestling a demon into submission.  It’s when the story is done, and done well, that I feel a profound satisfaction and, more, grateful amazement at what’s been created.  (Let's not talk about the times when the stories suck.)

In music, the act is the reward.  It’s all about the Now.  Writing songs is rarely an effort for me—in fact, when effort rears its head, the song is usually dead.  And singing is all about connecting to Who I Really Am (as opposed to Who I Think I Am.  No wonder Meher Baba called it the highest path to God).  Of course it's possible—maybe likely—that music brings me such unique joy because it's not what I do for a living. Perhaps if one of those bands I was in had hit it big and I'd spent the past thirty years in the studio and on the road I'd be telling you how wonderful it is when I write stories and what a herculean task songwriting and performing are.

Let me be clear:  I love what I do for a living.  About ten years ago I seriously entertained the idea of walking away from writing and taking up a new career.  After time and thought, meditation and prayer, it became very clear to me that writing isn't something I do, it's who I am.  I'm a storyteller.  I see the entire Creation as one unfolding fairy tale and I'm lucky enough to be a character in that tale, adding some new universes to the mix.  Really, who could ask for anything more?

But I can't help thinking that somewhere, on some parallel Earth, I’m in a recording studio, working on my twentieth album.

And blogging about it.

©copyright 2009  J.M. DeMatteis