THE POWER OF PLAY

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 could 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. 

©copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

JUST A LITTLE MORE IMAGINATION

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

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

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!

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.

©copyright 2011 J.M. DeMatteis

ONE MORE THING

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

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.