BIRTHDAY BABA

"I belong to no religion. My religion is love. Every heart is my temple."

Happy Birthday, Avatar Meher Baba! 

A BRIEF DEMULTIVERSE UPDATE

We're prepping the DeMultiverse Phase II books (the individual titles and our collected edition, complete with extras, including development art, scripts, an intro by "Dandy" Danny Fingeroth, and an afterword by yours truly) for the printer and I can't wait till people can hold them in their hands! Our Spellbound Comics campaign ended back in August, but you can still do a late pledge on Kickstarter. Just click this link.

Hope everyone enjoys the new stories. And here's to many more adventures in the years to come.

AMARTITHI 2025

Wishing a blessed Amartithi to my Meher Baba family around the world.

"Do not search for God outside of you. God can only be found within you, for His only abode is the heart."—Avatar Meher Baba

IT WAS 40 YEARS AGO...YESTERDAY

The first issue of Moonshadow was released on January 29, 1985—40 years ago yesterday. 40 years? "Time," as Bob Dylan sang, "is a jet plane, it moves too fast." Can it really be four decades since the brilliant Jon J Muth (who has gone on to an award-winning career writing and illustrating children's books) and I embarked on one of the greatest creative journeys of our careers? There's no arguing with Father Time, but it's still mind-boggling to us both. 

What's even more mind-boggling—in the very best way—is the fact that, barring a gap here and there, Moon has remained in print ever since that aforementioned first issue. In fact, this May sees the release of Moonshadow The Definitive Edition—Expanded: an updated version of the Eisner-nominated hardcover DH released back in 2019. And, yes, "expanded" means there are even more behind-the-scenes extras included in this 528 page beauty.  

So happy that this story—which remains so close to my heart—will be back out in the world.

Pop! Poof! Ping! (If you know, you know.)

INTO SHAMBALLA WITH DAN GREEN

Tomorrow sees the release of the latest Doctor Strange Marvel Masterworks edition—which, to my great delight, is reprinting, for the first time in decades, Into Shamballa, the Doc Strange graphic novel I did with artist/co-plotter Dan Green, way back in the mid-eighties.

I wrote an essay about the book, and my collaboration with Dan, for this new edition and you can read it below. Enjoy!

In the early 1980s, my then-wife and I decided it was time to pack up our belongings and our not quite two-year-old son, move out of Brooklyn, where we’d both been born and raised, and relocate to that vague, magical kingdom called Upstate. We ended up in a charming old house in a charming little town about a hundred miles north of New York City.

 

Problem was, we didn’t know a soul in the area and it was a difficult adjustment—especially for me: A writer who spends a good part of his existence locked away in his own imagination doesn’t have many opportunities for meeting new people.

 

One day a package arrived from Marvel—a regular occurrence in that ancient era before the digital revolution—with what I assumed was dialogue-ready art for one of the many books I was writing. Turned out the penciled pages inside weren’t meant for me but for an inker named Dan Green, who I’d never met. Left to my own devices, I would have just packed the art up and sent them on to Dan, but my wife noticed that his address was nearby, about twenty minutes away, and insisted we deliver the pages in person. “Who knows?” she said. “We might make some new friends.”

 

A few days later we found ourselves at the Green house, spending an afternoon with Dan and his extremely pregnant wife, Sandi (one of the sweetest humans it’s ever been my pleasure to know—and a chef of almost supernatural ability) and, true to my wife’s prediction, we did indeed forge new, and lasting, friendships. (My son Cody and Dan’s daughter Galen grew up together, went to school together, and remain dear friends to this day.)  

 

As we got to know each other, it became clear that Dan was an intense and interesting man, deep thinking, extremely creative (he was so much more than just an inker, as the breathtaking painted art in this volume attests). Like many of us, he wrestled with some formidable inner demons, but that wrestling was balanced by a strong sense of humor—and a truly good heart.     

 

Given our intersecting creative lives, it was inevitable that Dan and I would work on a project together and, united in our common love of all things mystical, decided to create a Doctor Strange story: one we hoped would be memorable, unique. And we collaborated in an equally unique and memorable way.  

 

Keep in mind it’s been decades, and memories are fragile things, so take everything that follows with the proverbial grain of salt. That said, Dan saved my outlines and scripts and many of his layouts and notes and, using that material as a kind of archaeological guide, I’ve tried to reconstruct the way we created Into Shamballa.                                                                              

 

                                                            ***

Since Dan and I saw each other regularly, we worked very closely every step of the way, bouncing things back and forth, building the story together, brick by brick. After we talked the story through and came up with a framework that excited us, we pitched it to Jim Shooter, who was editor-in-chief of Marvel at the time, and he had some very valuable insights that helped bring our story into deeper focus. I then wrote up a five-page story outline for our editor, Carl Potts, that we also shared with Roger Stern, who was writing the Strange monthly at the time. We wanted to make sure we weren’t stepping on Roger’s toes and that our story didn’t overlap with anything he was doing.

 

From there Dan and I worked out more details of the story, discussed layouts, tone, etc. Then, based on our conversations, I wrote up another outline, breaking the story down, which Dan used as a jumping off point, laying out the entire graphic novel and, I’m sure, adding new details along the way.

 

I wrote my script from Dan’s layouts, but I was free to change things, make shifts, as I went along. When, a few years ago, Dan unearthed a trove of Shamballa material he’d saved, he found some of the layouts—and I use the term loosely!—that I’d quickly doodle if, in the writing, my script deviated from what Dan had already done. This gave him a sense of what I was seeing in my head as new elements of the story unfolded. I also added some art notes to the script itself, offering visual suggestions—something I’d forgotten until Dan showed me the old pages.

Dan had feedback about the script that I then incorporated into another draft and, with that in front of him, worked out the final layouts. We went over those together, making sure we were both happy, after which Dan went on to the finished pages—which, all these years later, still stand as some of the most beautiful art to ever grace a comic book or graphic novel. (By this time, Dan had a studio space close to my house, shared with another dear friend, my Moonshadow collaborator Jon J Muth. I’d pop over and find Dan at one table painting Doc, Jon at another painting Moon. How fortunate was I?)

 

This kind of back and forth is not the way the average comic book is done. The fact that we were able to do so much work face to face, and that we had the extended deadline that graphic novels afford, allowed us to really collaborate in a way writers and artists in comics working on monthly books just can’t. (Even the title was a collaboration: If memory serves, I came up with “Shamballa”—after the Tibetan spiritual kingdom that was central to our tale—and Dan suggested adding “Into”!) It was a magical creative partnership, as befits such a magical character, and, all these years later, Into Shamballa remains a project I’m incredibly proud of—and a true testament to Dan’s brilliance as both an artist and storyteller.

***

 

Over the course of decades, Dan and I sometimes lost track of each other—I went through some seismic changes during those years, including a divorce, new marriage, and the birth of a second child—but we always managed to reconnect. Long friendships are often like that: the tide moves out, but it eventually sweeps back in again.

 

Sandi Zinaman passed away in 2015—a terrible loss—and it seemed to me that a part of Dan died with her. After Sandi’s passing, Dan and I got together regularly—in retrospect, not regularly enough—talking about life and comics over lunch, and it was clear that Dan was still struggling with those aforementioned inner demons. But he was still creative, still passionate, still Dan. We sometimes discussed Into Shamballa and our frustration that, although the story had been reprinted in other countries, sometimes in gorgeous oversized artist’s editions, it had been out of print in the U.S. for many years.  

 

Dan Green passed away in August of 2023: a great loss for comics, a greater loss for those who knew him personally. I’m sorry he didn’t live to see our Doctor Strange epic reprinted in this Masterworks edition, but profoundly grateful that it’s back out in the world, offering a new generation of comics fans the chance to discover our story—and Dan’s extraordinary work. 

 

Safe travels, Dan. Say hello to the Lords of Shamballa for me.

©copyright 2025 J.M. DeMatteis

2025

2025? Sounds like a date out of a science-fiction story, a point in time in the far distant future. How could that possibly be the year we've just entered? But it is. And it's a strange science-fiction world we're living in, like some particularly twisted Philip K Dick novel. Gazing out at that world there's good reason to abandon hope, embrace despair. But there's the version of the world that's shoved down our throats by the media, day after day—what I call the CNN Reality—and there's the deeper world, the truer world, that lies beneath.

And in that world, good and decent people live good and decent lives, seeking simple human kindness and giving the same in return. In that world, hope is very much alive and the future, which can seem so dark right now, black as pitch, is bright with the promise of better days. 

That's the world I choose to live in. The world I hope, in some small way, I can help  manifest. If, as I believe, the microcosm is the macrocosm, our smallest efforts—a comforting word, a compassionate gesture—can echo out across the planet in miraculous ways. Maybe, together, we'll surprise the pundits and transform 2025 into one of the most positive, beautiful, extraordinary years ever.

And, if not, we'll still have lived our lives in the light of hope, of decency, of love. Which will make it a very good year indeed.

Happy New Year. 

 

THE HAPPIEST, THE MERRIEST

Fifteen or so 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 offered it here at Creation Point every year as a kind of cyber Christmas present: my way of wishing all of you the happiest of holidays, the merriest of Christmases. 



Here’s to a magical, miraculous 2025: God knows, we could all use one.

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 2024 J.M. DeMatteis