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Comic Book Eric
Over the years, my developing passion for the comic book genre has earned me a sizeable collection of arched eyebrows, apprehensive stares, and associations with the classic “comic book nerd” stereotype. Last spring, as I filled out the application form for my fifth comic convention, I couldn't help but ponder: what if the stereotypes have turned out to be true? After all, comic book conventions often bring out some of the most bizarre demographics: semantically-obsessive fanboys, often morbidly obese and dressed – in rather unflattering spandex costumes – as their favourite X-Men or Star Trek characters. Thus, being associated with such an event caused the arched eyebrows to soar into the stratosphere, and my fate was sealed as “comic book Eric”, a nickname used with increasing prevalence among my peers.
Despite the inevitable apprehension, I felt particularly excited for this year's convention, held five hours south in Toronto. My first few conventions had been little more than indulging in rampant consumerism and counter-cultural voyeurism; this year, I would be selling my own original comic books, art prints, and stickers for the first time. I had spent two hundred dollars registering my table in the convention's “Artist Alley”, a small section devoted to alternative and self-published comic books, and another two hundred printing copies of my comics. For three full days, I would be charged with convincing these superhero and anime-obsessed fanboys to invest in a black-and-white independent comic about religion and politics. I was terrified.
After the train ride and an anxious night of preparation in my hotel room, I entered the Metro Convention Centre, where a lineup of comic fans, some costumed, some not, was slowly developing outside. Suitcase in hand, I followed what seemed like an infinite succession of escalators and hallways, going further and further down the rabbit hole and into this cultish comic book mecca, while I mentally catalogued every conceivable reason to run back home to Ottawa. Finally, I reached the registration booth, received my badge and table number, and entered the convention hall.
During the initial setup hours, the hall buzzed with the murmur of artists, company representatives, and retailers organizing their merchandise and setting up their assorted visual displays. They had all flocked to their respective tables, which were arranged precisely into hundreds of rows, forming the blueprint of a creative and commercial city. Thick, evenly spaced pillars separated sky from earth, and the flourescent lighting created a strange and ambient sunlight. The city “blocks” grew denser by the minute with statues, figurines, propped-up costumes, animated DVD's, price lists, art prints of all sizes, long boxes of old comics, and neat piles of new ones. Closer to home in Artist's Alley, the atmosphere seemed beyond intimidating, and I could feel the piercing eyes of the other creators judging each page of my comics without having read them at all and projecting their own feelings of neuroticism and uncertainty. The contemporary comic market was catered to stagnant mainstream institutions, such as Marvel and DC Comics, not the struggling independent creators like us. Many of the artists depended on a sales surplus after investing so much of their limited income into convention space and stocking up on inventory; I, on the other hand, was overjoyed at the simple prospect of generating any interest in my work.
After an hour or so of nervously organizing my table, the intercom blared: “Attention, exhibitors! The convention floor is now open to the public.” It was showtime. The lively chatter of convention-goers quickly drowned out the low murmurs of anticipation, and before I knew it, the eerie convention hall now teemed with excitement. Since my table was positioned at the very edge of Artist Alley and facing the retail section of the convention, attendees drifted over regularly and showed considerable interest in my work. Friday proved somewhat disappointing on the sales front, until I inquired about the slowness to my neighbouring creator, who smiled, saying: “Oh, don't worry about it. Friday is pretty slow, and people usually save their money for Saturday and Sunday.” Her kindness lifted my spirits considerably, and she was absolutely right. I slowly grew into my role as self-promoter as the weekend rolled on, and in an impressive blow to my trademark cynicism, I ended up selling most of my comics. By the end of Sunday, the convention floor no longer felt daunting and competitive. Once I took the opportunity to leave my fortress and chat with other creators, I realized that their seemingly neurotic glares were simply curious ones, and that there was room for all of us amidst the market pressure. I was among kindred souls, and the hall's high ceiling could barely contain the creative energy and collective love for the medium. I was home.
After the months of hard work leading up to the weekend, I gained a broad respect for many facets of the typical comic book convention, especially the hard work that many fans put into making their elaborate costumes. These people, albeit slightly odd in some instances, were essentially like me; they were all hugely passionate about a niche interest that often sank under social stigma and generalizations. Although I did not break even by the end of the weekend, that was really besides the point. I gained the ability to speak comfortably about my own story ideas and turn my comic's superhero-free content into a convincing sell.
Seven months have passed since the Toronto comic convention, and I look forward to exhibiting once again this coming August, having mailed off my cheque just last week. I welcome the nickname “comic book Eric” and its associated bewilderment and mild condescention, because the term itself is quite accurate. For unlike many of my friends and peers, I have the benefit of already knowing and embracing my passion – my “calling in life”, if you will. The associated stereotypes and generalizations are but a small price to pay.
exhausted
dorky
accomplished
giggly
sad
drained
enthralled
bouncy
chipper
anxious
happy