Having spent the last couple of years working on an independent comic book, I’m afraid to say that I’ve developed considerable cynicism when it comes to the comic book industry. All talk amongst would-be creators is centered around getting a “deal” and licensing to Hollywood. It’s like the lottery-winner mentality of wannabe professional athletes, that hope that this thing you do — this hobby — will grant you the fame and riches you’ve always deserved.

I have to say, I was a lot happier when I was alone in my apartment, banging out scripts with no thought of audience, or business, or marketing, or any of that. I just wanted to tell a good story — my day job pays the bills. This is why I’m beginning to drift more towards prose, as prose gives me that same alone in a room feeling. If I want to publish, I can self publish — I don’t have to worry about jumping through all the terrible hoops you must traverse before you get the golden ticket: publisher support. Which will lead, of course, to some kind of deal with Hollywood.

Mark Millar, author of such books as The Ultimates and The Authority, has written an editorial on a forthcoming bust in comics. The language he uses to describe the industry is not unlike the language I hear many would-be pro’s I know use. There’s a heady preoccupation with money, and a “our generation of writers is the best ever” arrogance that I’m not sure I agree with. You can read it here.

Keith Olbermann comments on Donald Rumsfeld’s recent remarks. All I can say is that Olbermann is the bravest newsman on television, a true heir to Edward R. Murrow, and one of the few voices of reason. The fact that he’s still on MSNBC is a daily surprise. I need to watch him more …

I spent the summer writing a story about a girl who finds a photograph, and I’m happy to say that the first draft is now complete. It’s time to edit and polish and get it ready to be the centerpiece of my graduate school application packet, and possibly begin shopping it around. If you’re interested in reading it, I will be printing a very limited run in chapbook format for friends to see. I also have to return to some other writing projects I’ve neglected, including my comic book, “The Alberic Heresies,” and some things I’ve agreed to do for other people.

The one thing “The Purple Girl” has taught me is just how much I love fiction. There’s something undeniably appealing about having complete control over your characters and the world they live in. As much as I enjoy working in the comics medium, it is a collaborative process — there are benefits to it, and there are also big hurdles. You are required to have an artist, which makes writers like me who don’t draw beggers, essentially. We really do depend on the charity of artists — without them, there is no way to realize our scripts. I’m fortunate that I’m able to work on “The Alberic Heresies” with an old friend, but other writers aren’t so lucky. I see them at the DC Comics Conspiracy meetings, desperate to get someone to draw their work. Even if they are fortunate to find a collaborator, their next big hurdle is trying to sell their book to an audience that doesn’t care. Unlike readers of short stories and novels who are always looking out for new writers, the comics audience is much more conservative. The majority are happy to read their nine X-Men comics a month and overlook innovative and great stories being produced independently. That’s the price of working in a dead medium.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to get so gloomy. What I am excited about is the cycle of stories I’ve begun about people living on the margins of the middle class in Washington, D.C., of which “The Purple Girl” is the first. Part of the exercise is, with the exception of one story, to write only about characters with very different viewpoints from my own. That’s a tough challenge, but it’s fun. We’ll see if I’m up to it.

Giant yellowjacket nests are beginning to appear all over Alabama. This is insanely scary. Read it here (and view a disturbing picture).

My Emusic subscription just refreshed, and so far I’ve downloaded the new Pretty Girls Makes Graves record, as well as the amazing debut record from Headlights. This thing sounds like classic 90’s indiepop, which in my opinion, is one of the highest accolades one could bestow on a new band. The closest comparison I can think of is The Brittle Stars, who were one of the shining lights of indiepop for a bare instant before disappearing. I can definitely hear Stereolab, Rainer Maria and My Bloody Valentine and some of the Sarah bands in there somewhere, as well. Along with Final Fantasy’s “He Poos Clouds,” this is one of the best records I’ve heard this summer — highly recommended.

I’m nearing completion of my short story, “The Purple Girl,” a project that has dominated the summer. I’d hoped to use it to apply for grad school in the fall, but the plan was a bit too ambitious. Now I will be using it to apply for school in the spring. What had started out as an attempt to 1) tell a story from a different perspective (in this case, by writing in a female voice), and 2) discuss identity and conformity has transformed into a story that, while retaining its female narrator and identity-related themes, is also about a sort of haunting. I don’t want to say much more than that, but obviously I failed in my attempt to write something that isn’t “weird.” I can’t escape genre, no matter how hard I try.

Archie is back home and in lots of pain, but he’s alive. We haven’t lost him, yet. He looks like someone gutted him and then roughly sewed and stapled him back together. It was a bit of a shock, seeing his belly threaded with so much metal, but now I’ve gotten used to it. A friend asked me if it was worth the cost, but I feel that as his owner, I have a responsibility to try as much as possible to keep him going. I’m not sure if we could afford cancer treatment, but if this operation makes him feel better and gives us another few years with him, I’ll take it.

Lately I’ve been listening to The Mountain Goats, Final Fantasy (Owen from The Arcade Fire), Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Tapes ‘n Tapes and Q and Not U. My EMusic subscription refills tomorrow, so that’s 40 more songs I get to download. EMusic has saved my life.

So, my dear old friend Archie is at the vet, today, getting his asteroid-sized bladder stone removed. It’s almost 7pm and there’s still no update on how he’s doing. Last time, we got a call late in the afternoon, around 5pm. It’s early evening now, and I’m worried. I’d hate to lose that tough old dog and his handsome underbite, who likes to sleep in bed like a person and burrow under the covers. The lack of information is worrying.

Update: He’s okay. In a lot of pain, but he’s alive. And so Archie stays with us a little longer. We’ll get him back on Thursday at the earliest.

Last Thursday was difficult, and that’s putting it mildly. Our dog, Archie, has been having accidents in the house off and on for about three years now, and the vet pressured us to neuter him. This, we were assured, would solve the problem. So we did it, but Archie’s problem only got worse. Now, whenever he lays down or sits on the floor, he leaves a puddle behind. This is especially problematic with two proto toddlers running around the house.

So we took him in again, and learned that there is a stone the size of a small asteroid inside his bladder. Covered in jagged spikes, it makes him bleed every time it’s jostled — like when he jumps up on the bed, or simply walks to his water bowl. Of course, we could have learned about this stone had the vet suggested X-Rays before, but instead neutering was the only fix offered. Apparently it was the stone, not Archie’s prostate, that caused the frequent infections. Way to diagnose the problem correctly Mr. Vet.

As we waited anxiously to get the results of the X-Ray back (at the time, it seemed like Archie may have cancer, a diagnosis that still hasn’t been ruled out, because they were unable to get a clear picture of his overburdened kidneys), we received a frantic call from the daycare:

“Anya and Rachel have broken out. The director is worried about them being contagious to other children, so she says you have to come get them right away. They can’t come back without a note from a doctor saying they’re well enough to be in school.”

So, while Tina waited for Archie, I raced across Dupont Circle to the daycare where I was greeted with the same tedious mantra: banned from daycare, doctor’s note. Blah blah blah. It seemed that every time I acknowledged the order, the teacher repeated it again.

A scenario flashed through my mind: the girls, stricken with some virus, end up out of daycare for the rest of their final month. With two weeks left to go, that’s about $1500 lost.

It turns out, the girls had a reaction to their immunization shots — Rachel got the measles. Anya got a mild case of chicken pox. This is not unusual. But compounded by Archie’s deteriorating health, and it seemed that the world was out to get us.

From YouTube, the best band in the world currently:

David Sirota outlines four scenarios for the Connecticut Democratic primary tomorrow — it’s definitely worth a read. Have a look by clicking here (Hat tip: Daily Kos).