The Weekended


Schkade and Smith, Seattle

I drive the three hours from Seattle to Portland and then I sleep for twelve. I wake up to find person or persons unknown have parked their car inside my skull. I down a bottle of water and refill the bottle from the kitchen sink and repeat. I take a daily multivitamin and I chase it down with a fistful of cashews and a little plastic container of applesauce, which I eat with a serving spoon because it’s the first one I grab and in my current state I am unpicky. I check my mail and I watch Californication — a show that reminds me that I like LA, screw the haters — and by now I am something resembling a human being. I’ve spent the last three days inside my superpersonality, the Dan+ version of myself that makes friends and shakes hands and takes care of business of all kinds. I’m a writer; that setting doesn’t come standard. I’m worn, man. But in that nice way.

Emerald City Comic Con was very good to us. Nothing solid as of yet — this was never meant to be the final chapter — but the irons are in the fire now, and a couple of those fires are hotter than Huston. We’ve got heavies interested not just in AVERY, but in Schkade and Smith, comic creators. Something will come of this. Something soon. My mind has settled back into its human Dan.0 state, but I still know that much. And that’s pretty exciting. Special thanks to Batton Lash, who helped us find editors to charm — same kind of help he’s been giving me, pro bono, since I first stuck my toe in the sea of comics. As nice a man as ever I’ve met. He bikes to work, you know.

The real treat was working with JD in person, teaming up as a two-man organism designed only for pitching. I, the tall dark glad-hander with the catch phrases and the corduroy jacket and the spiels about atoms and destiny. He, the blonde-quaffed blue-eyed indie artist ideal whose tasteful stubble and neck-scarf keep warm his rapier wit. Together, we made the Butch and Sundance of aggressive self-promotion. The Briscoe and Greene. The… Danny Rand and the chromatically-challenged Luke Cage. It was great doing a con not only with a product to sell, but a partner to hawk it with. A true-blue business associate. It was rad. Let’s do it again sometime.

Now comes the time of the emails and penciling and the writing, writing, writing. Because artists are writers, see. That’s the thing everyone has to understand. Writers are storytellers.

It’s a month ‘till Stumptown. A lot can happen in a month. Ha. Who needs fear? I’ve got a career to start.

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