Part 1 is still right here and Part 2 is still here and Part 3 is right where I put it (here) while Part 4 is over here it should come as no surprise to you to learn that Part 5 — that's right, I said Part 5 — can be found here. Oh — and below this line, you'll find Part 6, which I think at the moment is the last part but we'll see. Remember I warned you.
This part is about how I really learned to "do" Comic-Con. Mostly, it's about the many personal mistakes I made at comic book conventions of the seventies and into the eighties. For instance, it took me too long to realize that I didn't really like sitting behind a table for any length of time signing autographs and that I was under no obligation to do that. I somehow felt that I was.
I don't hate it. If my publisher thinks it'll help them sell books, okay, fine. If someone approaches me and asks me to sign a book I've worked on, sure, no charge…and if it leads to a friendly conversation, that's great. In a "Could I have your autograph?" situation, it too often does not. Being sometimes as dense as a certain wandering comic book character I work on, it took me a while to realize I didn't have to spend all day writing my name and sitting at a table, pen at the ready, to invite that.
I also didn't like selling anything. That's the business model for most folks in comics when they're guests at most conventions: They fly you in, give you a table and you're expected to put up a little display that announces your presence and then sit there for 3-4 days, selling books or scripts or sketches or just your signature. It works for most professionals — I'm not knocking it for others — but it's always given me an "I'm doing something I shouldn't be doing" feeling.
In a similar sense, I didn't like approaching a convention as a place to get work. I was sometimes offered projects at cons and I've established (or renewed) relationships with people who at some point — probably not at a convention — would offer me things to do. That's fine but I learned the slow way that I enjoy a convention a lot more when advancing my career is not among the uppermost topics on my mind. I also learned I didn't like having a responsibility to advance anyone else's…
With rare exceptions, I didn't like critiquing samples of art or scripts from people hoping to break into the business. I'm fine with offering advice in a general sense but I often don't feel qualified to tell someone, "You're not ready" or worse, "Give it up." Just because I think someone lacks potential, that doesn't mean there aren't people out there with hiring power who will feel otherwise. There are those getting steady work in comics these days who, if they'd shown me their work that publishers are now publishing, I would have told them one of those two things.
Again, it took me a while to realize I didn't have to do this and that I wasn't being a bad guy by declining. I think that revelation came to me one con when a "stage father" (in the sense that Gypsy Rose Lee's mom was a "stage mother") badgered me into evaluating sample pages drawn by his fifteen-year-old son. Both Father and Son were pretty angry that this did not lead to me dragging them over to whoever was qualified to hire the lad to draw Spider-Man so the kid could go home with Todd McFarlane's career.
And yes, I do remember the young artist's name and now, a good fifteen years after that non-recommendation, I have yet to see it on a comic book. I just Googled to make sure I hadn't missed one.
I know people for whom an important part of conventions is a social scene that involves the downing of alcohol. One guy told me this year that his big complaint about Comic-Con is that the "bar scene" is not as good as it is at some other cons. For some reason, he faults the convention for this. I guess they should hold it near hotels where the bartenders know how to make a proper gin 'n' tonic.
Again, not something that interests me in the slightest. I like talking with people. In fact, it's one my favorite things in this plane of existence. But I don't drink and don't like being around excessive consumption. Several times in my life, I have had to depart social gatherings because one or more people whose company I enjoyed when they were sober would morph into one or more raving assholes after a few beverages…and yes, this also goes for recreational drugs. I'm not condemning something because I choose to steer clear of it…and it took me a while to learn how to avoid or escape such situations.
And as my knees, feet and the rest of me got older, I began to dislike just standing or walking around the exhibit hall for 3-4 days. There were times when I couldn't see a way to be there where I could encounter people I wanted to see while still being able to sit down. Not unless I let them give me a table…and if I took a table, I was expected to sit there and sign things or sell things and…well, you see the problem.
There were a few other realizations…and I hope I'm making it clear that I'm only talking about me deciding something wasn't right for me. Your mileage not only can vary, it probably will.
In the mid-to-late eighties, I began paring back my San Diego Comic-Cons. I went to every one but I'd arrive the second day and/or depart the morning of the last day. I also did that for other reasons, as well. In '88, I didn't stay for Sunday because Sunday was the big meeting in Los Angeles where the Writers Guild was voting to end what at this moment is still the longest strike in our history — a distinction it may lose in around seven weeks.
And then a few years later, I fell in love with Comic-Con all over again. I suddenly realized how to customize my con-going experience to suit my needs…which was a lot easier to do once I really understood what those needs were.
Wha' happened? Well, I had all the above revelations. Slowly but certainly, I realized I didn't have to sit behind a table, sell stuff, critique portfolios, hustle editors for work, be around drunks, stand for most of four days, etc. And two other things occurred, one being that it became easy to pre-plan my Comic-Con with the aid of the Internet. The con had set up a website that listed program items and which exhibitors were located where in the big hall along with other valuable info.
Before I got to San Diego, I could figure out where I wanted to be and when. I could ask myself a question I somehow hadn't felt I could answer before — a two-part question, actually: What do I want to do at this convention? And how do I find it?
I began making up a schedule. E-mail, which had become a very efficient way to communicate with people, could be used to set up breakfasts, lunches, dinners or even just "Hey, let's get together at 3:30" with folks I wanted to see. I'd list booths in the exhibit hall I wanted to visit and even figure out, via maps on the convention website, a plan to hit them in a sequence that would save me walking time. No more wandering that massive room aimlessly, hoping to stumble upon that which interested me.
My schedule, of course, included the two or three panels I might appear on at each Comic-Con. As their number began to expand, I finally realized what I enjoyed most about Comic-Con…hosting panels. That was the second thing that occurred and as I'm typing this, I realize that to explain how that happened, I'm going to have to take this series to a seventh (and final, I promise) part. Don't be shocked. I warned you this might happen.