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Written by Drew Edwards
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Wednesday, 02 January 2008 |
I'm writing this on New Year's Eve, the last day of 2007. This will be the last Digging my Own Grave for at least a good while. Consider the grave dug deep enough, it's time for me to lie down in it.
As I said earlier, as of this writing the Holiday season has almost passed. Halloween is long gone. I'm about to say goodbye to a year that brought me both joy and pain. The latter half of 2007 will go down as one of the hardest points in my life. In fact I'm not going to sugarcoat it, as of this writing I consider myself a failure. Though a failure with hope for tomorrow, because such is my way. Battered, beaten, but never out. As my childhood hero Ben Grimm would say, "It's Clobberin' Time!"
But let's backtrack a little. Why am I a failure? What am I reflecting on? What is the point of this column? Will be warts and all? Good questions, every one of them.
There's several reasons why I am labeling myself a loser. One being that I've lost my job of three years. As of this writing, Drew Edwards is no longer a butcher. I have mixed feelings about that. I'm glad that I've learned a trade, but I hated being defined by said trade. Often the title of butcher hung around my neck like a noose. However, I do not deny that it was both shocking and terrible to have suddenly been giving the axe after three years of loyal service. I won't bore you with the finer details, but needless to say I'm still not totally sure why I was fired. The reasons given were ambiguous at best.
The second reason for my exile to loserville is that my much ballyhooed deal with Silent Devil fell apart at the last second. And while it would be unprofessional for me to share any of those details with you, I will say that this issue cut deeper than losing my job. It was more like losing a child. I've been depressed for months because of this, and I'm still not totally out of it.
We're coming up into 2008 and thus I look back to almost a decade in comics. And, after the death of "Superdeformed," it dawned on me that I haven't much to show for it. I'm the unpopular writer of what basically amounts to a largely underground phenomenon. No matter how hard I try to romance her, the mainstream still won't let me into her pants. I'm not running with the cool kids.
On the one hand, I regret little. I've always been a misfit, and doing things my own way suits me. Because of this, I've watch my comic grow from a grungy little moppet with bad hair to something sleeker, sexier, and a whole lot more polished. Honestly, the thought of it make me swell with pride.
I've worked with amateurs, pros, and everything in between. I've met people from all over the globe, and had the good fortune to call some of them my friends. This also means a lot to me, more than I can ever express on paper via my limited talents.
But what of my characters (Nah, my children)? The fictional world I've created with these people? When a writer creates something he seldom wants it to die with him. He wants it to live in other people's minds. But despite my best efforts, Solomon and company aren't the darlings of Wikipedia and internet slash fiction. They pollute only a handful of people's imaginations. Maybe it's both arrogant and selfish, but I want more for them.
A long time ago I stopped thinking of my characters as fictional. They're as real as any of my other loved ones, and I want only the best for them. That includes a long life. Right now if I die, they end with me. And I'm running out of time. A man in his 20's is trying to build a life for himself. A man in his 30's is trying to build a legacy. At 29 I'm starting to feel like the world is passing me by. The ghosts of so many Halloweens ago clawing at my heart strings. Sometimes at night I make myself crazy just thinking about it.
This also leaves me thinking of my deceased brother, himself almost a decade into the dust. Have I let him down? Does he look at me from beyond wondering why his brother has wasted away his 20's on so many foolish ventures? Will he kick me in the nuts when we final me up in Hell? Probably so and I likely deserve it.
But what to do about it all? In many ways, I'm back at square one. I've got the site to work on and get back on track. I had a new job and I've lived in a new city for under a year. If there ever was a call for rebirth, this is it. I believe in the resurrection as offered up by my pop-eyed creation. At the same time, I'm not sure where to start.
So that's where I'm at as I close out this column. The road is both rocky and wide open. I have no sage advice for success because as it turns out, I don't have any more of a clue than the rest of you bums. I'm just another freak in the freak kingdom. The only advice I had to give is "do the best you can." That's all I've ever done and it's all you can do too. Good luck y'all.
Drew Edwards is a 29 year old writer living in Las Vegas Nevada. If you don't know who he is by now, join the crowd and read the rest of these columns. Or you can simply read Halloween Man comics.
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