ROBIN BANKS: A Critique

So, after I posted the Robin Banks proposal a month or so ago, a buddy of mine—who happens to be an editor at a real-deal comic book publisher—took a look and sent me some thoughts. Here they are:

"This will come as no surprise to you, but books based on females, in general, do not do as well as books based on men. Yes, I know we can both come up with exceptions, but it is still a handicap. (And, yes, I know that’s the entire point of this series in particular—I get that. I’m just trying to point out to you what the suits are probably going to say first thing.)

"It feels right now like about four issues, and maybe even only three. Obviously, you could make this five or six or twelve—that’s all implicit but not currently explicit.

"You know, this seems like it’s got the makings of a hell of a slam bang adventure story, with great visuals and lots of attractive and totally kickass, incredibly competent women...but I’m not sure I’m getting Robin’s character arc. Other than proving she’s as capable as any man—which seems to be obvious from the very beginning—where does she grow? I mean, WE know her true worth from the first page, and so does she—so what makes her the protagonist? Or am I misreading it and she’s not actually the protagonist?

"This is a great opening, and absolutely makes me want to see more. I have no doubt the rest of her team are going to turn out to be totally wicked awesome too and very much look forward to you proving me right."

This buddy—who agreed to allow me to publish his comments in exchange for anonymity—has got a point or two. So, let's see if I can work some stuff out.

My Greatest Sin

I have never read Watchmen.

Okay, that's not entirely true. I never read all of Watchmen. When I first came across it, I was maybe 14 years old. I was a recent convert to DC Comics after years as a pure Marvel-head—Dark Knight Returns opened the door, and I walked right in. And I remember seeing the covers for the single issues on the racks and was totally intrigued. I bought them, read them, and completely didn't understand them. Later, when I picked up the collection—before we started calling them "trades"—I reread it...but skipped the prose/text supplements. At the time, it was not what I wanted in a comic book. Not that I minded reading, you know, typewritten words—I inhaled books at that age—but those textual interludes disrupted my flow.

So I skipped them.

I read the illustrated sections of Watchmen, dug it, and then proceeded to never read it again.

Yesterday, I decided to pick it back up and get the whole cover-to-cover Watchmen experience. (I did the same thing in advance of Fellowship of the Ring coming out—because when I was a kid, I never made it past the dreadfully boring Tom Bombadil stuff. 200 pages of walking and singing is tough for a kid to get through.)

I know I'm preaching to the choir, but...holy shit. No wonder.

My Favorite Special Effect

Asses, shaking. It's an oldie, but a goodie. Like the Silver Bullet, it works every time.

Push #3

Couldn't tell you why I can't find the cover to Push #2 but, hey, this one—on sale Christmas Eve—ain't too shabby. Not by a longshot.

Master, May I?

I was at an emergency gathering of the Minority Geek Council over the weekend—the missus was having a Girl's Night In at the house, and I felt the need to be with dudes and holding a virtual fight club—and we started talking about Star Wars: The Clone Wars. Here's sorta* how the conversation went:

ME: You know, I kinda dug it. Especially the Yoda episode. I could go the whole series without seeing Anakin and his Jedi intern.
MARTY: Watching him kick ass is always refreshing. But, I gotta tell you, the Star Wars Universe is starting to make me uncomfortable.
ME: Why?
MARTY: Because I don't like hearing that many people referred to as "Master." I mean, I get it, but there are but so many places where the use of that word is acceptible—
ME: Roots, a dominatrix's basement...
MARTY: —and I just wasn't prepared for how many times I'd be hearing "Of course, Master," "You're very wise, Master," "Shall I lower the blast shields, Master?" while watching prime-time television.
ME: Are you saying that Star Wars is a racist enterprise?
MARTY: All I'm saying is that "Master" is going to become part of a whole new generation's vocabulary. And, really, is that a good thing?
ME: ......
MARTY: Now, man up, bitch, or I'm gonna Tekken your ass into a pulp.


*It was a late night, and my memory is a teensy bit fuzzy. Plus, the videogame-induced epilepsy might've set in.

America...

We are officially not talking for a week. At least.

Sometimes, I just don't understand you.

I'd like to say that I want this...

But I really don't.
(I totally do.)
((No, I just can't. I'm not that guy.))
(((But it's so damned cool.)))

Dave Letterman on Paul Newman

I think I tell a pretty decent story. I can hold your attention, at the very least. And I've got a relatively flowery vocabulary. But, really, I'm no Dave Letterman: