Snappy Titles Don't Come Up With Themselves

There’s a car alarm going on outside and right now, instead of writing, I’m cursing the Devil Child who created it. It’s not one of those wailing, Emergency Siren models so favored by the yuppies of NoLo or the salesmen at CarToys. That I could tune out with a minimum of headache thanks to my two years of living beside a semi-major suburban highway. But the makers of this….monstrous thing felt the need to supplement the standard alarm blare with automated horn honking. Instead of a cool, rhythmic wee-oo-wee-oo my ears are under assault by intermittent, attention-shattering blasts of honk-honk, woo-wee-oo, HONK-HONK.

It’s enough to drive a man to road rage.

By God, I love this town. Even if it is a toxic, sprawling, concrete stain on what was once one of the most beautiful strips of land in the hemisphere. If you believe Lewis and Clark. Even if its lights block out 94% of the northern stars and its sounds consistently break my concentration.

And that’s about how I’ve felt these last few days: conflicted, scattered. A little broken. Every night I crawl home from my Job hungry and enraged, eat a sandwich, and mutter to myself about all the things I should be doing. “You should work out, or you’ll just get fat again. Lazy bastard.” “You should run that dishwasher before your roommate starts to hate you. Again. Lazy bastard.” “You should shower. You smell like boy. And for goddsakes you should write.”

Then I don’t. And that’s the issue.

Or (and here’s where the conflicted comes in again) I get more specific. “You should write, but not the damn blog. Bloging is to writing what crack is to the dedicated coke fiend. It’s a quick rush, soon dissipated, leaving that hollow, used feeling in your gut. I and I both know this feeling. It’s brought on by the fact that I’ve accomplished absolutely nothing.

Blog entry notwithstanding.

Because these things aren’t built to withstand a stiff wind. It certainly won’t free me from the evils of the dreaded Real Job. I fear this blog will only choke my already-idling creative engine, making tonight (ostensibly my night off) a complete waste…in my eyes, if no one else’s.

Since I have the house to myself, mine are the only eyes that really count. And maybe I’m setting myself up for failure with my abysmally high standards. Maybe I enjoy failing, as it gives me license for these bouts of self-flagellation. As if I need license. Or permission.

Maybe I’ve just been reading too many Batman comics.

I’ve built a great deal of my personal philosophy out of the Dark Knight’s adventures…which is probably my mistake, right there. I know he’d look upon that admission with nothing but contempt. Maybe a spark of pitying humor would flare up under that black sigil on his chest…but probably not. If there’s someone with an odder sense of humor than Bruce Wayne I’ve yet to meet him…in real life, or fiction.

I’m about a third of the way through No Man’s Land, the Gotham Knight’s year-long super-frickin’-mega-crossover-event series that near-every Gotham City-related title for most of 1999. I missed whole swaths of the series in its original run, but at long last it is mine, mine all mine, to enjoy.

And enjoying it I am. Mystery writer Greg Ruka’s prose adaptation of the saga, while good, left much to be desired. It benefited from a consistent narrative voice while simultaneously suffering from selective focus. Example: most of Batman’s dealings with Poison Ivy, Killer Croc, Clayface, the Scarecrow and Mr. Freeze were referred to only in passing, if they were mentioned at all. The same hold true for the adventures of what Dr. Leslie Thompkins’ calls “Bruce’s disciples.” Nightwing, Robin (#3), the Huntress, and the Spoiler are all put through the ringer in this exodus and most of their adventures were sacrificed on (I assume) the Alter of Space Considerations. What publishing house in their right mind would want to publish a thousand-plus-page long hardcover about a bunch of damned superheroes?

Warner Books, that’s who…but that’s beside the point. Even DC’s trade paperback division felt it necessary to split the series into multiple volumes. The only way to get the whole thing in one glorious swath is to illegally download it from the internet…something I would certainly never advocate…even if the artists and corporations involved hadn’t already been paid.

After all, I plan to be paid handsomely for the verbiage I crank out. Someday. Even if it means Emperor Shumate will be forced to come and kill me. At least I’ll finally get to see the man and shake his hand, face-to-face.

Back to it, then. To the Work, as Stephen King once called it. With God’s help I’ll beat this terrible affliction of ennui. Think I’ll pour a nice tall one of lemonade, shoot it through with Jose Cuervo Especial, and finish a shot story.

Finally.

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Tag yourself: Personal: Writing: Fiction: Short Stories: Drinking: Authorial Bitching: Batman: No Man's Land: Portland