250 Words on the Examined Life

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

“The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure and the intelligent are full of doubt.” –Bertrand Russel.

It’s a truism of both fiction and life that everyone is the hero of their own story. Few villains consider themselves evil. In their minds, they’re doing the right thing for the right reason. They think they’re the good guys.

So do the good guys.

How can you tell which you are?

I try to weigh my actions and motives using three questions: Who does it hurt? Who does it help? What if the situation were reversed?

The last first: What if they were a woman instead of a man, poor instead of rich, white instead of minority, liberal instead of conservative? If the other team were doing the same thing as mine, would it be right and fair? It’s a good hypocrisy test. 

For example, If you don’t object when your party’s politicians betray their oaths, take bribes and commit felonies, but would raise hell if another party’s politicians did, you might be a hypocrite. Reverse the names, see if you feel the same. 

Who do I want to hurt? I’m like Captain America that way: I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I don’t like bullies. When I see bullies targeting the weak and vulnerable, that’s who I try to help.

I think those are good guides. I use them to check myself all the time, and have actually changed my own mind on occasion. I recommend them.

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SerioComics Interview

NEW INTERVIEW! 

Graphic novelist, writer and publisher Dave Cowen has done a nice review of A Fire Story and a good interview with me for his SerioComics Substack thingy (also posted to LinkedIn and Instagram, but I don't do those). The mission of SerioComics is to "make serious comics fun and take fun comics seriously." 

Dave has done 70 weekly reviews of nonfiction graphic novels and managed to land interviews with many of their creators, including some pretty big names, so I was honored to be asked. We focused on A Fire Story but also touched on Mom's Cancer, Expressionism, trauma, and advice for storytellers. 

Thanks to Dave for the thoughtful questions!

View-Master Synchronicity

The View-Master with three of its reels. The red stamp reads "Defective: Not For Sale," which may be how they wound up at a state hospital.

Synchronicity. My sisters have been doing some very deep cleaning, including going through things of Mom's that haven't really been looked at since she died in 2005. My sister Brenda, who some of you know as Nurse Sis, brought a box to me today that included a very early View-Master with a dozen or so reels.

Wonderful! I love 3D toys. But how old was it? Whose was it? What was its story?

We found a clue on the back of one reel, a stamp reading "S.D. State Sanatorium." In 1944, when Mom was 4 and 5, she and her brother, Cal, contracted tuberculosis and were quarantined to a sanatorium near Custer, South Dakota. They were the only children in the facility. The stamp told me that the View-Master was one of my Mom's very few permitted pleasures during the year they were confined to the hospital. 

The tell-tale clue: a stamp on a single reel.

Mom as a girl at the sanatorium. I have just a couple of photos like this and looked for the View-Master in them. Didn't find it.

Looking through the reels, they're typical travelogues and fairy tales: the Grand Canyon, Mt. Rainier, Niagara Falls, Little Red Riding Hood, Snow White (non-Disney). And then there was one that made me gasp: the New York World's Fair of 1939.

The New York World's Fair!

Long-time readers will recall that the first chapter of my graphic novel Whatever Happened to the World of Tomorrow? took place at that fair. Some of the sights Mom saw through her View-Master in 1944 were nearly duplicated by me 65 years later when I drew them for my book (which she did not live to read). She and I were unknowingly enchanted by the same event two lifetimes apart. 

The Avenue of Flags. On the left, I did my best to photograph the tiny View-Master slide using a light box; on the right is how I drew the same scene for my book. Note the triangular Trylon and spherical Perisphere in the background of both images.

The Circle of Life sometimes unwinds in mysterious, delightful, and slightly chill-inducing ways.

(BTW, if I ever tackle another big work of graphic medicine, it will be about Mom's time as a child in that sanatorium. It's a good story.)

250 Words on Falling in Love with Reading

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

I saw a Facebook post asking people about the first book that made them fall in love with reading. I liked the question but didn’t have a good answer.

I don’t remember a time I couldn’t read. Family lore says I read the names of gas stations at age 2. Mom, thinking I’d simply associated the brightly colored signs with words I’d heard on TV commercials, printed out “Conoco,” “Sinclair” and “Standard” on a piece of paper, which I read back to her. Freaked her out a bit. 

Comics were very important in my development as a reader. The combination of words and images drew me in, and continues to. It’s a powerful medium. But I don’t think that answers the spirit of the question.

Children’s books influenced me. I’ve written before* about You Will Go to the Moon by Mae and Ira Freeman, which I love despite the cruel lie in the title. But I don’t think that answers the spirit of the question, either.

The first book I can recall drawing me into another world and which I couldn’t put down until I found out what happened next was A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle. No idea how old I was, maybe 7 or 8, but those characters and scenes branded themselves on my brain and have stayed with me since. 

Good books feels like telepathy between authors and readers. I’ve been honored to have a few readers tell me my books have done that for them.

* On my blog: https://brianfies.blogspot.com/2009/07/you-will-go-to-moon.html?m=0

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250 Words on Heaven

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

Putting my cards on the table, I don’t believe in Heaven. I’m pretty sure that “you” are the thoughts and memories contained in your brain and when your brain is gone, so are you. There’s beauty in that. 

Still . . .

There’s a “Twilight Zone” episode starring Sebastian Cabot as an angel named Pip, who welcomes a crook named Rocky into Heaven. 

Rocky can’t believe his luck! He gets to live in a penthouse suite, drive fancy cars, romance beautiful women, and win every bet he places in the casino. A month later, Rocky is bored out of his skull and going mad, and begs Pip to send him to Hell.

The twist you saw coming is that Rocky was already in Hell. More recently, the TV series “The Good Place” took a similar idea and ran with it.

My deepest theological insight is that an afterlife where souls get everything they want could be both Heaven AND Hell. They could be the exact same place. An evil soul would be tortured by it, while a good soul would find contentment and bliss. All the books you could read, all the entertainment you could enjoy, all the fascinating people you could talk to, all the urban excitement or wilderness solitude you could desire.

The beauty of my Heaven/Hell is that it would give evil souls a chance to redeem themselves. All you’d need to do to transform Hell into Heaven is decide to want different things.

Maybe like life?

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Comics & Care Collective Event Upcoming

Advance Notice: I'll be doing a Zoom book club event with librarian Jameson Rohrer of the Comics & Care Collective on Monday, June 9 at 7 p.m. Pacific Time! Jameson invited me to discuss A Fire Story in the context of graphic medicine, which intrigues me. For obvious reasons, I almost always give graphic medicine talks about Mom's Cancer, but a big part of A Fire Story is trauma and grief. I think it fits and am interested to see how it goes. 

UPDATE: Unfortunately, this event has been canceled. I hope we can make it up sometime later, I think it would be an interesting discussion!

250 Words on Cooking

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

I enjoy cooking. It’s a creative activity that others can enjoy. The combinations of different ingredients are nearly infinite, and fresh is always best.

When I was a kid, cooking was for girls. Boys who did it got sideways glances from adults wondering if they couldn’t be just a bit more, you know, masculine? “Well, the best chefs in the world are men,” said Grandpa, praying that that was my destiny because somehow that would make it all right. 

Then came a day that changed everything. After school, my sister and I were cared for by a woman whose kids were in 4-H, the agricultural youth organization. One afternoon we went to a competition in an auditorium, and on the stage were rows of stoves and young 4-H boys and girls cooking and baking. This was electrifying validation. Cooking couldn’t be for sissies if those cattle-ranching corn-farming 4-H boys did it!

About the same time, I got a “Peanuts” cookbook. “Peanuts” the comic strip, not the legume. Many of its recipes were ridiculously simple—a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?—but some were more challenging. The lemon bars turned out great!

Mom lovingly ate many failures. 

I still love to cook. I’ll try anything and have a good feel for how flavors will blend. No need to open a can of Cream O’ Blech soup when you can whip up a bechamel. 

I’m not one of the best chefs in the world, but I get by and nobody looks askance.

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250 Words on Poor Judgment

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

I’m reluctant to give criticism or advice. I will when pressed, but I always stress that my opinion is just that; please feel free to take what sounds right and forget the rest.

I have good reason for self-doubt.

Shortly after Mom’s Cancer was published, I attended New York Comic Con. My editor, Charlie Kochman, ran up holding a thick manuscript in his hands. It was a pitch from a cartoonist who’d approached my publisher’s table cold, just because he’d seen my book on its banner.

Excited, Charlie asked what I thought. I skimmed it. “I don’t get it,” I sniffed.

Later, Charlie said he’d signed that young author and asked if I’d mind sharing my honest perspective on the publishing life with him. We met at Comic Con in San Diego, sitting on the floor of the mezzanine near the Klingon booth. 

“Look,” I told the kid, trying to be encouraging but realistic. “Getting a book published is cool. You’ll meet nice people. But it won’t change your life. Nobody is going to back a money truck up to your door.”

That kid was Jeff Kinney, whose Diary of a Wimpy Kid series has sold 300 million copies worldwide and inspired several movies. Whenever Jeff and I cross paths, we laugh and laugh about how wrong I was. 

It’s a funny story with a lesson in humility I take seriously. Whatever the source of criticism or advice, take what sounds right and forget the rest. Especially if it's me. 

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Terri Libenson

I reconnected with former syndicated cartoonist and bestselling middle-grade author Terri Libenson when she did a meet-and-greet at Copperfield's Books in Petaluma, Calif. yesterday. We've known each other online for a while and met in person once at the Denver Pop Culture Con in 2019. We had time for a very nice conversation between young fans being delighted by her. Because she is delightful.

The artwork is from Terri's "Pajama Diaries" comic strip that she donated to the Cartoon Art Museum in 2020 to be auctioned off as a fundraiser. I bought it. So yesterday I took the opportunity to have her inscribe and sign it to me! A nice closed circle. 

Terri is currently on a book tour that had her doing three school visits yesterday, doing two more school visits today, and catching a flight to Australia tonight. I asked her how the life of a successful bestselling author suited her and she said she liked it fine, but I don't think I'd have the stamina for it. 

It was great to see her, and I'm very glad we had time to talk. I wish her the best of luck on her tour!

P.S.--I look unusually red and blotchy in this photo because I got a sunburn over the weekend. As a descendant of the pale pasty peoples of the icy north, I always look a little red and blotchy, but not this red and blotchy. My olive-skinned wife and daughters regard me with pity and horror.

P.P.S.--The Copperfield's bookstore in Petaluma has a big stack of "Fire Story" paperbacks that I signed while I was there, so if you want one that's a good place to find it. Please support your heroic local independent bookseller whenever you can.

250 Words on Writer's Block

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

“Only amateurs get writer's block,” said cartoonist Charles M. Schulz. “Professionals can't afford it.”

That was surprisingly uncharitable of Schulz. Still, he hit seven deadlines a week for nearly 50 years. Respect. I’ve had jobs in which I had to write so many column-inches per day to stay employed, and always managed to do it. It wasn’t necessarily creative writing, but regardless: there’s no waiting for the muse when a paycheck is on the line. 

Still, writer’s block is real, and many authors more celebrated and successful than I am have suffered from it. I haven’t. Yet. Oh, I’ve gotten stuck and stalled, but I don’t consider that a block. It’s just a problem I haven’t solved yet, and I’ve written professionally long enough to be confident I will. Somehow. Usually within a few days, when the solution seems so obvious and easy I feel stupid for having missed it. Meanwhile, I have plenty else to do.

I think most writer’s block is actually fear of imperfection. Once you set an idea down, it’s no longer the flawless notion that was in your head. My suggestion: give yourself permission to fail.

Just start, knowing it’s going to be terrible. Simply going through the motions lubricates the creative process, and it’s always easier to revise something that exists, even if it’s bad, than create something from scratch. 

If, at the end of the day, your work still stinks, throw it away and begin again tomorrow. Nothing is ever wasted, especially failure.

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250 Words on Solar Power

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

Twenty years ago, I was a science writer working for some of the top people in renewable power, energy storage, and distributed generation. I glibly described my science writing job as “taking 500 pages nobody can understand and turning them into five pages anybody can understand.” I ghostwrote articles and books on cutting-edge topics for very smart people, and considered myself an expert by proxy. 

I once asked a client what the tipping point would be for solar power’s mainstream acceptance. He replied, “You’ll know solar has made it when the environmentalists turn against it.” 

That time has passed, as some large-scale solar projects sited in deserts have been decommissioned or canceled due to their ecological impacts. However, solar photovoltaic panels are everywhere, and installed capacity has surpassed the most optimistic projections. 

When we rebuilt our house in 2018, we put solar panels on the roof. Why not? Their cost was trivial compared to that of construction. Our local power provider offered incentives to install an electric vehicle charger even though we didn’t have an EV, and again: why not? Of course, we eventually figured we should buy an EV to make use of the charger, so now we power our home and fuel a car with free photons from the sky.

I’ve noticed that whenever I drive our gas-powered car, and particularly when I refuel it, I feel a twinge of shame. This is how broad social conventions change: gradually, one early adopter at a time, and then suddenly. 

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The Madness of King Don

 

(Photo of Fort Sumter (center) is from the National Park Service; photos of Alcatraz (left) and Columbia are by me.)

Until this weekend, the stupidest thing I'd seen a president do was when Trump ordered the Army Corps of Engineers to release millions of gallons of water from two California reservoirs to fight fires in Los Angeles--after the fires were mostly out and the water in those rivers had no way to get to L.A. so it just flowed into the ocean instead.

Now I think Trump has topped himself by ordering that Alcatraz be reopened as a federal prison. Keep in mind, it got out of the prison business in 1963 because it was many times more expensive than any other prison to run and maintain. The economic argument has not improved since. 

I live in the Bay Area and have visited Alcatraz many times. It's been a national park for more than 50 years. Its infrastructure--electrical, gas, water, sewage, foundations, buildings--would all need to be redone. The only way to open a prison on Alcatraz Island would be to scrape off all the existing structures and build a new one from scratch. 

Trump ordering Alcatraz to become a prison again is exactly as stupid as ordering Fort Sumter to be recommissioned as a modern military base. It's exactly as stupid as pulling Apollo 11's command module Columbia out of the Smithsonian so NASA could send astronauts back to the Moon in it (note that Alcatraz has been out of operation longer than Columbia has!). 

This is Mad King George territory. If any Republicans ever had the guts to open Amendment 25 proceedings, this could be Exhibit A in just how detached from reality our current president is. 

250 Words on Time Slipping

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

“Time keeps on slippin’ slippin’ slippin’ into the future.” –Steve Miller Band.

When I was young, every middle-aged person had lived through World War 2, and many had served in it. Today, anyone old enough to remember the war, born before say 1940, is at least 85. The Greatest Generation that endured the Depression and beat the Nazis will soon be gone.

While we are evidently cursed with short memories and need to relearn the lessons of defending freedom and fighting fascism they taught us. 

All of us are navigating our own raging rivers through time, though sometimes it feels as if we’re standing still and time is flowing through us. We peer through tiny dirty windows at eternity parading by. 

I have mixed feelings about my memories becoming history. I feel lucky to have seen Apollo astronauts walk on the Moon, as momentous a step as Lewis and Clark wading into the Pacific or Caesar crossing the Rubicon. I laughed when my daughters studied South African apartheid and I was able to show them clips of newspaper articles I’d written about divestment demonstrations at the local university. Watching documentaries on the Civil Rights or Women’s Liberation movements, it’s hard to believe they happened in my lifetime. 

When I was young, it seemed like the USA had been around forever. When I got older, I realized I’d been alive for something like one-fourth of its existence. That’s an interesting change of perspective. My country feels very young and fragile now. 

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