How to Succeed at Fiction By Failing: Part Two

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“Always get up one more time than you’re knocked down, son. If you can do that, you’ll always win.

Eventually.

Maybe.”

My Dad.

There’s an amazing power that comes from pursuing your dreams.

Nope. I put that wrong.

Going after your dreams might be the wrong thing to do. I’m thinking of all the American Idol shows I’ve seen, where the judges try to break the truth to youth who have less talent than a fire hydrant.

“You can’t sing,” they say.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!“

“The sound of cats fighting is more melodic than you,” Simon Cowell might chime in.

…and that’s the truth. They can’t sing. Professionals in that business, who know what they’re talking about, said so. You are walking into their ring of expertise and they said “no“.

It happens to many of us from time to time. Frustrating, but that’s life.

Don’t focus on pursuing your dreams — but take your dreams with you — just in case an opportunity opens up.

There’s an amazing power that comes from pursuing your purpose.

Ahhhh, that’s better.

I was always meant to be an artist. From the age of two, that was fact. Every creation in my hands proved it. No lessons, no schooling, but I’ve still made some kind of living as a professional freelancer since 1985. It hasn’t always been my ONLY way to make a living, nor has it always been the most PROFITABLE way to make a living. It has, however, always been a moneymaker for me and a joy of my life.

I also knew I was meant to be a writer.

That’s where it gets sticky for me and so many other writers. Everyone uses words, in some form or another. So most people naturally feel they can comment on, critique, confound, or just flat out blast a writer’s work. Any writer they choose.

Anyone can be a critic.

Try that with an artist:

“That picture of a man flying from the top of a building doesn’t look real,” a person might say.

Me, being the sensitive and gentle personality that I am, would laugh hysterically and reply mockingly, “Is that so? Doesn’t look real? A man flying from a rooftop. Okay, smart ass, then you draw it better.”

“But I don’t draw,” would be their reply.

“Then shut up.”

This isn’t about “I don’t LIKE that piece of artwork.” Everyone has things they like and/or prefer, certain tastes. That’s all fine and dandy, and completely normal, even expected. But to walk up to the statue of David and spew, “That doesn’t look right,” you’d better be able to make a better version.

We can’t, you and I, so we keep our mouths shut.

But not with words.

We all talk, we read, we can write words down, form basic sentences, and something in us believes that qualifies us to be critics. That, my friend, is one of the main things that makes writing hard. Dealing with people who aren’t peers, but closer to hecklers.

When you know your purpose is to write and to craft a story to uplift, inspire and entertain, you expose yourself. You take your thoughts and feelings and place them on the open altar of life. Any schmuck or nay-sayer can walk along with a framing hammer and smash the shit out of whatever you’ve constructed.

In today’s society, there are many who won’t even tell you why they hammer you. They just show up, look at what you’re writing, grunt, strike repeatedly with the claw end of the hammer and walk away. Ask any author who gets a single star on Amazon, with no explanation why or how to improve their work.

What I’m trying to say here is that it takes guts to write anything. But when you know it’s your purpose, you’re required to endure.

All of it.

…but how do you know your purpose is writing?

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It Might Not Be Great, But It Isn’t Horrible

I had given Wendell birth, and there was no end to the ideas about his path and potential story. My life up to this point had always compelled me to carry about a drawing pad. At any moment, I could flip to a clean sheet of paper and draw an idea with a pen or pencil.

Now I was carrying around a notepad.

This is when I learned about my first mental handicap: I was not a linear thinker, but I was a linear reader. I had all these ideas, but struggled to write them down because of my need to have them organized.

After going through dozens and dozens of expensive notebooks, tossing one aside to start another with a new topic, I simply…ran out of money. I couldn’t support such a stupid habit, and it financially forced to come up with a solution.

The solution was to say, “To hell with it. Just write it down and worry about organizing it later.”

It worked.

The most important thing was to record the ideas. The rest would take care of itself. When I allowed my mind to just info dump whenever it wanted, magic happened. The baffling creativity prophet in me has this uncanny ability to write solutions to problem which won’t surface for months, even years.

I’m not joking.

Even today, I can go through my library of notebooks and find the perfect solution for a story hiccup. I’ll discover things written years ago, and they fit like I created them yesterday. I have friends that also do this all the time, so I’m not alone.

The second most important thing was to develop the drawing style I would use for the comic books. My hands still didn’t work the same as they did before the accident. They’d tire and shake, or I might lose my grip on the pen I was using, so the style had to be simplified. I’d already decided on black and white, mainly because I didn’t know how to color at the time…I was a penciler and inker by choice.

So I sketched hundreds of drawings. Then hundreds more.

When I felt it was good enough to share, I combined my story script with the artwork. The result wasn’t great, but at least it wasn’t horrible. Both my wife and my mother were constantly calming me down and pointing my attention to how much the children loved it. It helped keep me on track.

The process of creation was traditional. I used Bristol paper, sketched out the comic book, then inked it. Once the page was complete, I’d scan it with a flatbed scanner — in two pieces — splicing them together and adding text using Photoshop. You could read the PDF on any desktop.

That might not sound impressive today, but you remember that this was 2004, and PDFs were cutting-edge technology. Flatbed scanners to scan this size of paper started at $6,000, where today a free app on my iPhone will do the job. I’d also like to point out that as far as I knew, Wanted:Hero was the first eComic online. If nothing else, it was still years before they created the Kindle.

My plan was to figure out how to sell these PDFs on the internet for ¢.97 each, making it affordable, encouraging readers to talk about the comics and share them. The entire process was slow going, mainly because I didn’t have the funds to purchase the right tools. So I did the best I could and saved the PDFs until my situation changed.

I know the cover says $3.25, but the digital version was ¢.97. That’s the printed price — some readers asked me to print them out at the local Kinko’s and mail it.

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Don’t Speak To Your Mother That Way

I said in the beginning that I was a momma’s boy. Tease me about it and I’d punch you in the throat, but it’s true. I love my mother. She was as perfect as a mother can be and still be mortal.

Mom understood me. She listened to me. Counseled me.

She loved me.

Me and my mommy.

Mom offered my abuser a ride home from school because they’d missed their bus, even though they had beaten me several times and she was aware of it. After being punched, she would pick the flesh from between my teeth. She drove me to the hospital for stitches and broken bones. She didn’t even complain when I broke both my forearms…four times each.

In fact, she explained to the doctor that the casts wouldn’t have to be replaced if he’d given me fiberglass ones as I originally asked.

It turns out I was right. Fiberglass casts don’t powder when you use them to defend yourself.

Mom was proud of me, and that meant something — because she had fostered this creative skill since I started drawing Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street at age two.

So maybe you can imagine how her sudden death affected me.

I woke at just before 5am on April 4th to the phone ringing on my side of the bed.

“Mom’s dead,” my dad choked out.

“That’s not funny,” I replied, sitting up.

My father just sobbed. I had never heard my father cry before. Cried so hard I could hear his body shaking through his voice.

Something in me just…broke.

Mom had taken a trip with my little sister and her twins. A road trip to go see my Nana in Oakland, California. Just outside Reno, mom fell asleep at the wheel. Startled awake, she over-corrected the vehicle, and it flipped.

End over end.

….nine times.

….

(…sorry, can’t see the keyboard…)

The crash was so bad it made national news.

We lost my mother, one twin…who was a week from her first birthday…and they rushed my sister to emergency.

Take a breath. My sister and a daughter survived. Both are still with us. My niece just had her first child. All is well there. But I had to tell you this story, because it’s connected to why I’m so broken.

I had a fight with my mother the day she left on that trip.

………

(I f—-ing hate writing this part…)

She was calm and kind, as she always was, and I railed and shouted, completely out of line. I was…mean.

TO MY OWN MOTHER!

The whole thing had eaten away at me, and I had planned exactly how I was going to apologize and beg her forgiveness.

It rained hard at the funeral.

My oldest son, gripping my oversized hand, stood with me in that cold rain, as people wept under the tents, and brothers carried the casket to her last resting place.

Miss you both so much…

Alcohol, Cigarettes, and Prostitutes, Oh My!

My priority was making sure my family was okay. Everyone grieves in their own way, and I was there for everyone. My dad, siblings, and especially my wife and children, all of them close to my mother. Before the end of the first year, I’d gained 60lbs, still didn’t have the funds to put Wanted Hero into motion…and I was ready to crack.

Apparently, my friends noticed that as well.

Next thing I know, me and Uncle Bob (my mom’s only brother) were being shipped off to Wendover, Nevada, for a night on the town. My wife explained to friends that I wasn’t willing to grieve in front of those close to me. I felt my mother had abandoned me, and I was angry. Bob hadn’t grieved either — and being career Army, retired — at six foot plus, we elected him to be my guardian while away from home.

“No drugs, no women, and don’t let him end up in jail. Let him do everything else,” my wife instructed him, just before getting on the tour bus.

Bob gave her a big hug. “You got it.”

For the record, I had zero experience with casinos up to that point. I had no idea what to expect. When I noticed that smoking was allowed in the casino, I went to the nearest vendor, bought a pack of cigarettes, and started smoking. I had quit cold turkey the day I met my wife.

I smoked all 20 cigarettes end to end without stopping or coughing once, then bought another pack.

Uncle Bob and I got a table in a back corner, where we could talk about my mom, swear, cry, and laugh until we cried again. At one point, our kind, pregnant Hispanic server asked why I was weeping so much. Bob replied in Spanish that I had lost my mother. She pulled my head into her rather enormous chest and hugged me, crying with me.

The manager, a kind Hispanic man, offered his sympathies after the server shared our story. The kitchen staff then graciously offered to stay for two extra hours. Anything Bob and I wanted to eat, they’d make for us on the house.

Never doubt if there are kind people in this damnable world.

I’ve met them.

Over the next three hours, Bob would turn to watch a beautiful blonde walking about the casino floor. She passed the wall we were sitting behind, separating the restaurant from the slot machines. Now, there are many attractive women in this world. Not as beautiful as my wife, but I’m biased.

This woman my uncle was watching? She made the rest of them look homely.

“Bob, why isn’t anyone paying for their drinks?”

He looked back at me. “Sorry. What?”

I pointed. “All these people, playing the slots — I see women bringing them drinks, but no one pays for anything.”

Bob rolled his eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”

Then it sank it. The more they drink, the more they put into the slots. “Ohhhhhh.”

“As long as you’re gambling, the drinks are free.”

Knowing my addictive nature, I’d left my wallet at home, only bringing my driver’s license. The tour package included a $7 voucher, which you could change for cash to gamble with. A nibble to get you hooked.

“Let’s get drunk,” I grinned.

I’ve heard all my life through TV and movies that ‘the house always wins’.

Not that night.

Uncle Bob and I sat side by side, and no matter where I dropped a coin, the machine would spit out more. Over and over I won, filling a little plastic bucket, then another…and another. It was kinda fun. Cigarettes constantly going in my mouth, one server stayed close, bringing me a never-ending flow of alcohol.

When we got the 20 minute warning for the ride home, I had to pee like a horse. So I exchanged my coins for bills and made my way to the restroom by the front doors. Had to lean against the stall wall for support, and I’m pretty sure the poor janitor had to clean up a mess that was my fault.

As I emerged from the bathroom, I came face to face with Uncle Bob…and that beautiful blonde I mentioned earlier.

She was sitting on his lap, arm around his neck.

Have I told you that Bob is one of my heroes?

One of my issues since my mom died had been my growing weight. Before mom died, I was 240lbs of fighting muscle. At 300lbs, depression set in. That helped that last 20lbs find me. My wife never stopped telling me she loved me, but I felt more like a blob than a man.

…until the blonde stood up, looked me up and down…and openly expressed her desire to take me to her room, right in front of Bob.

His mouth dropped open. I laughed so hard I almost fell over.

Won’t repeat the things she said, but I explained I was happily married and showed her a picture of my wife. The woman stared at the picture. Then she stared at me, for a bit too long.

“You’re a lucky couple,” she sighed. (Yes, she actually sighed.)

“We are,” I replied. “Goodnight.”

Bob was so frustrated, he gave me the last four coins in his hand. “Here. I haven’t won a single thing tonight. I’m done.”

Stopping at the last slot machine nearest the doors of the casino, I dropped them in and pulled the handle.

…and hit the jackpot.

Wanted Hero Studios is Born

I love telling people a single pull of a slot machine initially funded Wanted Hero. It sounds like a fictional story, doesn’t it?

100% true.

Cool, huh?

I felt stronger after grieving, letting out my anger and frustration, and giggling when I told my wife a beautiful stranger wanted to take me to bed.

Yeah, the woman didn’t know I’d left my wallet at home, but it was still good for my diminishing self confidence.

“My husband is handsome,” my wife kissed me. “Now go shower. You stink.”

I’d won enough money to pay my bills, get all the computer software and hardware I needed, and to register the new business. I set aside the rest for expenses over the next couple of months. My first order of business was to get a website up and going, so I could display the story to the world and find readers.

This was at the time of dial-up modems. AOL and EarthLink were THE kings, and all things on the internet bowed to the power of the programming wizards who knew this archaic language called HTML.

Oh, shut up. It was cool.

All I wanted was a way to show my artwork, to ‘blog’ (still relatively new concept) and to sell the PDF’s as downloads. With a bit of effort, I found some companies and programmers who made websites and I got bids.

For the low price of $12,000, I could have what I wanted.

Well, shit. That wasn’t gonna happen.

“I’ll do it myself,” I told the sales rep. He just laughed at me.

“You can’t do that.”

Oh, he sounded sooooo smug. I wanted to poke him in the eye with my 2F pencil.

“Are there books on HTML at the library?”

“Uhhhhhhh.”

“Yeah, get out. I’ll do it myself.”

…and I did.

Took me a little while, but the internet has this outstanding thing called the “Wayback Machine”. Those of you 50+ will understand that reference, linked to a white dog with glasses ...and I found THIS:

This was the first version of the site.

This started the adventure I’m still on today. A website showing artwork, comic book pages, and links to purchase them with Paypal. I don’t honestly know when I truly launched the website, and I can’t find the records. Since I’ve always told the story as being about mid 2004, we’ll stick with that.

What still seems amazing to me, was once I set up a phpBB message board, people flooded onto the website once I posted samples of the comics. Within 90 days, there were tens of thousands of registered users, and by the end of 2005, over 15,000 daily users. It was insane. By December 2005, we did a count and recorded the countries people were coming from. Over 275,000 visitors to WantedHero.com from 60 countries.

…and I did not know why.

I’m not complaining, I just don’t know how it happened, why it happened, and no idea how to replicate it. Fact is, I never have been able to replicate that experience — both the traffic and immersive interaction with readers.

(HINT: It’s why I started Life of Fiction, BTW)

Nothing seemed to make sense during this time. I was just grateful.

My first customer became one of my good friends for nearly a decade. She was a 50-year-old woman, who had never read a comic book in her life, but was curious about how I addressed kids. She bought the PDF,…and overnight, became one of my greatest advocates. She got me on podcasts, linked to Wanted Hero from other websites, even starred in my first audio commercial.

Hear it for yourself…

Cool, huh? Deborah is a wonderful person.

Another person who bought my comic was NYTimes and International Bestselling Author, Barry Eisler. He sent me a brief email and said, “Great job. Loved the comic. Your style reminded me of old Eerie Comics.”

I remember that day, too. Did not know who this joker was, comparing my art style to Eerie Comics, so I looked up his name on the web. That led me to screaming for my wife.

“Whaaaaat!?” she screamed back.

I pointed at my desktop monitor. “This guy. A guy who likes my comic books, he’s famous!”

Okay, he’s famous NOW. Though he was doing pretty well for a new author back then. While writing this article, I decided to buy the movie from Amazon (affiliate link), based on my favorite character of his, John Rain. Barry and I became friends and bump digital elbows once in a while online. If you like assassins and CIA adventures, you’ll enjoy his books.

Funny thing is, after a decade of knowing Barry, I’d never read one of his books.

I felt so bad about it after an email exchange with him; I went to the local library. As I mentioned, my family is all about books and reading, so we knew Robyn, the head librarian. I was burned out from drawing, so I asked her to pick something for me to read. “I just need to expand my reading horizons,” I told her.

“Any genre?”

“Go wild. You choose.”

She was gone maybe three minutes, and brought me Rain Fall and a huge smile. “I love this author so much. If you like spy thrillers, Barry Eisler is amazing.”

I started laughing.

Robyn thought I was being mean.

My daughter walked up to me, took one look at the book and said, “My dad knows Barry.”

Robyn got upset. “He does not.”

I took the book from her and smiled. “I’d love to try this. Seriously.”

Took the book home, read it, loved it. So much so I did two things:

1. Bought three copies to give to friends, hopefully to get them hooked, and

2. Contacted Barry for a signed copy for the librarian as an early birthday present.

I was shocked when Robyn walked up to me, absolutely aghast. “You DO know him!”

I nodded.

Barry had signed:

’To Robyn, Hope you enjoy the book. - Barry’

…followed by a note in parentheses:

“…and yes, I know Jaime Buckley.”

I doubt he’ll ever see this post, but thanks Barry.

NEXT TIME:

How to Succeed at Fiction By Failing: Part 3