How to Succeed at Fiction By Failing: Part One

Yer gonna need a drink for this, trust me.

Gnomes. Gotta love ‘em. They made my world spin.

I hope you don’t mind, but I made myself a promise in starting this path that I wouldn’t hold back or hide the things burdening my heart. That if I committed to a growing Life of Fiction, I’d do everything possible to see it through.

The challenge to that is there are places in my mind and heart I’ve avoided for nearly 50 years. Places often dark and confusing, because they hurt.

These perpetual bruises and gaping mental/emotional wounds are also the key to much of my creative ability. So I’d like to share some things I’ve rarely talked about.

…since it’s just you and me.

The Truth I’ve Lived With

I never believed I would be someone great.

There were never dreams of being a basketball star, or setting some world record…and I was never the kid who wanted to be an astronaut, firefighter, or policeman. That just wasn’t me. As a child, I was a small, quiet boy who loved to please and listen to grown-ups. I wanted to make friends and be liked by someone..

While most kids around me went on to play sports, win trophies and get the attention of the cutest girls in school, my head was usually down, hovering over a notepad. My fingers gripped a #2 pencil like my life depended on it.

Because it did.

The world hated me, and I knew it.

No, that’s not right — it was the Universe, and everyone in it — that hated me.

Oh, I know now that it wasn’t true, but try to convince a ten-year-old boy he’s not hated:

• After a kid walks up and shatters his forearm with a baseball bat in front of their teacher.

• After a stranger in a truck curses at him and then runs him over just outside his neighborhood.

• After a dog rips his face open, requiring two adults to pull the hound off…and all he did was ring a doorbell to say ’Trick or Treat’.

• After an adult shoves a loaded revolver in his face and says, "Go steal that moped and bring it here, or I’ll kill you."

• After he gets punched and kicked unconscious by a dozen boys, all for trying to protect his smaller sibling.

Drawing was my way of coping.

It was my ability to hang on to life for just one more day. To not give up. Even after the cuts, the bruises, the blood and the stitches…I could always find a measure of peace and happiness in drawing. Because those drawings always led me to something more.

That’s when I realized it was okay that I would never be someone great…because there was no doubt I would DO something great.

For every wound and every beating I received, another door opened in my mind. Funny, now that I’m an ‘adult’, I wonder if those were cracks, rather than doors. A way to allow my attention to slip away, quickly and silently, wrapping the cool shadows around my battered and broken mind.

I saw things other kids couldn’t imagine.

While teens played soccer or football, I received royal invitations to joust with Knights and Kings. I preferred designing mech-warriors with crews of gnome mechanics, or playing croquet with ancient dragons to fitting in with the popular kids. Who cared about school dances when there were wars to be won and dark magic to dispel?

We both know such a life couldn’t last. Reality eventually crashed through my coping mechanisms.

The good news is that the sweet smiles of the female species kept me there for more than a decade. Luckily, there was a place for sweet nerds who were kind and not too bad looking.

Feeling like I was a babysitter not getting paid, I graduated at age 15 from High School with a 4.0 and two full-ride scholarships. Neither of which I accepted.

Oh, don’t look at me like that.

I’d spent my entire childhood being pummeled by bullies…why would I subject myself to the wrath of insecure college students?

My attention turned instead to my artwork, and I ran about Sacramento, California, drawing caricatures in shopping malls. It was a balance between making money without a license and avoiding the constant accusation that I was truant. I got it down to a science, though, collecting $8 per couple in under four minutes, before sprinting from overweight and over-enthusiastic mall cops.

Afternoons were better.

That’s when I’d take custom orders from rich kids behind the local schools. T-shirt and hat designs, hand painting skateboards, jackets, drawing D&D characters on poster board. Anything creative for a handful of cash.

The Discovery of Stories

When I got tired, I’d always retreat into the local Pizza Hut, just a block away from my grandparents, where I lived. I could buy a small personal pizza, soft drink and all you can eat salad for under ten bucks and still take home between $70-$100 on most days. It wasn’t always that good, but often enough for me to keep at it, and that got the attention of the Pizza Hut owner.

Even though I’d take a break, kids would come and find me. The younger teens who had money and wanted to see what I could do. They’d often come in groups, sit at my table and look through my drawing pads, asking questions about what they saw on the pages.

…and I’d tell them stories.

I’m not even sure I could tell the truth in my life. The moment you asked me why I’d drawn a picture of a bearded woman, you’d hear about a dwarf merchant who’d married wealthy to fund his business. Unfortunately, his love for traveling earned him the wrath of his wife — so he’d commissioned me to draw the true beauty of her soul. That if you held the picture up to the light at just the right angle, the subject of the sketch would see the loveliest part of who they really are.

Kids would hold up the drawing pad, trying to see something that wasn’t there. But when they questioned me, "That’s stupid. It’s all fake." I’d reply, "Prove it."

They knew I was just telling a story…but they doubted enough for it to be exciting. I was the crazy kid who told cool stories.

The owner made me an offer — allowing me a safe place away from the cops to work — and he gave me my regular order each day for free. All I had to do was draw and tell my stories, in the corner of the Pizza Hut, at my very own table. He made money by posting a sign that any teenager who came into the place to see me had to buy a soda to stay. Most bought food, though, to sit around and talk with me, and I think that was his plan all along.

The setup was amazing. I had this enormous round table, so I brought more of my pads — some to draw in and some to let folks look through — and I’d tell stories to the kids who came in. The best times were when a sports team came to celebrate over pizza, and the younger siblings were in tow. I’d have those kids timidly come over to find out what I was drawing. Parents would apologize to me for the disturbance, but I’d say, "It’s okay, I’m the oldest of eight. They can stay if they like. I don’t mind at all."

• The eyes would turn to questions.

• The questions would turn to stories.

• The stories would turn to requests.

• This requests turned into smiles…and a lot more cash.

Playing With Rats

The best part about working in that Pizza Hut was having so much free time to create new things. There’d be hours between the rush of customers, of the kids from school, and I well used that time. I crafted characters and worlds, things from my imagination.

Like Chester the rat.

My only two books published about Chester…and the only copies I own.

Imagine Garfield the cat, but as a rat — and he could actually talk out loud, along with a snake and a whole selection of talking animals. It was a whacky crossbreed version of Garfield meets Bloom County.

Sometimes I miss the simple humor that seemed to entertain people.

BAM! I had a comic strip.

…and I became addicted to writing jokes.

I don’t know — that still seems kinda funny.

I look back now and just shake my head, embarrassed. People seemed to like the comics, so that’s fine, but I don’t honestly know why it worked. All I was doing was writing simple, time sensitive jokes, and drawing silly characters, but people liked them. So much so that my dad, as my biggest fan, actually got investors and published $250,000 worth of books to sell.

One of my dreams had come true. I created something great.

Crazy, huh?

It was a wild ride, writing comic strips, and I enjoyed it. Until what I loved doing became the foundation of arguments between family and friends who’d put money into its publication.

There’s something about being in the center of anger and accusations, which have nothing to do with me, but I cannot escape. That makes me cringe.

…so I stopped drawing Chester.

After all, if I hadn’t invented the damn rat, none of this would have happened, right? That’s how I saw it, and as soon as I stopped drawing Chester, I could leave the room. So I turned my back on the broken relationships, the constant fighting and stress, kicked the dead rats’ corpse to the curb…and walked away.

It’s Painful To Meet Girls

I had a successful job, a house with my best friend Tony — so — let's just leave it at that. Life was going well.

Okay, well-ish.

Man is not meant to be alone, or so I heard the Lord, or someone important, say as I was growing up. It’s something I believe, because I always felt more complete with a girlfriend. Someone to love, to care for, to protect and adore. But nothing lasted for me. I’d get dumped inside a year. Why? I was told I was too nice.

Me? Nice? The girls were delusional. I’ve never been ‘nice’ in my life. ‘Kind’ is what I try to be, but nice?

Yeck.

Point is, it took me a long time to find the right girl, and I almost lost my life.

On a Friday afternoon, Tony and I decided we wanted to take our younger brothers out on a play-date. Movies and an arcade adventure until our fingers fell off from pushing buttons. So that’s what we did. We grabbed Damian (age 10), and Jonathan (my brother, age 6), and had a blast. Movie, ice cream, pizza, then a place called Nicklecade — all the video games you can play for $.05 each.

As we drove east on State Street, a Ford LTD came speeding down the hill and attempted to turn left in front of us.

First thing I remember was screaming, "Boys, hold on!"

The Ford hit our little Hyundai so hard, we bounced into the air, the hood of the vehicle folding in through the windshield, towards my face.

My hands, trying to brace myself, folded back against my wrists as they went through the dashboard, and my seat belt around my waist snapped. All that kept me in the car was the shoulder strap…which went through my collar bone. Damian, who was the only one not wearing a seat-belt, had slid himself down, bracing his knees against the back of my seat.

Didn’t work.

His flesh mushroomed as that kid hit with such force, his legs went through the lower part of the seat, and into my back.

Damian screamed.

We crashed to the ground; the engine dropping from the car, and everything went silent except for Damian.

I suddenly felt soaked,…and tired.

It had something to do with the bone sticking out near the side of my neck.

It was hard to breathe. My chest hurt. Damian, that poor kid, was screaming so loud, I kept trying to reach for him. His blood was between the seats.

Tony was up and alert, the panic in his eyes darting back to the boys. Making sure both were safe — my baby brother had luckily just bounced against cushions — Tony darted from the car in fury. All I recall was a growl, and, "I’m gonna kill him."

Barely able to hold my head up, I saw a guy throwing flares across the road, darting to my side of the car. It was so hard to stay awake. From nowhere, a cop ran in front of the Hyundai and grabbed Tony by the shoulders. He’d gotten the teenage driver by the shirt, and was pulling him through the drivers window.

The last thing I remember happening was the off-duty medic leaning in with a set of scissors. My hand automatically grabbed his wrist.

"No," I complained, "I just bought this leather jacket today. I’ve saved up for so long to buy it…just help me slip it off."

He shook his head, "Sorry buddy — can’t risk hurting you. Has to be cut."

"I hate you," I breathed. "You’re not even gonna take me to dinner before you cut my clothes off, are you?"

"Shut up."

Turns out I had a broken clavicle, cracked ribs, three cracks in my lower spine, and I’d mangled both my hands and wrists. That last fact was the reason I lost my job, then lost my house, had to move back into my parents’ home at age 20 for my mother to care for me, now unable to use my hands.

A bit depressed, I went to church for the first time in years…where I met my future wife that day. We were engaged in about a week, which as of this writing, is 33 years, 13 kids and 25 grandkids ago.

Car accidents are an outstanding way to meet girls.

…if you can survive them.

The Birth of a Hero

So here we are, roughly 2300 words into this story, and you’re probably wondering how Wanted Hero came about?

It started in a comic book shop in West Valley City, Utah.

I’d always collected comic books. It was a way of life for an artist nerd. My hands had healed enough to draw again, and I went back to freelancing. My monthly collection was available, and I got the call from the store that I could pick up my order anytime. So I grabbed my oldest son, only 2-3yrs old, and headed down.

They set comic stores up for displays. That’s how comics grab you — the cover art — drawing you in, so you pick it up and check it out. The main counter typically has the most popular titles to remind customers of the classics. This place had half a dozen comics like X-Men, Ironman and Avengers, and as many comic magazines next to them.

My son had noticed the painted cover of a Conan the Barbarian magazine.

When I started going through my stack of comics to purchase, I looked down to find my boy staring at a front nude drawing of a woman being held by Conan. It had never offended me before, the artwork, but this was my son. My tiny boy who didn’t know exactly what was looking at, had cartoon porn going into his brain.

…and that mattered to me.

I slid the comics across the counter. "Close my box. I’m done."

Something in me broke that day. The sleeping father in me, the guy who wanted to raise children better than I was — free from the stupid mistakes and even dumber choices I’d made — woke up. I was determined to show them the potholes in my life and point them to better examples by boldly admitting to and fixing my terrible examples.

Yeah, for all you parents out there, I’m sorry to say it doesn’t work exactly that way, regardless of your good intent. At about age 12, kids become little turds. Oh, I love them all, but that doesn’t make them anything other than little turds. Here’s why (and yes, this is going somewhere with Wanted Hero):

At about age 12, kids start asking question. Hopefully, you’re having conversations with them so they can ask you, but if they’re silent, they’re still asking questions, just not out loud. They are questioning everything you’ve told them. What they learn in church, in school, at home — and this is the age when the world, as in ‘society’ — REALLY grabs their attention.

Seriously, this is all across the board, boys AND girls.

They are testing and comparing what you have told them to what the world is offering them in the fashion of mermaid songs. The lure of fun and play, and pleasure…all to rip that kid from your protection, so they can be initiated into the system of the stupid, vulgar, and dangerous.

This world is batshit crazy, and it wants to convert your kids, or eat them alive.

That’s what I noticed at this stage in my life. It’s also what I had experienced (even the trying to kill me parts of life), and it pissed me off. All that repressed anger, and fear, and desperation to survive life and not give up, came out in a tsunami of determination and creativity. I had to save my kids…and any kid that would listen to me.

…and I had a plan.

Comic books had taught me so much — not all of it good — but solid foundational character traits of heroes were what Stan Lee specialized in. So what would happen if I took those examples, and then merged them with a character kids could relate to? If the character had challenges in life like I’d had, and learn how to get past them, like I had, but infuse the whole adventure with magic and adventure? Create a whole new world, so readers wouldn’t have to deal with ‘real life’. They could discover amazing things about themselves without being encroached upon or preached to!

Oh, hell yeah. Could…I do that?

Uhhhhhhhhhh.

YES!

I knew how to make comic books. I’d been too chicken to throw my hat into the ring with Marvel, DC or Image, so why not try to do this on my own? My dad kept telling me to try this crazy fad thing growing in popularity called the internet.

Now all I needed was the right name. Something that would make me smile as I wrote about him.

…and Wendell was born.

NEXT TIME…

How to Succeed at Fiction By Failing: PART 2

HERE’S A QUESTION FOR YOU:

What is YOUR favorite fictional creation (book or comic), and WHY?