Great Expectations

I know exactly when I froze up on The Undressing of America: when the publisher bought it. 

      Through my whole career I've been able to keep a pretty low profile, hiding behind modest expectations. Writing comic books, I could win the approval of my editors and most readers by meeting the expectations of the genre in a fairly workmanlike way; subtleties of technique and depth of character were appreciated by a select few but generally not missed if I didn't deliver. Writing pop-culture oriented humor, I had to be original and funny, but no one was really paying attention to the writing as writing. Writing non-fiction about TV comedy, violent entertainment, and comic books, I had to show that I knew my material, saw it in some unique ways, and could construct a convincing argument; whatever literary virtues I brought were always viewed as an extra, worthy of an "and it's surprisingly well-written, too." 

      But I avoided putting myself in positions where I would be judged on the potency of my sentences, the reality of my characters, the truth of my voice. I was a writer who managed not to be judged on his writing.

      The writing mattered to me. I always much preferred hearing a fan say, "You write the most human characters in superhero comics," or, "I really like this line," than, "Your Green Lantern stories were really true to the classic DC tradition." But what mattered most I kept partly concealed. I found a safe place where my efforts could be noticed if readers wanted to notice them, but if they didn't I wouldn't feel so exposed in my shortfall. I could always say to myself, "Well, the goal is to deliver a solid comic book story, and didn't I do that?" This protected the part of me that felt was most precious from the world's judgment and indifference. 

      Which was swell, except that it also held me back from really writing as well as I could.