I can’t have a blog about the attic without mentioning my comics….or as some would say, my “graphic novels”.
To begin, let me just say that I’m on the fence about that nom de plume for what most know of as a “comic book.” True, not all are funny or comical, and, in fact, the vast majority of them are not…still, “graphic novel”—as an alternative—just sounds like you’re trying to put a $10 whore in a $1,000 gown. They aren’t novels. If it were up to me, I’d call them “Illustrated Stories,” but that has no ring to it whatsoever. So for the purposes of “The Olive Attic,” I’ll just simply call them “comics.”
It’s true. I confess. I read comics. Go ahead, say what you need to. Call me what you will. I want us to get all the standard insults onto the table and out of the way. I know what images pop into your head when you hear that phrase. And, to be fair, I tend to think the same when I imagine the “type” of person who reads comics. Yes, as a recent attendee of Wondercon, you would actually be correct in that assumption and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why that is. Maybe it’s the sci-fi fan crossover. I don’t know. But there are a lot of us, though not enough, that don’t fit that mold. Still, in high school, and to a lesser extent now, I feel like I have to hide the fact that I read comics. It’s one of those topics you steer clear of in meeting people, like politics, religion, or being gay. And much like those hot topics, you have to read your audience before making that declaration.
Let’s turn back to how this all relates to the attic. In sorting through what’s there, I decided, much to my boyfriend’s chagrin, to catalogue my comics. My six long boxes worth of comics. I admit now, 500+ in with three and a half boxes left to go, that I may have taken on a bigger project than I initially thought it would be. Nic (boyfriend) doesn’t quite understand my interest in comics in the first place, and understands even less why I would want to spend hours inputting them into a spreadsheet, especially when it’s mirroring the database nature of my 9-5 job. But I think there’s some benefit to it. Amidst some fairly standard comic titles, I’ve come across weird comics that I forgot I bought like “Captain Carrot and his Amazing Zoo Crew in the Oz/Wonderland War;” more issues than I care to admit of "Alf," "Bill and Ted's Excellent Comic Book," and, a comic called “Dead Clown,” which is just as creepy as it sounds.
I like to think of this process of archiving my comics much like someone would archive art for a museum. Though, that said, I don’t necessarily treat my comics like they are some sort of relics that can’t be touched at or read or exposed to the elements. Too many who collect them see it as a way to offset their income in their retirement. To them I say; “It’s not gonna happen.” There’s really not money to made in re-sale, no matter what condition you keep them in, unless of course you’re one of the 100 or so people in the world who still own Detective Comics #27 (first appearance of Batman) or something like that, which recently sold for $1,075,500. So why do I keep them, you ask? It’s most likely a nostalgia thing. But beyond that, I genuinely like them. I like the aesthetic of them. I like interesting panel layouts, I like the collaborative nature of writers & artists, and I like the soap opera nature of the stories. They’re immediately gratifying, and their short, 20-40 page temperament make for a quick escape when you’ve got a million or so other things going on in your life.
To begin, let me just say that I’m on the fence about that nom de plume for what most know of as a “comic book.” True, not all are funny or comical, and, in fact, the vast majority of them are not…still, “graphic novel”—as an alternative—just sounds like you’re trying to put a $10 whore in a $1,000 gown. They aren’t novels. If it were up to me, I’d call them “Illustrated Stories,” but that has no ring to it whatsoever. So for the purposes of “The Olive Attic,” I’ll just simply call them “comics.”
It’s true. I confess. I read comics. Go ahead, say what you need to. Call me what you will. I want us to get all the standard insults onto the table and out of the way. I know what images pop into your head when you hear that phrase. And, to be fair, I tend to think the same when I imagine the “type” of person who reads comics. Yes, as a recent attendee of Wondercon, you would actually be correct in that assumption and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why that is. Maybe it’s the sci-fi fan crossover. I don’t know. But there are a lot of us, though not enough, that don’t fit that mold. Still, in high school, and to a lesser extent now, I feel like I have to hide the fact that I read comics. It’s one of those topics you steer clear of in meeting people, like politics, religion, or being gay. And much like those hot topics, you have to read your audience before making that declaration.
Let’s turn back to how this all relates to the attic. In sorting through what’s there, I decided, much to my boyfriend’s chagrin, to catalogue my comics. My six long boxes worth of comics. I admit now, 500+ in with three and a half boxes left to go, that I may have taken on a bigger project than I initially thought it would be. Nic (boyfriend) doesn’t quite understand my interest in comics in the first place, and understands even less why I would want to spend hours inputting them into a spreadsheet, especially when it’s mirroring the database nature of my 9-5 job. But I think there’s some benefit to it. Amidst some fairly standard comic titles, I’ve come across weird comics that I forgot I bought like “Captain Carrot and his Amazing Zoo Crew in the Oz/Wonderland War;” more issues than I care to admit of "Alf," "Bill and Ted's Excellent Comic Book," and, a comic called “Dead Clown,” which is just as creepy as it sounds.
I like to think of this process of archiving my comics much like someone would archive art for a museum. Though, that said, I don’t necessarily treat my comics like they are some sort of relics that can’t be touched at or read or exposed to the elements. Too many who collect them see it as a way to offset their income in their retirement. To them I say; “It’s not gonna happen.” There’s really not money to made in re-sale, no matter what condition you keep them in, unless of course you’re one of the 100 or so people in the world who still own Detective Comics #27 (first appearance of Batman) or something like that, which recently sold for $1,075,500. So why do I keep them, you ask? It’s most likely a nostalgia thing. But beyond that, I genuinely like them. I like the aesthetic of them. I like interesting panel layouts, I like the collaborative nature of writers & artists, and I like the soap opera nature of the stories. They’re immediately gratifying, and their short, 20-40 page temperament make for a quick escape when you’ve got a million or so other things going on in your life.
from one comic geek to another: amen, brother.
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