Independent Propaganda

by Christopher Moscardi

Writer for Independent Propaganda

I write comic books because that’s what comes naturally.

At six years old I was introduced to the vast mythos that is the great American comic book. Everyone has in their life those pivotal moments when life hands you a lemon and demands that you ‘drink up.’ I was given a copy of Amazing Spider-Man no. 334 by my father after having spent the day incapacitated with the flu. I sunk my teeth in and sucked the nectar to my soul—metaphorically speaking of course. Comic books were such a novel idea to me at the time; it was like having a cartoon that you could slip into your back pocket. They were soaked in action and adventure and wall to wall with easily readable, unchallenging storylines that catered to my childhood attention span. They were always about how many thugs ‘tights-man’ could punch through before he finally got to his main foe, whom he could battle for at least four pages straight; or they were about how close ‘hero guy’ came to not being able to save the world before he finally did; or how the ‘justice babes’ managed to outwit ‘doctor roboto’ again; or some equally engrossing yet not-so engaging storyline. This was, after all, the nineties when comic books were about flash and pizzazz and not about story and art.

Just when I thought maybe I’m too old for the funny books now, and maybe there’s nothing more than kids’ stories and limited edition variant holofoil covers here, life hurled another lemon square at my head. When I was thirteen I came into possession of an issue of The Sandman—Neil Gaiman lent his maddening imagination to the story with which only Sam Keith would have been able to properly keep up (in spades)—another pivotal moment. I drank it up. I downed all the Gaiman and Keith I could find, whether they were working together or not didn’t phase me in the least. I devoured Frank Miller and Jamie Hewlett, Alan Moore and Mike Mignola. There was Brian Wood and Craig Thompson and anything else that wasn’t being spewed onto store shelves covered in tights and glowing eyes and cheap thrills (my rant on superhero comics is for another day however). And about six years ago it dawned on me that I could write comic books for a living—that people actually do that and I could be one of those people. My heroes were writing these books so why couldn’t I one day join their ranks?

So here I sit, struggling to write this column because this is not what comes naturally.

My natural tendencies have me writing fiction, the sort that, I hope, is original in its imagination and storytelling. I write of places steeped in Norse mythology in The Winter King—not a retelling of a myth but instead my own continuation of the grand tradition of the gods and characters. I write of fantastic lands brimming with magic and intrigue and political upheaval in The Godheart War. I write of the satiric love of a hit-man for his own would-be killer in Monkey Business and of the gothic horror of puritan superstition in Unnatural. I have stories about kick-boxers who battle giant robots and astronauts who find and lose religion in space. I even have a story about how the world draws its final curtain. And not one of these has ever been read with any real intention by anyone other than friends, family, and some of the valiant consortium of creators trying to bust the industry wide open. For the last six years I’ve been honing my craft and writing constantly. I’ve been learning how to entice readers and sell an idea. I’ve found that it’s just as much about who you know as it is what you can do, so I talk to anyone who will listen and write for anyone who will read. Now (if I’m going to get overly symbolic about it) I’m looking over the edge of the chasm at my dreams laying in wait at the bottom and it’s time to jump. I’m starting from scratch: I have nothing but my ideas, my drive, and a winning smile. It’s time to convince people that my obvious affinity for these stories is worth some sort of recompense, if for nothing else than to simply allow me to continue doing it, for it is what comes naturally.

Each month I’ll discuss what’s going on in the world of independent comics as I’m attempting to live in it. I’ll tell my story of coming up in comics and (hopefully) staying on top, and I’ll try my damndest to make it as engrossing as I can for you to read. Mind you, this will all be in the great spirit of editorializing, and I have no concrete reason why you should read what I have to say over anything else. All I can offer you is the true story of what it’s like to be an indie comic book creator and the assurance that I’ll always tell it like it is. Think of it as a documentary that you can read.

I would like to state for the record that independent comic books are a grossly underestimated medium (something that I’ll rant on in a later installment), and that there are people out there even as I type this that are writing the American mythos with art and words that could rattle the cultural landscape like an earthquake. It’s a movement and it’ll take you by the horns. Have a look now, because it may not live forever and you’ll hear people say in bated breath, ‘I wish I could’ve been there when it all went down.’

If you have something to say, feel free to email me.

What I Was Listening To While I Wrote This: Tom Waits – Small Change

About The Author: Chris is as nomadic as anyone who doesn’t own a camel can be. Since he is frequently on the move, the only place one could really say he lives is in his own head. He works with EnemyOne Studios on myriad comic book endeavors with both writing and lettering credits to his name. His current project is called The Winter King on his fledgling website American Bootleg. His influences include (among many others) his family, the music of Bob Dylan, the writing of Neil Gaiman, and the open road. In his twenty-four years on this planet he’s become sure of one thing: you may love a story, but it will not love you back.

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