The formation in 1992 of Image Comics represented the apex of this strophe. Some high-profile artists felt that they alone were responsible for the huge circulation of the books they were drawing (not cognizant, seemingly, that these books were flagship titles that would have sold if Mort Walker was pencilling them), and left for greener, more money-filled pastures. This was welcomed with wide excitement. Specifically, by me. I ate this stuff up.
So much so that I started a comics studio with my best friend Eric. 1993's Centauri Comics had a single book with one printing of 25 copies. The books were photocopied at Kinko's and distributed for $1.00 US/$1.25 Canada on the last day of school.
Nemesis #1 represented months that Eric and I spent laying out an elaborate plotline, designing costumes, fleshing out characters, and learning the craft of comic book creation. The end result was six pages of pen and ink art and a hard-to-follow storyline. But that wasn't the point.
The point was that creating this stuff became an obsession, a process that became larger than family, friends, high school, and even the reasonable future (I completely forgot to apply to the University at which I eventually enrolled). It kept us up all night. Nothing else seemed to matter.
The kind of feeling you get when pursing this sort of project can't be bought, bartered for, or approximated. You feel like a vessel. You're a contrapuntal Mozart. You're the right hand of God.
On Monday, I was laid off from a job that, while fulfilling in the various adult ways we expect to find fulfillment, never approached the dashing-mad euphoria I had when I was hand-binding Nemesis #1. 3 AM feels quite a bit different when you owe your wakefulness to caffeinated panic rather than the pursuit of some need you can't even properly express.
So as I start my search for something new, there is only one real question I ask myself:
Could this be Nemesis #2?
