Pro/Con

digresssmlOriginally published August 14, 1992, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #978

There are no comic-book conventions.

And we could really use one.

This is an odd realization for anyone to come to, but the comics industry is one of the few that does not have a convention in the traditional sense.

Any number of times during my travels—particularly during my days in the Marvel sales department—I would find myself staying at hotels where conventions were being held for various professionals in various industries. Insurance salesmen. Carpenters. Computer programmers. Electricians. Water companies.

Pick a business, any business. And you can be assured that somewhere, at some point, they’re going to have a convention.

Any business except comics.

Now this may sound like a remarkably nonsensical statement to you. All one has to do is flip through the pages of CBG to reveal dozens, if not hundreds, of comic-book conventions. So how can I possibly claim that they don’t exist?

Because those aren’t conventions in the sense that I’m discussing.

Carpenters don’t have hundreds of fans standing in line for autographs. Insurance salesmen don’t have panels in which they explain what’s going to be coming up to audiences of people not in the industry. Electricians aren’t critiquing circuitry designed by would-be electricians or judging costume competitions with fans dressed as fluorescent bulbs.

When people in these realms get together for a convention, they do so for two purposes. They discuss the advancements and techniques of their industry. And they socialize.

With each other.

At the traditional comic-book convention, on the other hand, comic-book creators are not really there for each other. Socializing certainly can and does occur. Hanging out in the bar (a particularly pervasive pastime at British conventions) or late-night card games are traditional-enough activities at some of the larger cons.

But to all intents and purposes, the comics creators are there for the fans. There to sign autographs and give advice on how to break in and (ideally) smile and be polite. If discussions are held on the state or direction of the industry, they are done so for an audience of fans, which means that not only are the panelists trying to explore a given topic, but they’re trying to do so in an entertaining manner so that the fans won’t be bored.

I hope none of the foregoing comes across as “anti-fan.” But the fact of the matter is that, when the fans are around, comics creators can’t always be themselves. Particularly if the comics creator is by nature, for example, a jerk. Because if he or she acts like a jerk in front of the fans, you’re going to see computer board postings or letters to CBG about it so quickly that it’ll make your head spin.

When the fans are around, creators are, to some degree, always “on,” any time they happen to venture out. I’ve had people ask me what’s happening in The Hulk while I’m in the rest room. I’ve had would-be writers show me plot proposals while I was trying to have a quiet breakfast—which is why, if I want to be assured of having a meal uninterrupted, I order room service.

Comics creators have to be at the disposal of the fans the entire time. They have to be affable, patient, and above all, diplomatic. In some instances, creators are representing not only themselves, but a publisher. And if a creator feels harassed and, losing his temper, tells a fan to kiss various portions of anatomy, it not only makes the creator look bad, but it can reflect poorly on the publisher, as well.

I go to conventions for two reasons: to socialize with pros and meet and greet the fans. And the latter invariably takes precedence over the former. Which is fine. The conventions are being held for the fans. It’s the fans whose money is supporting the thing. Whose at-the-door admissions are (it is hoped) covering the hotel costs and the air fare for the guests (or at least certain guests) and who then spend money in the dealer’s room which not only supports the dealers, but further augments the convention’s coffers, because it charged for the dealer’s tables.

What it boils down to, then, is that the creators are under a microscope during the 48-to-72- (and even 96-) hour periods of the convention. It’s not always a fun place to be. Many times it is, but sometimes it’s not.

Comic-book retailers have conventions. Except they’re not called conventions. They’re called “trade shows,” sponsored by comic-book distributors for the benefit of their customers. But they’re much closer to the traditional idea of a convention, in that you have a professional group (retailers, in this case) getting together, meeting and greeting each other, and attending seminars and discussions about how to improve the art of retailing.

At “trade shows,” retailers don’t have their customers coming up to them and asking when the next issue of X-Men is coming out or saying, “Here, take a look at my collection and tell me how much it’s worth.”

And the distributors? They have conventions, too. There are organized by individual comic-book publishers, and at these conventions (which are technically called “distributor meetings”) the publishers present their wares for the coming year so that the distributors can get a feeling for how to proceed with their plans. They also take the opportunity to have their own get-togethers (sometimes with meeting space provided by the publishers, although publishers are then excluded from these business meetings).

And at these distributor meetings, of course, retailers are not there, complaining about how they want improvements in that distributor’s reorder service or wanting to know if they can get a higher discount.

So all the people involved with the sales of comics have their meetings and try to improve the art of selling the comics.

But the people who actually make the comics—writers, pencillers, inkers, letterers, colorists—whenever they’re at a convention, they’re part of the show. They’re whom the fans come to see, and their obligations are to the fans, not to the comics and not to each other.

So what I’m saying in my customarily long, roundabout way, is that it would be nice if, just once, that were not the case.

It would be nice if the creators had their own convention. Call it—I dunno—not “Creation Convention,” certainly. Maybe “ProCon.”

The name is secondary, really, to the concept. And the concept is that the people who actually make the comics would have the opportunity to get together and improve the art form.

It’s not just the form itself, either. The comic-book creative community has always been a fractious bunch, but in the past there’s always been an “us versus them” mentality. When alliances of comic-book creators were formed in the past, they were invariably to present a united front to the publishers.

But now it’s gone beyond that. I think of the upcoming San Diego Comic-Con, at which there’s supposed to be a panel titled “Do Artists Need Writers?” It was one of the four most-popular panels when SDCC was looking for volunteers; it wound up getting roughly five times as many potential panelists as it could use.

This question, of course, arises from the notorious “Name Withheld” letter in CBG that inspired lengthy debate, and one would think that the respective panelists can’t wait to tear into a subject that is, at its most basic, inherently silly. Of course, artists don’t need writers. And writers don’t need artists (there’s this thing called a “book” that some of you may have heard of). I believe, however, that some of the best comics are those wherein a good writer and good artist produce a work that surpasses what either could have accomplished singly.

Unfortunately, we’re developing into a society that has no concept of loyalty. A society where “Watch out for Number One” has become not just a philosophy, but the be-all and end-all of existence. The concept of the writer/artist team—in which two people work so well together that, if unleashed upon a project, you can be guaranteed to quality—has become almost an outdated notion.

I certainly think that, to some degree, this column has added to the situation. “Why do you hate John Byrne?” the fans ask. Well—gee. I don’t. “When are you going to attack Image again?” I’m asked. Well—gee. Not to sound disingenuous, but I thought I was simply pointing out when the Image guys were saying what I perceived as thoughtless things, in hopes that they would start giving thought to what they said. (Which, by the way, has worked to some degree. Notice that I haven’t written a word about Erik in a while. He hasn’t said anything thoughtless. Although the same cannot be said of—nah. Why get into it?) The thing is I never perceived it as an attack. But others have.

I think a creators-only convention is just what the creative community could use. Something where all the creative personnel get together. Where workshops are held, discussing the fundamental dynamics of storytelling. Discussing the most effective way to exaggerate human anatomy for storytelling purposes. The best brushes to use in inks, the best pens for lettering. A pro is a pro is a pro, but there are people in our industry who are unquestionably more talented than others. I’d attend a writing seminar spearheaded by Neil Gaiman in a heartbeat. Any inkers out there who would pass up a couple of hours of learning tips from Terry Austin? Anyone going to give a miss to a humor seminar from Sergio Aragones? Who would stay away from a keynote address by a Will Eisner or a Harlan Ellison on what’s right or wrong with the comics industry today?

Do artists need writers? Rather than putting five panelists in front of an audience of fans, wouldn’t more be accomplished by devoting several hours to it in a seminar room, with (I know it sounds quaint) chairs pulled in a circle? Followed by a volleyball game or leaping into a pool?

The problem is, of course, who would sponsor it? When distributors or publishers put together their various shows and meetings, there’s always something to be gained from it: “something” being, bottom line, money. Better-educated retailers are better customers. Distributors who are wined and dined and impressed by upcoming projects mean higher sales.

For ProCon, there’s nothing for anyone to turn a buck from. It would be held purely for the nonsensical concept of good relations and good comics.

Which means that creators would have to do it themselves. Creators would have to pay registration fees that would go toward covering the costs of the convention. Someone would have to organize the thing and handle the money.

And for pity’s sake, don’t look to me to do it. I can’t even organize my desk, and I can’t remember the last time I correctly balanced my checkbook. It’d have to be someone whom everyone knows and who is relatively trustworthy. Me, I’d suggest Star*Reach. It reps a few dozen comics creators already, and they’ve been around for a while. (Geez, Mike’s just going to love it when he reads this. “You want me to organize a what?!”)

In keeping with that train of thought, we would have it in California—preferably in Anaheim. There’s lots of creators out there, there’s plenty of cheap airfares to Los Angeles, and me, I’m a sucker for Disneyland any day.

We’d need start-up costs; that much is certain. Hotels want deposits up front. Costs of people invited as speakers would certainly have to be covered. We’d have to be sure that there was enough money in the kitty to get things started and keep things going. The idea is that enough creators would attend that registration fees would pay back those who put up money in the first place. And if not—well, hëll, it’s a business expense. That makes it tax deductible.

If someone reputable will organize the thing, I’ll put up $500 to start. Anyone care to match it?

(Peter David, writer of stuff, saw the world’s worst ad placement on his way to Con-Version in Calgary. He was on a Delta flight bound for Salt Lake City (making a connection there), wife Myra by his side, when he showed her an ad for Alamo car rental in the in-flight magazine that read, “Wouldn’t You Rather Be in a Cadillac Right Now?” Myra took one look at it and said reasonably, “Of course not. We’re 32,000 feet in the air. If we were in a Cadillac, we’d drop like a rock. I’d much rather be in an airplane.” Now there’s logic you can’t argue with.)

Footnote from the BID book collection:

If I had to pick one column to cite as having done the most good, it would be the Pro/Con column. Nine months later, Pro/Con was actually held. Neil Gaiman spoke about writing. Will Eisner discussed storytelling. We didn’t have Terry Austin, but we did get Ðìçk Giordano. Dave Sim spoke about self-publishing. Despite some pros loudly proclaiming that they saw no need for such a thing, we had well over a hundred people attending. There was certainly room for improvement, but it was widely considered to be a smashing success. Never have I felt more gratified than when Pro/Con came to fruition. More are being planned even as we speak.

7 comments on “Pro/Con

  1. The only things I’ve learned attending cons for the last several years is…

    1)Todd Dezago’s AD/HD is probably as bad as mine.
    2) Chris Claremont will tell you he has no sense of humor but he is obviously lying.
    3) Unless you have a chair on the other side of the table, never try to discuss comedic theory with J. Marc Dematteis.
    4) Bill Griffith is not as crazy as people tend to think he is.
    5) Barry Kitson doesn’t know what a Klondike Bar is.

  2. Nine months later you got a ProCon… but what about 18 years later? Are they still being held?
    .
    And 18 years later, we SHOULD have flying Cadillacs at 32,000 feet!

    1. Are you kidding? Most of the people I see on the freeway can barely manage to drive in two dimensions! Can you imagine what it’d be like if they had to try to handle all three???

  3. I second Kevin M’s comment. Not only would it be interesting to learn about the long-term effects of this long-overdue exchange of ideas and techniques, I personally believe that there should be workshops for aspiring writers hosted by the comic publishers since they gradually disappeared from most of the east-coast conventions over the years. I would match that $500 contribution fee for that priviledge!

  4. Hey! If you still have that 500 bucks in ProCon escrow, send it to me and I’ll do a feasability study for you — from Vegas, natch!

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