Why Do I Collect Comics?

Lately I’ve been asking myself this question:

Why do I collect comics anyway?

Why do I continue to fill long boxes with these pamphlets week after week? And what compels me to spend my hard-earned cash on ever more expensive graphic novels, art books, anthologies and hardcover collections?

I guess on some level it’s addiction. Not in the negative connotation used to describe heroin junkies or cigarette smokers, but more like a deeply entrenched habit that I’m either unwilling or unable to break.

And of course there’s the gratification that comes with consumption, the foundation of this great country of ours. The excitement of new books each Wednesday, though fleeting, is weekly renewed by an industry that churns out boatloads of mediocrity for every gem.

And let’s not forget the well-oiled marketing machine, a juggernaut including everything from in-house ads, previews magazines, trade journals, free leaflets and free comic book days to the endless on-line banter and the ever increasing media coverage.

But all these factors aside, I think there’s something deeper. Something that I haven’t been able to define before now, or rather, I haven’t really explored. When I think back to my childhood, the point at which many, if not most comics fans developed their habit, there was the somewhat clichéd, but by no means invalid, deluge of unhappiness, born of intense criticism at home, bullying at school and insecurity within. All of this negative emotion was far too much for me to understand, or even recognize at such a young age, but I was aware of a significant mood change whenever I turned my thoughts to comics. This is the “escapism” that is often attributed to pop culture.

But why COMICS? Why not TV? Or books? Or even Legos?

My first encounter with comics was pivotal. Actually, it may not be my true first encounter, but it left a lasting impression which for me, blossomed into this borderline fetish.

I was four at most. My father, at that time, owned a small pharmacy in downtown St. Louis, a harsh neighborhood far removed from the sterile safety of the suburbs where we lived. One Saturday, I accompanied him to work, just me and him, an adventure unparalleled in my young journeys.

But I quickly learned that this was not fun and games, my father had work to do, and if he was going to work, I was too. So with a rag in one hand, and some spray cleaner in the other, I spent the next four hours alone, removing all the items from each shelf, wiping them down (and I remember they were filthy, as if this was the first time they’d ever been cleaned), then carefully replacing everything in its exact place. This was no small task for a four year old, but I rose to the challenge with pride, wanting only to please my father.

When I was finished, my father, in a rare display of kindness, gave me an unexpected payment for my job well done – a Chunky bar (my favorite) and 3 comic books of my choosing from the spinner rack at front of the store. Excitement barely describes my youthful exuberance, and I spent literally an hour scrutinizing every single pamphlet on that rack. Although I don’t remember all of them, there was, not surprisingly, a healthy dose of superheroes and Star Wars.

It was not often over the years that followed that I experienced similar moments with my father. He is a distant, emotionally stunted man whose immersion in his own hobbies (ham radio, electronics, home repair, etc) left little room for family time. Though it was he who introduced me to comics, he took every opportunity as I aged to scoff and ridicule the immature hobby I had grown to love. The few occasions I dared to share my deepest of secrets – that I someday hoped to write my own comics – were immediately discounted as foolish naiveté on my part. Afterall, how could anyone possibly make any money writing comics?

So now I’m 32, reading and collecting comics perhaps more vigorously than ever. It’s no longer just a hobby for me, but a passion. And I’m closer to my dream of writing comics than ever, having completed scripts for three graphic novels. So it’s a fair time to ask, what does it all mean?

Am I still seeking out that love I felt on that cold Saturday afternoon in 1977? Has all this been just a clichéd attempt to fill some emotional hole in my life?

Perhaps. But that’s no reason to stop is it?

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