[
Editor's Note: Alex Robinson is the writer/artist of Too Cool to Be Forgotten, as well as the acclaimed graphic novels Box Office Poison and Tricked.]
To celebrate our anniversary, my wife and I recently took a trip to Vermont, staying at a little dog-friendly inn with real wood burning fireplaces (which are becoming harder and harder to find, being replaced by — shudder! — gas fireplaces. It's just not the same). One drawback to staying at such places is the inevitable small talk one has to make with fellow guests and the staff. Sorry, Bob the consulting manager from Warwick, RI, I came here to have a romantic trip with my wife, not chit-chat with you about the Patriots' chances this year or grin and nod dumbly while you discourse about how the Democrats are screwing things up again. Inevitably, the subject of what I do for a living comes up.
One more digression: we hosted a party lately and a lot of cartoonists were in attendance. A woman (not a cartoonist) later commented how refreshing it was that no one at the party asked her what she did for a living. A friend of mine attributed this to the fact that so many cartoonists were present: they either all have day jobs they don't like to talk about either, or are just so tired of having to explain what it is they do that they just avoid the subject altogether.
So in these types of situations, being asked by someone I will never see again for the rest of my life, most times I will lie. "I work in a bookstore," I answer, tapping into the alternate reality in which I never made it as a cartoonist and my day job at Barnes & Noble became my actual career. This usually results in a change of topic, since, while a noble profession, bookselling is not especially exciting, and that's the way I like it.
Lately, however, I find myself giving in to the temptation to be honest and admit that I'm a cartoonist — a graphic novelist, even. And it's troubling on a few levels. For one thing, I know that the reason I am tempted is sheer vanity. You see, graphic novels are "hot" right now, probably as hot as they have ever been. They have been reviewed in prominent magazines. They have been mentioned on television. They are being made into major motion pictures and "real" mainstream book publishers are mining the small press comics publishers with all the fervor of your greatest robber barons. If anyone ever had a reason to hear about cartoonists and be impressed, now is the time. Increasing the temptation is that I released a graphic novel earlier this year, titled Too Cool to Be Forgotten. It got reviewed in prominent magazines. It got mentioned on television. There has been talk about it being made into a major motion picture (mostly by me, but you have to start somewhere, right?). So if anyone had a reason to have heard about me, if not be impressed, now is the time.
So ideally, the conversation would go something like this:
"So, what is it you do for a living?"
"Oh, me? I'm a cartoonist. I do graphic novels." I reply casually.
The person's face lights up with genuine interest. "Really! I've read about those in major magazines, and possibly even on television. What are some of your books?"
"Well, I've done a few," I say with the aura of someone trying to recall something that happened a long time ago. "My most recent one was published by Top Shelf, called Too Cool to be —"
Before I can even finish, her eyes light up. Did I mention the person was a she? "Too Cool to be Forgotten? Oh my god! You're that Alex Robinson? Oh my god, I loved all your books! I'm such a huge fan you can have those DVDs for free!" I mentioned that I was in line at an electronics store, didn't I? I'm pretty sure I did. But it doesn't matter; I'll take whatever free services/products you're willing to give me. "Stop by anytime you need anything for free! Jill, look! It's that graphic novelist I was telling you about! The one who touched my feelings and made me change my outlook on the world?"
And so on.
Should this actually happen, I would undoubtedly turn bright red and look embarrassed but I would secretly love it. And I'm so frequently embarrassed anyway I might as well get an ego boost and some free DVDs out of it. So, when someone asks me what I do for a living, especially in a situation which might give me some immediate material benefit (though this is not required — material benefit down the road is also welcome), this is the hoped for outcome, should I admit to being in the sequential arts.
Almost without exception, the conversations actually go something more like this:
"So what is it you do for a living? And before you answer, can you wipe those crumbs from your beard?"
"Oh, me? I'm a cartoonist. I do graphic novels?"
"You mean... you mean, like sex books?"
"Huh? Oh, 'graphic.' I get it. No, they're comic books, basically, big comic books." I'll explain sheepishly.
"Comic books?" The man's face lights up. "Like Batman? That Heath Ledger was fantastic, right?"
"Well, the books I do are, they aren't really, you know, they're more about people sitting around talking about their feelings.*" I start to squirm and try to find some common ground. "Have you heard of Fun Home? Persepolis? Jimmy Corrigan? It's closer to that kind of thing." I say this knowing that it would make certain critics howl, but whose uncomfortable fantasy is this, anyway? It doesn't matter since he hasn't heard of them in any case.
"I remember when I was a kid I had a copy of Superman where he was fighting a big robot on the front," he tells me. "How much is something like that worth?"
"Fighting the robot? I've seen those go for about $300 on eBay."
The moral of the sto