The Bloody Doors Off

I have something on my mind tonight.

Kinda reflective.

But it involves other people and I choose to keep this private, and not announce how they fit in particular periods of my life, and their significance.

Instead, I pivot to Superman.

In 1986, DC Comics published a two-issue story that took place over two different comics: Superman (#423) and Action Comics (#583). Written by Alan Moore, this was the definitive conclusion to the golden age of the Man of Steel.

I owned them.

If they’d retired him right there and then, it would’ve been a fucking masterpiece.

And then they allowed John Byrne to introduce a “new” Superman into the world.

Personally, I thought (and still think) it was a disaster.

In the early-to-mid aughts, my creativity was focused on two things: The Canadian Space Opera Company, and writing RPGs online with a group of friends (most of whom I’d never met, a few I dated long-distance). Our focus was on expanding the television universe that once in a generation birthed The Chosen One …

…

Yes, it was Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Our hook: the game was post-series finale, and featured mostly, if not all, original characters.

I wrote a pretty damned good Giles back then. And no one ever found fault with my Whistler.

But where I shone.

The daughter of a fishmonger who was attacked by, and turned, a vampire more than two centuries prior. My InsaneJournal handle was her name. Deanna. Queen of the Fashionably Damned.

I won awards in the broader community.

We wrote this for a couple of years. There were multi-layered plots (I put forward two; in one, it started with the complete destruction of McCarren Airport just outside Las Vegas, and just got worse. My initial post kicking off the post was seen from four points of view, all culminating with someone screaming “For the cause!”

And boom.

I opened rifts between parallel worlds. I made the one character that could only be considered comic relief become a love interest to a woman way out of his league. (Life imitates art, art imitates life.)

But Deanna. That bitch came to play.

The all-out brawls with her frenemy (admit it, K, you know it’s true), the bloodletting, the incomparable wardrobe. She once made a wish to walk in the sun for one day, just so she could go on a shopping spree with her best friend, Lorne. (And scared the fuck out of a certain slayers just after sunrise by not going poof. Admit it K, you know it’s true.)

As the game wound down, they engaged in a final, balls-to-the-wall destructorama at a bookstore signing (The Bitch Stays In The Picture, Deanna’s memoir).

And she died. It was poetic.

Of course, we left a back door open should another game present itself. And it did.

But she wasn’t the same.

Eventually, I had to let her go.

And eventually I let it all go. The passion, the narrative, the ability to create new stories.

Gone.

In that scene, I as a writer had peaked in this chosen medium.

End Part 1

Kidding.

You’re gonna have to bear with me. I have an ultimate point, and I will get there. But things are gonna be a bit disjointed.

Pre-pandemic, I’d started writing short plays. Marlo and I had learned of two local groups doing ‘cold reads’ of short plays, and we very quickly got involved. First we joined Toronto Cold Reads, and then Sing For Your Supper.

I don’t think I intentionally began writing short plays. I’d had an idea about two middle-schoolish best friends in detention,

Allanah says the Apostles..

Living, Myles counters.

God gave her a message for one of his wayward flock. And oh, that’s not the first time she’s talked with Him. They chat on the regular. He usually initiates the call. Allanah tried once, but she got His voicemail.

And I saw a Facebook post about a call for scripts from Stage Write Burlington. I submitted Snow Angels. (To this day I can’t tell you why this is the title, other than the story itself was sparked after finding a small metal sculpture of an angel. I brought it home, and. It had been extremely well-received at TCR and SFYS, so why not take a shot?

Stage Write Burlington accepted the script into their festival. Marlo, Allan (my father-in-law) and I drove out on a sunny Saturday afternoon on February 28th, 2020 to watch (it was unseasonably warm) to watch.

It slayed.

To this day, I think it’s my best work.

Phanuel peaked with First Watch. I should’ve recognized it. I told her story. Beginning to, well, end.

It was again time to move on. With a few more short plays and (sometimes extremely incoherent) blog posts.

Then came Covid. The world shut down, but thankfully groups like Toronto Cold Reads and Sing For Your Supper (a monthly gathering at The Tarragon, attended by the loveliest of humans and hosted by one of the funniest people I’ve met (and enough time has passed that I can reveal I had a small crush on her — yes, I know I’m married; my wife has crushes too, we’re allowed) moved online. And there was much interest.

At first.

Marlo and I tried to keep Sing For Your Supper running when things got too chaotic for others to continue planning. We lasted maybe six months; we rescheduled more than once due to lack of scripts and/or readers. Eventually I handed over the virtual keys to another whose theatre group was interested in bringing it back when the lockdown lifted.

The lockdown’s lifted.

I don’t think it’s coming back. (I could be wrong.)

It peaked.

The latest (and only) piece I’ve written since January 1st, 2023 popped into my head.

It’s a 3 page monologue about aliens invading at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s under initial cover of the fireworks happening across the street in the Distillery.

I thought maybe King of the Mountain (I hate that title) it had potential to grow.

The idea withered on the vine.

It seems I’ve peaked.

Maybe even writing this blog. At least on a regular basis.

I took stock of my life earlier tonight.

And I think I’ve peaked.