Learn From My Mistakes - Part 1 of Infinity

Hang on, because this is going to be cringe.

This week, the wonderful cartoonist Wendy Xu went mildly viral on Bluesky (one of the great things about Bluesky is that you can ever only go mildly viral) with a post about a note she received from the parent of a young fan. The writer had an 11-year-old daughter who wrote a comic, and wanted to discuss Wendy’s price to collaborate with her to bring the project to life.

Wendy responded by saying, in full: “I’m glad your daughter wrote a comic and flattered she enjoys my work. I encourage her to draw it herself and not think about publishing for at least another ten to fifteen years. Adolescence is the time to develop the passion, drive, and motivation to finish a project-- not to immediately try to professionalize and monetize it. Many creators who became published as teenagers have since burned out and quit, unable to handle the pressure and without the social or emotional skills to weather the business side of the industry. If you are truly invested in the longevity of your daughter's future and career prospects, you will give her time and space to work out her own creative process and live her life. She should work at least one retail job before even thinking about joining this industry. Thank you.”

Some commenters thought Wendy was being too harsh. Many fellow creatives thought her response was perfect. My first thought was: “I was this kid.” And I think Wendy had the right idea. (Although I’ve never worked a retail job, I have had my share of weird crappy jobs.)

I’ve wanted to write comics since I was also about 11 years old. And yet, I didn’t actually sit down and write a comic script until I was in my twenties. Instead, I had comic book ideas. I’d hash out huge, epic storylines (often accompanied by well-meaning but terrible character sketches) and then...nothing. That was it. Ideas, with no action.

When people find out you call yourself a writer, even if you’re an obscure writer, inevitably someone will say to you “I’ve got a great idea for a book. You should write it.” No, my friend. You should write it. Most writers aren’t hurting for ideas. Ideas are cheap and easy. The ability to take an idea and turn it into a story with a beginning, middle and end is what separates a writer - even an obscure one - from someone with a great idea.

All this to say, as a kid and a teenager I was not a comic book writer, I was someone with comic book ideas. None of this, though, stopped me from writing a letter to the editor of a popular teen superhero comic (which shall remain nameless), when I was 17 - old enough that I should have known better, young enough that I had absolutely no business doing it. 

Reading the letter now (yes, of course I held onto it), the sense of entitlement and chutzpah is breathtaking. A short excerpt, because a longer excerpt would have unbearable levels of cringe:

“As a loyal reader of [redacted] who has been with the title since the beginning, I can't help but feel that the characters and stories have never lived up to their potential. I know that [redacted company] does not accept unsolicited proposals to take over a series, much less from an unpublished author, much less from a teenaged unpublished author. However, true innovation is never reached without breaking from past traditions. In that spirit, I submit my ideas for the book. A comic about teenagers written by a teenager is, of course, a novel idea. As a seventeen-year-old, I have a better grip on teen culture than any adult, no matter how much time he spends hanging out at the mall ‘observing.’”

Okay, first of all, I absolutely did not have a grip on teen culture, even as a teen. Who was I trying to fool? (An incredibly patient editor, that’s who.)

I then proceeded to lay out my visions for the characters and a year plus worth of storylines. I’m not going to share those, because maybe someday I’ll steal them. They might even be okay, but that’s not the point. The point is, what was I thinking? 

Let’s say the ideas were so stellar (they were not) that the editor wrote me back using my self-addressed stamped envelope (yes, I included one) and said, “This is great, kid! I’d love to see some scripts!”

But I had no scripts. I hadn’t written any comics. I only had ideas.

The child whose parent wrote to Wendy apparently had a script. That’s good! And I completely understand the impulse, as a parent, to say “My child is special and unique and her creation deserves to be seen by the world!” But that parent is making the same mistake that I did as a kid, which is the same mistake made by every relative and dentist who tells you they have a great idea. They’re assuming that the point of writing is to have an idea, and then get that idea seen by the world.

It’s not.

The point of writing, especially when you’re a kid, is to get better at writing. And the only way to do that is to actually write (hear that, 17-year-old Justin?) and ideally not to make your mistakes in the public eye. 

It took me an embarrassingly long time to learn that lesson, and this ill-fated letter would not be the first time I took an overconfident leap that I had no business taking that would have been disastrous if someone had taken me up on it. 

But hopefully, Wendy gave that kid (and especially that parent) a gift. Whether you’re 11 or 40, if you’re starting out writing the goal shouldn’t be to publish the first thing you write. It should be to learn from it, and to make every subsequent revision and new project better than the last. And if that leads to publication, great! But publication without that process isn’t going to work out for anyone.