Faster Than a Speeding Adverb
June 20, 2024 § 30 Comments
By Ronnie Blair
As a boy in the 1960s, I enjoyed few things better than buying 12-cent comic books and immersing myself in the adventures of Spider-Man, Batman, the Flash and the Avengers. The crimefighting and universe-saving drew me in, but the cheap pulp-paper pages had other enticements as well: advertisements for X-ray glasses, Sea-Monkeys, and the Charles Atlas muscle-building method that would “make you a new man.”
The best feature of all, though, was the letters page, where comic book readers mailed in their praises and criticisms.
The idea that my name and my words could appear in a comic book was intoxicating. One day, filled with eight-year-old hubris, I took a piece of lined notebook paper, picked up a yellow No. 2 pencil marred by bite marks, and scribbled my thoughts about a story in one of DC Comics’ Superman titles.
I am unsure what intellectual insights I shared with the DC editor, but I placed my letter in the mail, confident that the U.S. Postal Service would grasp the magnitude of the moment and whisk my words off to New York City without delay.
Then I waited. Weeks passed. I read more comic books and more letters to the editor, always with the knowledge that my letter was out there, by now in the hands of an impressed editor eager to share my third-grade brilliance with Superman readers.
The day arrived when my letter should appear and I bought the issue, skipped past the story and the Sea-Monkeys ad, and turned to the letters page to revel in my victory.
Except there was a problem.
Several letters appeared from readers commenting on the issue that I had written about – and with nowhere near the same flair, I am certain – but my name and words were not to be found. Instead of admiring my epistolary efforts, some jaded editor had tossed my letter into a wastebasket. Perhaps New York City rats exploring a back-alley dumpster had the chance to marvel at my writing.
Who had I been kidding? Sophisticated comic book editors had no need for the prose of 8-year-old boys living in the Kentucky back hills. The failure stung and, with that single rejection, I gave up comic book letter writing.
At least I did until March 1972 when, for reasons now forgotten, I gave it another go. I was 14 and that extra six years of wisdom allowed me to approach my mission strategically. It had been a mistake to target a popular Superman title with stiff competition from other letter writers. The smart thing was to zero in on a less-beloved comic book. I turned to Weird War Tales, a newer comic that mixed the military battlefield with the supernatural.
By now I owned an electric typewriter. I positioned my fingers on the home keys, just the way my eighth-grade typing teacher instructed, and wrote:
I have just finished reading Weird War Tales #5, and I thought it was great. Once again you have printed a comic that exceeds all others in this category. Your theme about escapes has been the best since this comic started. I especially liked “The Toy Jet.”
Admittedly, the prose did not hum. Introspection was lacking. But it was at least succinct and grammatical. I folded the letter, tucked it into an envelope, and walked to a mailbox that stood at a street corner near my house.
Life continued. I finished eighth-grade and spent the early summer days swimming in a river with a pal. He and I explored our small world, walking the railroad tracks from one part of our coal-mining community to another, playing basketball at neighborhood hoops or challenging each other to footraces in the hills. And then one day I entered the Rexall drugstore where a new shipment of comic books had arrived. On the spinner rack was Weird War Tales No. 7. I turned to the letters page, haunted by memories of an 8-year-old’s dashed hopes, and scanned letters submitted by readers from Glendale, California, and from Seattle, and from Seattle again.
Then there it was. My letter. My words. My name. My hometown.
Around me, oblivious drugstore clerks and customers went about their lives as if this were just another ordinary day. As I paid for Weird War Tales No. 7, I resisted flipping open the comic book and showing the cashier that this was a historic moment the store needed to record for posterity.
Over the next few years, I wrote many more letters to comic books. Most shared the same fate as my earliest effort, but more than 20 saw print. They served as preparation for an eventual career as a journalist and my work today as a public relations writer. The comic book editors on the receiving end of my letters taught me a valuable lesson. Rejection never feels good but it is not kryptonite.
You will emerge heroically to write again.
________
Ronnie Blair is lead writer in public relations for Advantage Media and Forbes Books. Previously, he worked for daily newspapers for more than three decades. He is author of the memoir Eisenhower Babies: Growing Up on Moonshots, Comic Books, and Black-and-White TV.
Ronnie, I am charmed by your foundation story. And the reminder that we all face “odds” with every submission. It’s never a slam dunk. But what you really write about is hope. Hope springs eternal. It’s why we get up in the morning.
Glad you enjoyed it. Yes, there is that hope each time we send something out – even if it is just a letter to Weird War Tales.
I felt strangely elated when a question and photo of mine were printed in a Birdwatching magazine, even at my age it was a thrill.
That sounds like fun, too. I recently bought a bird book so I’m hoping to get better at identifying the ones in my back yard.
Best of luck, they are both beautiful and fascinating
Are you gonna answer
Hi, Kevin. Thanks for reading. I’m not clear on what you are asking, but if you can clarify I will be happy to respond.
Kevin, give Google a try. When I type in, “how do I start a blog,” pages and pages of high-quality results show up. By all means, use the Brevity Blog as an example or template of effective blogging, but teaching the art of blogging is not in our bailiwick.
How can anyone forget the Sea Monkeys! Who knew, comic books could be a writer’s mini-MFA, and maybe even a better one.
I love the thought about comic books being a writer’s mini-MFA! Thanks for reading.
Thanks for the early morning smile. Your writing is so comfortable. My hubs and I both read and loved Eisenhower Babies and have given it to a friend. And oh yes, sea monkeys!
I appreciate the kind words and I’m so glad you and your husband enjoyed Eisenhower Babies.
Thanks for this, Ronnie. Just the mention of sea monkeys, Charles Atlas, and twelve cents brought me back to the stacks of comic books we kept in our playroom. When I was 11, my fashion design made with gold and silver crayon, appeared in the February 1969 issue of Bunny Ball, Fashion Model, comic book. The gold was now brown and the silver, gray. But it was first and only fashion design published! It sparked a recent essay about how Barbie and Bunny Ball shaped my fashion sense,
What a fun moment that must have been in 1969. And I love that the memory of that moment led to a new essay.
Yeah, those sea monkeys… but I can’t get past that you [personally?] owned an electric typewriter in 1972.
Ha! The typewriter was either a Christmas or birthday gift and nothing as fancy as what you would have seen in an office. It was smaller and, knowing my parents, relatively inexpensive. It definitely was not a top-of-the-line IBM or Smith-Corona. I probably had just gotten it around the time I wrote that letter.
I didn’t expect this to speak to me at all and it absolutely did. Love it. Thank you!
You’re welcome. I am so glad it made a connection with you.
I loved the humour in this essay. Thank you, Ronnie.
Glad you enjoyed it. It was fun to write.
I love stories based on nostalgia; sucks me in every time! I wanted so bad to buy the X-Ray glasses but was too afraid … either that my mother would find out or that the glasses would actually work and I could see through girls’ clothes!
Sadly, I never ordered the X-ray glasses or the Sea-Monkeys either. But they definitely drew my attention.
I was just reading the submission criteria for a popular print travel magazine. I thought about it but I shuddered at the thought of rejection. After reading this post, maybe I’ll give it a try.
Yes, do give it a try!
I laughed out loud at the image of the jaded editor and the back-alley rats. Great story.
Thanks! Glad it brightened your day.
Great summary of your comic book years. My husband was also an avid comic book fan during the sixties. I read this aloud to him and he enjoyed the memories it brought back. He recognized the title “Weird War Tales.” He probably has a copy somewhere in the 10,000 plus comic books in boxes we have stashed all over the house.
Comic books can accumulate quickly! I kept mine stacked on an old coffee table that eventually collapsed from the weight. Glad you and your husband enjoyed this.
What is it about being 14 that allows us to fly freely and write with heart and soul, not shaking every word like a terrier with a rat? I remember being published (stories! poems!) at 14, and the confidence those early successes gave me have never left me.
Writing with abandon like a 14-year-old is probably the way to go, at least for the first draft. As Anne Lamott points out, you can always clean it up later.