How my mother raised a comic book writer
I turned off the alarm and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Eventually, the bedroom door comes into focus, the soft light in the hall giving it shape. I slip out from under my Spider-Man comforter and leap far enough away from the bed frame so that no one hiding underneath can grab my ankles. Opening the door as quietly as I can, to not disturb the dogs, I stumble forward, feeling my way along the walls. My final destination? The Twilight Zone...
My mother passed away a few years ago, and I often think about the ways, big and small, that she supported me in becoming the storyteller I am today. Having young parents who couldn't afford babysitters, I consumed what they did; Drive-In Horror Movies, Paperback Thrillers, and genre magazines.
By age eight, I was enjoying Ann Rule's True Crime books, alongside Stephen King novels, and any comic book I could get my hands on. And I watched a ton of TV; the stranger, the better. My favorite show was, of course, The Twilight Zone.
Whatever I had planned after elementary school, I made sure my tiny ginger butt was in front of the Television at 7 PM every weekday to watch syndicated re-reruns of the show. In an economic 30 minutes, these dark morality tales could introduce a mind-bending concept, entertain the hell out of you, and leave you questioning your very reality.
Having Rod Serling, in all his swagger, introducing each segment made it clear to my child's brain that there was a creative engine behind the show. A light went on in my brain, that I too, could one day have a job like that.
Then suddenly, and without warning...tragedy struck the 1983 TV guide. The Twilight Zone was moving from 7 PM to 1 AM. Taking its place was The Odd Couple. No child wants to watch a sitcom about divorced guys. I was devastated.
But my mom, who had patiently listened to all my Twilight Zone knockoff stories, had a proposal for me. If I got my homework done, finished my chores without complaint, and didn't tell my teachers or classmates, she would let me get up at one am to watch an episode of the Twilight Zone.
Like I said, she was a young mother.
And I did just that. Stumbling through the quiet of a house where everyone else is asleep. Wearing my Incredible Hulk onesies pajamas (we had to cut the feet off because i was too tall to fit in them anymore) and quietly making myself a "wake up" glass of strawberry Quik Milk (to take the edge off). I'd sit dangerously close to the TV and absorb episodes like The Living Doll, Night Call, or Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.
In the middle of the night, with a mind at rest, these stories struck even deeper. I may not have clocked every allegory or social concern, but I understood that Twilight Zone episodes had a deeper meaning just below their surface. And then I would return to sleep, sometimes still on the couch, with a busy subconscious unpacking what I just watched. Because a good story, I was learning to appreciate, should give you something to think about when it's over.
I managed to keep up this schedule for a few weeks, but eventually, my love of an uninterrupted full night's sleep won out. My stint as a nocturnal television watcher may have been brief, but it did have a lifelong impact on me. Because on nights like this, when I wake up in the middle of the night and can't easily fall back asleep, I don't fight it.
Instead, I stumble out of bed, careful not to wake my wife or disturb the dogs, to spend some time in the quiet of my office to work on my own dark morality tales (or to write an overdue newsletter).
The time, outside of time, is a creative gift. My mother gave that to me.