Posted in: Comics | Tagged: andy goldman, Comics, kickstarter, leylines

Measure Of Success

Robin Childs writes;

Running a Kickstarter is a very rough process for me. No surprise there, Kickstarter is a gauntlet for everyone. As a chronic depressive, there's an additional layer of hot coals to wade through when running a crowd-funding campaign. Having that yardstick of success, that count-down to funded, can make it easy to forget what makes a project important in the first place. It's easy to mistake the true measure of success.

For me, running a Kickstarter sets off thought processes that go nasty places quickly. It doesn't help that I have no yard stick to evaluate the progress against. Every project seems to go differently. Sure, there are trends (the inverted bell-curve of pledging, for example) but there doesn't seem to be any hard and fast rules. So is it doing well, or poorly? Is 12% in the first week a good sign, or are we in trouble? I just don't know. And so my mind starts to whisper that it's doomed to failure, because I'm not good enough, and if I knew the right things to do, it would be better. I realized recently that kind of thinking is a twisted protective mechanism. In theory, if I know something is going to fail, won't it hurt less when it does?

The most dangerous part of that thought trap is it encourages behavior that can turn a possible success into a guaranteed failure. Self-fulfilling prophecies aren't just reserved for stories. We live and die by them every day.

What is success? It looks so different from one person to another. In August I made a drastic career change, leaving my life as a mechanical engineer behind to focus on my creative work and teaching kids at a local elementary school. The children I now work with look at me and marvel at my drawings. To them, my ability to draw a passable Yoda encouraging them to "Do or do not" makes my success unquestioned. To the substitute teacher that sees I've self-published a few books, I'm automatically a success just by virtue of the fact that I am doing anything at all. To my webcomic peers, I'm struggling and scraping to get some traction, just like they are. To the people I consider inspirations, already making a living off of their work, I don't exist at all. And no perspective is really an accurate measure of my success, or lack thereof.

The depression brain wants to put me in a box where I'm a failure no matter which way I look at it. Either I wasted nearly a decade pursuing the engineering career which I despised, or I've committed the ultimate sin by abandoning the career that gave me financial stability. Fellow teachers have been kind enough to let me share fliers about my Kickstarter with their classrooms, and I feel simultaneously hungry and ashamed to even ask. As though the parents of these children will look at me and think, "Huh, what did she expect? She wants to be an artist, when she could have been an Engineer? Serves her right." But I've never really understood the idea of a world where people would look upon me with kindness. It's not what I grew up with. I'm supposed to be kind to everyone else, but nobody is supposed to be kind to me. They're certainly not supposed to hope I succeed. So why should I?

During a low last week, I asked my husband, "Who do I think I'm trying to be? What am I doing with my life?"

He replied, "You're making a difference in people's lives, and you're telling a great story."

Shortly thereafter, I received several comments and letters from readers out of the blue, sharing their struggles and personal stories. That they felt less alone, in some cases that they were still here, because of my work. And I was just…humbled. Amazed. Blown away. Thankful. Baffled. Honored. Terrified. Glad. So glad that they could reach out. That I made a difference to someone. That we could make a difference to each other.

Joss Whedon once said, "I'd rather make a show 100 people need to see, than a show that 1000 people want to see." I've often felt that way about my own writing. My graphic novel, LeyLines, isn't something you pick up casually. The world is vast and I've sunk many hours into concocting its cultures, history, gods, and even in creating a language for it. The characters have even more layers than the world. A common comment I've received is that these wayward siblings I've created seem like real people, with character flaws that are just as believable as their merits. I'm often told these fictional struggles remind readers of a friend, a sibling, or themselves. It may be a fantasy story I'm writing, but I draw from what I know. Every personal struggle is laid out on the page for all to see. My readers know I'm unusually transparent about my life. Both beautiful and ugly. I try to be as truthful as I can. Even when it scares me. Especially when it scares me. Because that might make the difference to someone when they need it most.

LeyLines is not a casual read. And my readers, my LeyLians, are not casual fans. I've found that the people that enjoy it don't just like it. They love it. It means something to them.

I know that my work is not going to be a mainstream appeal kind of tale. That's okay. I'm not writing to people that have their needs met by what already exists out there. I'm writing to the people that need what I have to share. So we can both know we're not alone. So we can make a difference.

Maybe that won't ever result in a monetary success. I don't know. I can't see the future, as much as the depression voice would like to convince me that it can. I keep pursuing the business side of things in the hope that the depression voice is untrue. To defy the fate it would dictate for me. What I do know is that right now, in this moment, I have made something that mattered to someone else. That has improved their life. And I try to hold on to that. I try to remember it. What other measuring stick really matters, when all is said and done?

Money will last a lifetime. The differences we make in the lives of others will cast ripples through history long after we are gone and forgotten.

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