The fall of an idol

Even though I’m a writer, I didn’t always read books. I actually hated them but for a good reason. To this day if I read on a white background, I get headaches. So imagine myself at 8 in elementary school being forced to read some book with a pounding headache. It’s awful. Now I read on black pages or listen to audiobooks. 

And it’s via audiobook that I confirmed something I had suspected; the metaphorical death of one of my favorite writers. Not to society but to me. For personal reasons I refuse to name him but I’m aware that everyone will know who I’m talking about.

Due to the aforementioned headaches, I gravitated towards comic books. I started with classics like Batman, Superman, Spiderman, etc. As I reached my teens, I craved deeper and more complex plotlines. So if I read Batman it would be through Detective Comics. The plot in that comic is the real charm/selling point and not the combat. Eventually I discovered this author through what I consider his magnum opus, The Sandman series.

For the uninitiated The Sandman is a philosophical story with little combat. It’s a story with layers and depth. I honestly believe it pushed the line of what a “comic” was when it was published, which was the 80s. Of course you know who I’m referring to by now. In my eyes he could do no wrong. His writing was everything I wanted and more. His work inspired me to write. I’ve read a lot of his works. Then the world found out.

I still remember logging into my twitter account and seeing his name under the trending topics. I needed good news that day. Every time a celebrity is trending, it’s bad news. However with him and how everyone perceived him, I naively assumed it was a good thing. So I clicked on his name.

I couldn't believe my eyes. I chose to not believe the countless tweets until proof was presented by the authorities. That’s how much I refused to believe that the gentleman who always rooted for the underdogs and supported lgbt rights and women’s rights was actually a monster. The worst kind of monster. The kind that everyone hates. And that’s what he was, is, and will always be.

I hadn’t read any of his works for a few years. When NEW YORK magazine published the infamous issue and proof confirmed the awful tweets, I had to believe. One of my greatest heroes had fallen into the abyss. Months passed where I debated what to do with all the books written by him that I bought. Am I to donate them? Throw them away? I still don’t know. I do know I no longer want them. The only one I struggle with is an original 1st issue of The Sandman I was gifted by a cousin of mine. 

And I struggle not because it’s an original issue printed in the 80s and kept in perfect condition but because my cousin went through the trouble of looking for it, finding it, and thinking of me. The issue has more value to me because someone I love gave it to me. As I write this, the issue is behind me framed and on a shelf.

So returning to him being dead to me. I metaphorically buried him yesterday. I was browsing my audiobook library for unread titles and I found one of his anthologies, Smoke and Mirrors. Since I had bought it years ago and forgot to read it then, I chose to do so now. I was surprised by how mediocre his writing felt. Is it actually bad writing or my disgust toward him? I don’t know. I don’t care. All I know is that he’s dead to me. Fuck you, you piece of shit.