Tulip O'Hare
Enchantress had vanished in a puff of pink smoke, Harley Quinn had been returned to Arkham Asylum (much to the Joker's chagrin), the male heroes were recovering from being mind-controlled (and, in Tony Stark's case, bankrolling a Parisian shopping spree) and the female heroes were celebrating their latest victory. All was well in Super Hero City, and there was still an hour until dinner... which meant there was time for another game.
Or so I thought, anyway. LJ was strangely nonplussed by the idea. I threw out a couple of suggestions but, instead of buoying her mood, they only served to worsen her depression. Puzzled, I asked what was wrong and reached out to touch her on the shoulder. To my surprise and shock, the poor kid started crying.
"My ideas are terrible," she said. "They just stink. I should give up on this stuff, I'm no good at it."
What? I pulled her onto my lap and she cuddled in. It took a minute or two, but we got to the root of the matter. "The boys at school have been teasing me," LJ revealed. "They say I don't know anything about super heroes, and that all my ideas are terrible. I try to tell them about our games and they say they're not cool, and I've got no idea about Spider-Man and Justice League and stuff." She let out a shuddering sob. "I've tried not to let it get to me, Dad, but it just has. I'm no good at stories."
I suppressed my fury at adolescent misogyny, dried her eyes and stood up. "Come with me," I said, leading her into the comic room. I pointed at my framed letter from Stan Lee. "See this? This is my proof that, no matter what, I'm a good writer. Stan Lee told me I was interesting and well thought-out and insightful. To hear that from the writer I admire most tells me that, no matter what anyone else says, I'm good at stories."
I led LJ back into her own room and pointed at her framed Birds of Prey artwork. "See that? Gail Simone signed that for you. She met you and listened to your stories. Then she went and tweeted about how cool you are to the entire world! And you know, just as well as I do, how cool and beloved and famous Gail is. If she says you're good at stories then, kiddo, there is absolutely no doubt that you're good at stories."
We settled back down for another cuddle. "I've been reading comics for almost 30 years," I said, "and I think your stories are better than a lot of what's published. And I know a heck of a lot more about the characters than a bunch of seven-year-old jerks who probably can't even spell 'continuity'. Don't ever let another person stop you from doing something you love - especially not a bunch of snot-faced boys. They're the ones who don't know good stories. And, 10 years from now, they'll be wishing a beautiful, geeky girl like you might look their way."
LJ sniffed. "And I'll ignore 'em," she grinned. "You're so right, Dad. Thanks." She wriggled out of my embrace and ran toward her toys. "So there's a while until dinner," she said, much more like her usual self. "I was thinking: what if the Mayor called a peace conference, and Doom and the Fallen came, and MODOK's mouth got duct-taped up, but Thanos kidnapped everyone and so MODOK and Silver Surfer had to chase him into space and save the day?"
Presents are good and all, but there's no better way to spend the Father's Day weekend than doing the job.
Greet the Fire as Your Friend,
SF
Or so I thought, anyway. LJ was strangely nonplussed by the idea. I threw out a couple of suggestions but, instead of buoying her mood, they only served to worsen her depression. Puzzled, I asked what was wrong and reached out to touch her on the shoulder. To my surprise and shock, the poor kid started crying.
"My ideas are terrible," she said. "They just stink. I should give up on this stuff, I'm no good at it."
What? I pulled her onto my lap and she cuddled in. It took a minute or two, but we got to the root of the matter. "The boys at school have been teasing me," LJ revealed. "They say I don't know anything about super heroes, and that all my ideas are terrible. I try to tell them about our games and they say they're not cool, and I've got no idea about Spider-Man and Justice League and stuff." She let out a shuddering sob. "I've tried not to let it get to me, Dad, but it just has. I'm no good at stories."
I suppressed my fury at adolescent misogyny, dried her eyes and stood up. "Come with me," I said, leading her into the comic room. I pointed at my framed letter from Stan Lee. "See this? This is my proof that, no matter what, I'm a good writer. Stan Lee told me I was interesting and well thought-out and insightful. To hear that from the writer I admire most tells me that, no matter what anyone else says, I'm good at stories."
I led LJ back into her own room and pointed at her framed Birds of Prey artwork. "See that? Gail Simone signed that for you. She met you and listened to your stories. Then she went and tweeted about how cool you are to the entire world! And you know, just as well as I do, how cool and beloved and famous Gail is. If she says you're good at stories then, kiddo, there is absolutely no doubt that you're good at stories."
We settled back down for another cuddle. "I've been reading comics for almost 30 years," I said, "and I think your stories are better than a lot of what's published. And I know a heck of a lot more about the characters than a bunch of seven-year-old jerks who probably can't even spell 'continuity'. Don't ever let another person stop you from doing something you love - especially not a bunch of snot-faced boys. They're the ones who don't know good stories. And, 10 years from now, they'll be wishing a beautiful, geeky girl like you might look their way."
LJ sniffed. "And I'll ignore 'em," she grinned. "You're so right, Dad. Thanks." She wriggled out of my embrace and ran toward her toys. "So there's a while until dinner," she said, much more like her usual self. "I was thinking: what if the Mayor called a peace conference, and Doom and the Fallen came, and MODOK's mouth got duct-taped up, but Thanos kidnapped everyone and so MODOK and Silver Surfer had to chase him into space and save the day?"
Presents are good and all, but there's no better way to spend the Father's Day weekend than doing the job.
Greet the Fire as Your Friend,
SF