We Are Not Alone: Storytelling and Comic Books
by Alan Irvine

hen storytellers look around at our cousin arts, we usually end up comparing ourselves to literature, particularly children’s literature, theater and other, closely related arts. These artforms, after all, deal with much the same content as storytelling: stories, particularly traditional stories, told primarily through words. The craft and techniques those artforms use to develop their material overlap with, and inform, our own craft. When confronting questions of how storytelling fits into American culture, however, comparisons to literature, even children’s literature, and theater can prove misleading. Most Americans know of the existence of literature and theater, accept them as legitimate artforms, even if they do not personally support them. We can not claim the same for storytelling. We can better understand our place in the culture if we look to some other artform that stands in a similar relationship to society as we do. Fortunately, such an artform exists: comic books.

At first glance storytelling and comic books appear to have little in common. Storytelling, after all, is a performing art, as art with an ancient tradition, an art almost anyone can engage in at any time without special equipment or supplies. Comic books are a print medium, combining literature and drawing, words and pictures. Comic books are a relatively new artform, born in this century from modern printing technology, child of the mass media, particularly newspapers and magazines. Because comic books are printed, creators must find publishers, printers, distributors, and retailers to get their art to their audience. Yet beyond these differences, the two artforms share a similar place, or lack of a place, in American culture, and as a consequence face similar challenges and confrontations.

Indeed, one can argue that neither artform actually has a place in American culture. Both artforms remain obscure almost unto invisibility, most Americans assuming them to be dead, or very nearly so. What storyteller has not heard, "Oh, yes, storytelling is a dying art, isn’t it?" more times than they care to count? "Comic books? I didn’t think they still published those!" is the common response of someone encountering a current issue of Superman, much less an entire comic book store. This despite a storytelling revival well into its third decade, and a comic book renaissance well into its second.

Those people who realize that storytelling/comic books do, in fact, exist often hold a very limited view of each artform’s capabilities. Both artforms are dominated by a single genre, a single type of story, which overshadows all else. Folktales dominate storytelling; superhero tales (Superman, Batman, or Spider–Man, for example) dominate comic books. Both artforms, of course, cover many other kinds of stories. The personal story/autobiographical story flourishes within both artforms. In some settings, such as the swapping grounds at storytelling conferences, personal stories can even rival the dominance of folktales. Harvey Pekar’s American Splendor, which pioneered the autobiographical comic book story, has won numerous awards and garnered considerable critical acclaim over the years. Storytelling also includes ghost stories, historical stories of both fiction and non-fiction, Biblical stories, stories adapted from literature, and more. Comic books feature horror, humor, science fiction, history, war, social commentary, satire, erotica. Each artform is not only wonderfully diverse, but growing more so as new artists test and expand the limits of these revitalized forms. And yet very little of that creativity and diversity reaches the general public. To most people, storytellers tell quaint, old-fashion folktales and comic books chronicle the adventures of bright-clad superheroes.

And one must admit a certain truth in the stereotype. Folktales do dominate storytelling. Most storytellers begin by learning and telling folktales, and continue telling folktales throughout their careers. Folktales make up a large part of most storytellers’ repertoire and programs. Consequently, folktales are the tales most people hear. So, too, with comic books. The vast majority of comic books available feature superheroes, both in number of individual series published and in number of individual issues sold. The print runs of many non-superhero comic books are often only a small fraction the size of the print runs of superhero comics. Some comic book stores only stock superhero comic books. As a result, someone can easily overlook nonsuperhero material, never even aware that it exists.

The dominance of a single genre creates problems for both artforms. Such a dominance, even the perception of such a domiance, drives away potential arts and audiences. When people think that storytelling is limited to telling folktales or comic books to superheroes, only people interested in those genres will check out the artform. Artists who want to tell other sorts of stories may conclude that storytelling/comic books holds no place for them and their stories. They will turn to other artforms, taking with them the ideas, energy, creativity that would have enriched our art. So, too, will potential audiences stay away when they think we only tell one sort of story. Someone convinced that storytelling is only folktales, and who has no interest in folktales, will never come to hear a storyteller; someone with no interest in superheroes may never bother to pick up a comic book of any type.

We face the danger, then, of falling into a vicious circle. As artists interested in other genres leave for other artforms, the artists who remain are increasingly those primarily interested in the dominant genre. More of the work produced is in the dominant genre. As a result, that genre grows even more dominant, driving away even more potential artists, further restricting the artform. Similarly, when audiences interested in other genres depart, it becomes harder and harder for an artist to find an audience for work outside the dominant genre. This, in turn, places pressure, especially economic pressure, on the artist to start producing stories in the one genre that the audience will accept. We have seen this happen quite dramatically to comic books. Superhero stories were once only one genre among many, but as comic books grew increasingly identified with the superhero genre in the 1960s and 70s, other genres—war, westerns, romance, humor—withered away. By the early 1980s other genres had virtually all died out, leaving superhero stories as the only genre around. In the last decade, many artists have moved beyond the superhero genre again, but almost no one outside the world of comic fans, and even many within that world, knows that these alternatives exist.

The recent surge of interest in personal stories promises to break this single genre conception of storytelling. The mass media’s fascination with these stories—witness the large number of National Public Radio "commentators" who are really storytellers relating personal stories—certainly helps break the public’s view of storytelling as only folktales. Yet to the extent that this attention focuses only on personal stories, we risk public perception broadening only slightly: storytelling means folktales or personal stories.

The most serious problem of this single genre identification, however, stems from the nature of each genre. The public, rightly or wrongly, perceives folktales and superheroes as "just for kids." By extension, storytelling and comic books become "just for kids" as well. Once again, we lose potential artists as those interested in communicating with adults turn to other artforms. Once again, our audience shrinks as adults assume we have nothing to say to them, so they do not consider attending a storytelling event or picking up a comic book. Indeed, what audience we have is expected to soon out-grow us and move on to "real" artforms. In the end, we risk "just for kids" becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. Since our main audience becomes kids, we tell stories for that audience, particularly if we are dependant on that audience for our income. More than once, for example, I have attended a workshop where everyone began by complaining that the public sees storytelling as "just for kids," only to spend the rest of the workshop talking about the best way to tell stories to kids.

With effort, we can escape the trap. Science fiction, after all, has managed to (mostly) shed its image as strictly juvenile fiction. Just as the National Storytelling Association sponsors Tellabration to attract attention to storytelling aimed at adults, so, too, has DC Comics founded Vertigo, a separate publishing imprint producing dark fantasy aimed at adult readers. Both efforts have proved successful over the years, and yet the number of converts, while substantial, represents only a tiny fraction of the public at large. We need more such efforts, sustained over long periods of time. (It took science fiction decades to shed its juvenile status.)

Yet that very effort carries risk. When we start telling stories intended for adults but not children, we attract the attention of people who perceive, correctly, that the stories are not suitable for children, but assume, incorrectly, that we intend to tell them to children. These people quickly move to protect the children and stop the artist. All artforms face the specter of censorship, of course, but storytelling and comic books remain particularly vulnerable. Many people who would otherwise decry censorship react quite differently when the issue is presented as protecting innocent children. In many cases, the offending artist is even accused of corrupting an entire artform which must be preserved for children in its childlike innocence.

Comic books, sitting out on shelves in stores open to the general public, available to be perused by anyone wandering into the shop, are more vulnerable to such attacks. As a result, it is the shopkeepers, not the artists, who are the main targets. In recent years retailers have been arrested, lost their livelihoods, faced prison for selling comic books never intended for children.

Storytellers have not faced censorship of this level. And what we do face is usually of a slightly different nature; not a matter of someone mistaking the audience we plan to reach, but of someone insisting that they have a better idea of what is suitable material for that audience, of someone protecting children from the storyteller who is trying to corrupt them. Most storytellers can tell of someone who insisted that they not tell certain stories—not tell any ghost stories, or stories about magic, or stories containing violence—or that they change elements of a story to conform with what is considered suitable for children.

Because told stories are more fluid than printed stories, storytellers can quickly respond to such pressure and alter a story or rearrange a program. We thus avoid the more severe penalties that comic book retailers and artists face. And yet, that very fluidity can make us more vulnerable to such pressures: since we can alter stories with relative ease, people feel relatively comfortable in pressuring us to do so. Yielding to this pressure, however, is even more dangerous in the long term. It once again reinforces the idea that storytelling is "just for kids," safe and innocuous. Every time an authority successfully limits a storytelling program to what they consider safe for children, they choke off some of our artistic energy and potential. Comic books faced this situation in the 1950s when prominent critics attacked comic books as harmful to children. Fearing official censorship, most publishing companies adopted a strict code of what could and could not be included in a story. Anything considered potentially harmful to children (an extensive list) could not. Almost overnight, the code choked the vitality out of an artform which had been in the throes of great experimentation and creativity. Stories did become "just for kids," and the term "comic book" took on the connotation of "mindless." Close to 30 years passed before comic books seriously dared attempt to tell stories for adults again.

Since storytellers face less immediate risk than comic book retailers and artists, our response to the problem has so far been more tentative—informal discussions and occasional conference presentations. The comic book world, faced with the actuality of legal action, has formed the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund to provide financial support and legal expertise to those retailers and artists under attack, a model which storytelling will hopefully never have to emulate.

In addition to sharing a common place in American culture, along with the potential dangers of that place, comic books and storytelling also share a unique social structure. Since both are obscure artforms, with relatively small communities of fans and artists, both communities find it possible to gather together on a regular basis, for artists and fans to meet each other face-to-face. Unlike in most artforms, in storytelling and comic books (and also science fiction) fans, amateur artists, and professional artists mingle on an equal footing on a number of occasions. Comic book conventions and storytelling conferences bring fans and professionals together to discuss, debate, learn, eat, drink, and hang-out together. Artists can connect with their audiences in these settings and explore ideas and projects with them. New artists can learn from the more established, display their talents, try to garner recognition for their efforts. All of these effects keep the artform vital and alive.

The trade-off, however, is that the professional artists have no place, no organization of their own, no conference or organization that specifically addresses their concerns and needs. The National Storytelling Association, for example, is open to anyone with an interest in storytelling, which allows it to speak to a number of broad concerns about the place of storytelling in our culture. Since full-time professional storytellers make up only a small part of the NSA’s membership, it does not devote time or resources to the needs of these artists. But professional artists do have needs and concerns different from those of the fans: they need to discuss techniques and theory at a different level, they need a place to "talk shop," they need to meet practical concerns like health insurance and retirement funds. When the social world of the artform is open to everyone, professional artists lose their place to gather and address their issues.

Just as science fiction writers did years ago with the formation of the Science Fiction Writers of America, the comic book community has begun to address this problem. For the last couple of years, professionals working in comic books have had their own conference (Pro/Con) in advance of the San Diego Comics Con (comic books’ equivalent of the National Storytelling Conference.) Out of this conference has come an organization specifically for those professionals, addressing concerns like copyright laws, contract negotiations, health insurance and retirement funds for free-lance artists. Such an organization need not threaten the open and equal social structure of the overall community. Indeed, by guaranteeing professionals a place to "talk shop" with each other, it frees up their time at conventions, conferences, festivals to talk with everyone else.

In the end, however, it is not how the comic book community has met specific problems that is most important to us. It is, rather, the simple fact that comic books and storytelling face similar challenges and difficulties. The solutions one artform finds to these situations may, or may not, prove useful to the other, but they do suggest possibilities to explore. The experience of one artform over the years can even warn the other of potential dangers looming ahead. Examining storytelling’s similarities with comic books also shows us that, despite our sometimes ill-fit in the world of American arts and culture, in the end, we are not alone.

—published in WIP Summer 1997

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