I just finished reading the last comic in the
Strangers In Paradise saga. I originally found the comic in the middle of middle school (heh) - I was at a comic con with my father, meeting David Mack and spending all my pocket money. I had some money left over and the place was closing down so we swung through one last booth looking for something... and found one of the trade paperbacks. It was already well established by that point, already a twisty storyline. It opened with the chilling words "Two weeks ago, I had it made. Two weeks ago, I was dead." and won me over instantly. Watching the all too real figures Terry Moore portrays, gave me more confidence in my own all too real figure. Or at least reachable standard to look at and say "This is what a woman is supposed to look like." In a world of perfect plastic people, this is more important than you might think. I've laughed and cried with these characters, these people for almost half my life...
And... it's over.
Bones?
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arienna
Comments
Still, I think there are a lot of people who have that kind of connection to a comic or really long book series. It's the product of excellent writing - that is, writing about realistic, plausible people - and readers with a fling for escapism. I guess it has one of two possible outcomes on a person:
1) they mature and become more functional members of society by learning and growing in a "safe" experimental environment, or
2) feeling the sudden shock and mourning of loss they fall in to a reclusive spiral and are found several weeks later in a dark corner with long gritty hair, a lot of caffeine, and backed issues of the fiction in reference babbling to a couple of sock puppets that have been named after main characters. Please note that writing fanfic is a similar recluse.
I'm confident that you will make the right choice.
... here's an espresso to get you started :P
... Go start the double shot mocha conveyor belt for me.
>:D
"If you have never spent whole afternoons with burning ears and rumpled hair, forgetting the world around you over a book, forgetting cold and hunger --
If you have never read secretly under the bedclothes with a flashlight, because your father or mother or some other well-meaning person has switched off the lamp on the plausible ground that it was time to sleep because you had to get up so early --
If you have never wept bitter tears because a wonderful story has come to an end and you must take your leave of the characters with whom you have shared so many adventures, whom you have loved and admired, for whom you have hoped and feared, and without whose company life seems empty and meaningless --
If such things have not been part of your own experience, you probably won't understand what Bastian did next."
This is Ruth, BTW.