Alien Romance, the daily comic strip

"$300 for eye surgery," Ren says into a pay phone in the vet's office lobby. Cathy is beside him, clutching a yowling cat wrapped in a scarf.

"Ask the owner for it," suggests Maurice from the other end of the phone. But Ren doesn't want to. He wants to iron out the exchange so that Ms. Upton won't have to deal with it herself. "Ask your dad," Maurice suggests.

Ren's dad is not the kind of person who thinks a barn cat is worth saving.

"Have Cathy talk to him," suggests Maurice. "Have her cry a little. Your dad will roll over." He has a customer waiting impatiently at the register.

"Dude, that just might work," says Ren, leaning way over so I could fit him in the panel. He's much taller than Cathy.

***

I've been having some doubts about DW lately. I'm not opposed to the act of blogging for myself. I've certainly been doing some of that here. But I don't have a sense of, "Oh no, life is fleeting! I'd better write some of myself down before I'm lost forever!" No, it's "Oh no, life is fleeting! I'd better make this graphic novel!"

And I can make a graphic novel in a vacuum too - lots of creators do their creative work with the shades drawn. But I've gotten too accustomed to the social dynamic of writers' groups and fan followings. These dynamics ebb and flow, and I was in a phase of low social involvement when I started this blog. Primarily I did it because several people wished my webcomic was available somewhere other than my Patreon. That's fair! Okay! Here I am! But they didn't really follow me here. I think maybe two people have told me they check this space for my comics.

I also came here for ushobwri, which has been fun. No complaints. It's low-key but I get to pratter about my book twice a week.

A lot of the rest of DW is empty husk, and that's alarming, and a few people working to maintain community, and that's good, and I'm not cut out to be a community leader but I excel at support roles - making the place look busy, making sure it doesn't turn into an echo chamber, sprinkling chaos around to prevent things from getting too rigid. I dunno, am I doing all right? I've been trying.

But I've been doubting. I once joined a comics community that consisted of three people - four, really, but one guy was there for his own reasons so he and I never interacted. There wasn't much potential for growth, because it was truly an awful web design, but it got better and then immediately crashed. But before that, I was needed in a way I can't seem to recreate here.

I think that's the root of my doubts. In all my internet spaces that ended up being good experiences, I felt tangibly needed. I found some corner to hold up so that others felt they had a tent over their heads. I'm not the tent. I'm just a tent pole. That's why FB has been so hard to completely quit, and it's only been its utter degradation as a platform that drives me away. Not the people I was supporting there. A lot of those are still there.

And why Bluesky hasn't resonated with me. The twitter model, I just cannot deal with it.

Anyway, I'm going to sit with this thought for a while. I know it's worthwhile to pack up my comic and find somewhere else to host it if I can find a place with the community I describe. Webcomic hosting sites aren't that at all, and anyway, I don't want to use any sites that are curated or that have a creators->fans structure.

Alien Romance, the daily comic strip

"When do you need it by?" Maurice asks Ren, still talking about the $300 for the cat's surgery. "We could put a can out for quarters." Back in the 80's and 90's, charities or individuals with a good cause could ask businesses to put a can by the register asking for spare change. Often they had a compelling photo taped to the outside of the can.

"Now," says Ren through the phone.

"Right now?!"

"The vet says he might get sepsis if we wait," Ren explains.

"Okay, dump our rent into it," says Maurice, "but Ren, you HAVE to pay that back by the 3rd." Ringing the customer up, he says, "$17.50 please!"

(1990 prices, hehe. That's still a midrange bottle of wine - you could get one for $6 if you caught a good sale.)

"Feel free to pay attention to the customer," the guy grumbles, pulling out his wallet.

"Sorry," Maurice explains. "It's a family emergency." Maurice thinks everyone has the compassion and understanding that come naturally to him, but he's woefully wrong.

"I'm never coming here again," the man rants, grabbing his bagged-up wine. Then he mutters something containing some rude slurs, which I mocked up with nonsense and then scribbled the nonsense words out, because I'm not comfortable using actual slurs.

Maurice's coworker, Damion, a young fellow who is about 5'9 with lush curly hair not big enough to be an Afro, and a worried brow, walks in just then, removing his jacket. He and Maurice stand and watch the customer storm off.

Maurice asks about one of the terms the man had used, the one that isn't clearly directed at Damion.

"You don't know?" Damion asks incredulously. "It's a slur for Mexicans."

Maurice smirks slightly. "I'm not Mexican," he declares. "He used somebody else's slur on me."

Damion is very nearly dumbfounded. He stammers, "That's... that's. That's not the point."


***

Well, it's been 8 hours since this morning, and I still feel like a couple of boulders might've landed on me, but I had things to do, so I did them.