Inescapable Hypocrisy

Man, I love dogs. A controversial perspective, I know. I’m all about big, bold proclamations, though. Here’s another one – indie creators are hypocrites.

Aren’t we? I mean, I spend so much time ranting about the theft of children’s’ icons by billion-dollar toy licensees masquerading as entertainment conglomerates. At least, that’s what I’m doing when I’m not logging into Disney+ chasing inevitable heartbreak around the latest Star Wars misinterpretation. Et tú Ezra?

Sometimes I wonder if I’d be happier without any of the world’s giant machines that facilitate my twenty-first century life. Fuck Amazon and their anti-union, anti-small-business footprints. Who the hell needs another Disney/Marvel movie plotted on the back of an executive’s Whole Foods receipt? Kroger and their price-gouging ass can kiss my a – oh man, that’s a really good price for chicken. Besides, my neighborhood butcher almost never asks me how my old back injury is doing anymore ...

Even this super-independent ‘zine passed through Adobe’s Creative Cloud InDesign©, on an Apple MacBookTM,, while I drank my Starbucks Venti Iced Brown Sugar Oatmilk Blonde Espresso©, and will be printed through Ingram Spark (probably the least well known behemoth on this list, but still a multi-billion dollar, soul-crushing corporation). Pardon me, my Apple Watch just pinged me to stand up.

Is it ironic that the tools of independent creators lie in the definitely-not-people companies that rule the world – Is being a hypocrite something to be ashamed of? Should my love of dogs manifest into a day-to-day respect for all sentient life which motivates me toward veganism? Maybe.

Maybe not. Maybe hypocrite is just another word for person. Maybe that conviction that makes you spout your mouth off like some Dunning Kruger moron is a bit more aspirational than practical – or even possible. While it’s easy for independent creators to congregate around companies that enshroud every decision around a 12%+ annual profit, there’s another cause nearly all artists I know enthusiastically engage in: like gnats around apple-cider vinegar.

We beat the ever-loving fuck out of ourselves.

Most artists don’t obsess over the shackles corporate America has quietly slid around our as-productive-as-possible wrists. We do obsess over our own short-comings. We tell ourselves logical lies that fill the gaps between our passion and success. This dance we do trying to produce something sincere and marketable feels so easy until it’s time to sell the damn thing we compromised our own tastes to create.

Phrases like “No pressure,” “Sorry to bother you,” “If you don’t mind,” and a million other disclaimer-style preempts fill our language about the things we make. We stand behind over-priced convention booths with drawings of things we didn’t create hoping to catch the eyes of folks who are there to see Kevin Eastman or J. Shawn Alexander (both fine folks (although Eastman’s con fees are stupid-high (what’s up with that, Kev’?))).

The curse of independent creators is the contradiction between our desire to say something sincere while accumulating enough patrons to financially support us doing the sincere thing. In our minds we say art is for an audience while sometimes resenting the world for being willingly addicted to spoon-fed least-common-denominator storytelling. When we venture too far toward strategy, our creative fuel depletes and sometimes depression overtakes. Self-flagellation begins.

“I’m not making enough.”

“My stuff is too weird.”

“I’ve sacrificed so much – why can’t I just give it up?”

“Why am I so fucked up?”

But the art tick isn’t one that can be twisted or burned away. It’s more than who we are – it’s validation of a sort none of us can properly articulate. It’s too special – too enthralling, too much. We’re restless without it, and even past the idea of god(s) – believe we’re destined to create. We convince ourselves we’re cursed – success isn’t unlikely, it’s impossible. Damn it. Damn them. Damn me.

I go through this cycle constantly. I’m grateful to be on the sun-side of it at the moment. I know I’ll be back in the black, though. It’s inevitable. My only hope lies somewhere between, and mixed with, the sadness that fuels me and the curiosity that motivates me. The thing I want most for people who see what I’ve done is a bit of a smile, a soft gasp, a recognition of shared experience, a moment of magical discovery. I just want to move you.

I get it, though. Smiles and gasps don’t allow the pragmatic parts of life to move or improve. Doing what we love for a living is a wonderful dream – one most of us share. Is it a foolish dream, though? Maybe.

Maybe not. That’s where I think a community comes in. Truth be told, who knows how long ND Riot will go. This may be the one-and-only, but I hope not. This is a second nonpaying job for many of us, and others of us are equally overwhelmed raising kids or doing any number of other physical, mental, and emotional tasks all day long. Sometimes we’re manifesting creations from fumes. We need some damn grace.

We don’t do that for ourselves. So, I’m asking us all to remember that other artists, and the very best patrons, want you to be well before they expect their next smile or gasp.

You’re enough. Give yourself a damn break – you fucking hypocrite.