The one lengthy run of his that I had yet to crack was JLA. By the time I contracted bronchitis, I had read a great number of his work: Animal Man, Doom Patrol, Seven Soldiers of Victory, New X-Men, a good chunk of The Invisibles, and a whole slew of his other Vertigo projects. I’ll chalk it up to being an obsessive completionist. After years of reading and rereading his work, I can articulate everything I find interesting in his catalogue, but I’m still not sure what drew me back for more. I can’t explain what it was that drew me to his work, but I became hooked. About a year before I became sick, I started reading Grant Morrison. While I wasn’t exactly twelve, that awful December became something of a personal golden age. Which means that whenever you first encountered something, that version of it will always be your platonic ideal. I once heard Dan Slott in a podcast interview say that the golden age of anything is twelve. Yet, I look back at that germ-infested December quite fondly. I can still remember struggling to communicate because I sounded like a Benjamin Button-esque seventy-year-old who smoked three packs of cigarettes a day due to my laryngitis. To make matters worse, the antibiotics prescribed to me made me even more ill, stalling my recovery and pushing back all the work I had to make up. I missed an array of tests and projects that I would eventually make up by staying hours after school. When I was a wee lad, I came down with an awful case of bronchitis, a few weeks away from Christmas no less.

Jla morrison