I AM EMPOWERED, pt.1: the Twitter-format YEAR ONE prose experiment! (Patreon)

<A quick introduction from the — ahem — author: So, anyway. 

Six or seven years ago, I picked up a superhero-related prose novel that seemed to have a premise ominously similar to Empowered; false alarm, luckily, as the similarities were superficial at best. Howeva, what did startle me about the novel (which will remain unnamed, I hasten to add) was the fact that, despite its prominently displayed bounty of positive blurbs from reviewers, the book's prose was shockingly bad, its characters poorly defined, its plot a complete mess.

I wound up thinking, "Man, I don't even wanna write prose, and I could do better than this inexplicably praised piece of crap." 

Now, I didn't then—and still don't—have much or any interest in writing prose as such, but  I do enjoy writing in a Twitter-based format, for reasons I can't quite explain. Case in point would be the Twitter account for Galacta, Daughter of Galactus, where I worked out most of the concepts that appeared in the later Marvel short stories about the (sadly out of official continuity) character.

So, I kicked off a tweet-based experiment telling the story of Emp's very earliest days as a superhero, an Empowered: Year One narrative of sorts, told in the first person from Emp's point of view. I had once intended to start posting this material from an Emp Twitter account akin to Galacta's, but never got around to doing so.

I wound up writing a few rather lengthy chapters of this goofy project before it stalled out a year or so later, never to be revisited. Even though the "novel" proved to be an abortive failure, it still proved extremely useful for me in working out background details about Emp and her world, many of which would end up appearing in actual Empowered comics. (I even worked up an abortive Guest Artist miniseries that would've been based largely on content from this project.)

A word of warning for long-time Empowered readers, though: I Am Empowered portrays an early version of Emp, circa near the very beginning of Empowered vol.1, at a time when our heroine is still paralyzed by overwhelming self-doubt,  severe body-image issues, and brutally low self-esteem. With the story set in a timeframe well before she meets Thugboy or Ninjette, Emp is depicted as completely alone with all her crushing insecurities. For readers who have followed Emp's long, painful journey to (some degree of) self-acceptance and genuine badassitude since the series' debut in 2007, jumping back to this hyper-insecure, "larval iteration" of Emp may be rather unpleasant.

I'm not quite sure how I'm gonna serialize this puppy, as I've got about 110-odd pages worth of "Emp tweets" in the failed project's Word document; the first chapter alone is 13 pages long, which seems a tad excessive for Patreon-post format. 

And now, without further ado, brace yourself for Year One Emp's first-person narration, folks:>

I AM EMPOWERED

Chapter 1: MY STUPID NAME, AND MY EVEN STUPIDER SUPERSUIT (pt.1)

Hi, there! My name is Elissa Megan Powers, and I'm semi-happy to admit that I'm a struggling—often, LITERALLY struggling—young superheroine.

My superhero name—or "supranym", to use the jargon I first learned in my Suprahuman Studies classes—is, well, "Empowered". Kinda goofy, huh?

Here's my backstory and flimsy rationale for the "Empowered" supranym: My parents mostly called me "EMP" for short, after my initials, okay?

I've never been much of a "morning person"—I'm "ughh"-ing reflexively at the very phrase, right now—even back when I was a little girl.

Well, when my father would have to shake me out of bed in the morning—every schoolday, pretty much—he'd always say, "Time to get EMPowered!"

Yeah, my daddy did like his lousy puns, it's true. Out of sheer goofiness, though, I grew fond of his "Time to get EMPowered!" exhortation. 

After a while, as a fairly shameless daddy's girl, I wouldn't deign to get out of bed unless he gave me my daily "Time to get EMPowered!"

And then, when I was ten years old, he died.

Clearest memory from the wretched blur of my daddy's funeral: Bawling uncontrollably, snuffling "Time to get EMPowered" over and over again. 

The rest of my life, whenever bad luck or outright disaster befalls me—which is often—I automatically think, "Time to get EMPowered!"

Whatever the situation, from galling failure to mean-girl ostracism to student-loan anxiety, that stupid phrase still buoyed me up a little.

Even now, when I find myself stripped of my powers, tied up, and tossed in the trunk of a BadGuyMobile, it's still "Time to get EMPowered!"

My parents did sometimes address me by the full "Elissa Megan Powers", but only when exasperated by my latest idiot wannabe-cape stunt.

All my life, I've wanted to be a superhero. My first memory, in fact, is of leaping down a staircase with a blanket for a cape, circa age 4.

Close-up on Age 4 Me, in Awesome Girl Underoos® and blanket cape, shrieking "Daddy, Daddy, look at me!" while sprinting off the top stair.

Close-up on my poor father whirling around with comically bugging eyes, yelling "NOOOOOO" in slomo as I gleefully plunge down the staircase.

I recall perfectly the sensation of hurtling through the air: Terrifying, yes, but also exhilarating. PLEASE DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME, KIDS.

The sounds: BONK, THUNK, then Highly Durable Age 4 Me giggling euphorically at the bottom of the stairs, freshly bruised but wildly elated.

My parents finally got my Blanket-Cape Jackassery under control by withholding my intensely if not insanely beloved Awesome Girl Underoos®.

I vividly remember howling, "No! You'll take away my superpowers!" when, incensed by my impudence, they yanked the magical Underoos® off me.

Coincidence? Twenty years later, exactly the same thing would happen with enraged supervillains tearing my (truly) magical supersuit off me.

More on my amazing yet also amazingly crappy supersuit later. Best to wrap up this meandering explanation of the "Empowered" supranym, first.

Three months ago, I somehow managed to claw my way onto the roster of this city's foremost team of superheroes, the mighty "Superhomeys". 

When I formally joined the Superhomeys as an Associate Member—a superpowered intern, pretty much—they needed an official "supranym" for me. 

The cape I idolize most, Superhomeys team leader Capitan Rivet, assured me, "Don't worry about devising a particularly cool supranym, miss." 

Pointing to the CAPITAN RIVET logo on his chestplate, he chuckled and admitted, "This field is chock full of ridiculous names, believe me." 

In all the many years I'd dreamed about becoming a superheroine, somehow I hadn't spent very much time thinking about my superhero name.

So, in front of My Favorite Cape In the World—I'd changed my allegiance from Awesome Girl, after she heel-turned to villainy—I blanked out.

Stuttering and stammering before a wonderfully patient but still on-the-clock Capitan Rivet, all I could think was, "Time to get EMPowered!"

So I blurted, "Maybe you could just call me 'Empowered', sir?" Added for extra approval-craving: "That wouldn't be too stupid, would it?"

El Capitan must've thought it WAS an awfully stupid supranym, but shrugged and kindly noted, "No one's used it before, I can tell you that."

Ta DAAAH: Thus was a fledgling superheroine saddled with the less-than-ideal but pleasingly hopeful-sounding superhero name "Empowered". 

What I Didn't Know Then: Shortly, I'd discover that "Empowered" wasn't always the most accurate possible supranym one could imagine for me.

Flashforward to me bound, gagged, and slung over Grape Cape's shoulder as he guffaws, "'Empowered'? Really? Kinda ironic, don'cha think?"

Close-up on my masked face, eager to properly berate Purple Dumbass for quoting that awful—and etymologically flawed—Alanis Morrisette song.

Of course, I can't say a word in protest, thanks to the gag he slapped on me. Hard to speak truth to (super)power with a duct-taped mouth. 

My often-crappy career as a superhero might be monetarily poor—hello, snowballing student-loan debt—but it certainly is rich in Cruel Irony.

Here's the dealie: As I grew up, I developed very strong—if not fanatical—convictions about what the role of the female superhero should be.

A Real Superheroine, in my view, should be a self-actualized badass, should be strong but caring, should put feminism into action—literally. 

A Real Superheroine shouldn't be a mere token, shouldn't defer to male privilege, shouldn't (ahem) wear a degrading, sexualized costume. 

Then again, perhaps my irritating college experiences should've clued me in that my gleaming ideals might end up at odds with grubby reality.

Background: As a Suprahuman Studies major in college, I constantly sparred with my doofus-y male peers over superheroine costume trends.

Suprahuman Studies: Still a male-dominated academic field—much like real-life superheroing—so I clashed endlessly with sexist classmates.

I have to admit that, In Real Life, there are indeed a fair number of superheroines who elect to wear deliberately (ahem) "sexy" costumes.

And over four years in Suprahuman Studies, I had EVERY LAST ONE OF THOSE SEXILY DRESSED SUPERHEROINES shoved in my face by male classmates.

"What about Jugganaut or the Scarlet Succubus?" they'd demand. "They sure dress all sexy-like, don't they? They must think it's empowering!"

My Suprahuman Studies classes WERE, in truth, good practice for Real-Life Superheroing: Same Sisyphean struggles with idiot male peers.

"What's wrong with Leopard Lass choosing to have a 'boob window' in her costume? I thought feminism was supposed to be all about choices!"

Recurring refrain: "Hey, male superhero outfits are all, like, revealing and sexy, too! Just look at Hardkore and the Purple Pectoral!"

Four years of endless quarrels, heavy with terms like sexualization, idealization, objectification, privilege, male gaze—and "butt floss." 

Meanwhile, I fantasized about what kind of costume I'd wear, if I ever achieved my childhood-though-young-adulthood dream of superherodom.

I imagined supergarb that would be sturdy and practical, while still rocking plenty of flair and flamboyance—and, yes, a bit of the sexy.

A sports bra under body armor, maybe a half-cape, badass hiking shoes instead of high heels, bit of a "pop-punk" flava, that kind of thing.

Get the picture so far? Idealistic, righteous Suprahuman Studies major, primed to go Fight The Power, Stamp Out Sexism, Do The Right Thing. 

Clarification: I was also an idealistic, righteous Suprahuman Studies major who had developed extremely problematic body-image issues.

My mom was—and is—ridiculously and incandescently hawt, effortlessly sporting a lithe, toned, freakishly calorie-immune dancer's body.

I have a Halloween picture of Mom dressed up as Awesome Girl, and—I'm not kidding—she looks MUCH better than the real Awesome Girl ever did.

Mom, to me, modeled what a superheroine should look like: Strong, graceful, confident; a sleek, gymnast-y frame instead of a voluptuous one.

As a little girl, I'd always lived in the shadow of my mom's radiant, unintentionally intimidating luminosity. As a teenager, even more so. 

Up through age 12, I looked a fair bit like she did at my age: blonde, skinny, limber, athletic—though nowhere near as cute, admittedly. 

Then, starting at age 13, I began filling out, much to my chagrin. Goodbye, slender, agile tomboy. Hello, ungainly hips, and plenty of 'em.

By age 15, any hope of an idealized—as in, Mom-like—body was long gone. Stuff me into superhero drag and I'd be a chubby, big-bottomed joke.

I'd be stomping around, infuriated by my jiggling butt and boobs and thighs, when Mom would casually lope by, like a gazelle in yoga pants.

Cut to me soothing my mounting disappointment and frustration with tube after guilty tube of raw cookie dough, my snack-food drug of choice.

My snacking habits, whimsical and adorable for a scrawny 12-year-old tomboy with a racing metabolism, were disastrous for a plump teenager.

Of course, I had plenty of useful rationalizations. "Don't you know MY DADDY DIED IN FRONT OF ME? Hand me those Creamy Frosted Mini Donuts." 

Every mindlessly wolfed snack drove me further and further away from my ideal—again, Mom-like—superheroine body. Hello, Shame Spiral!

I'd love to say that I had some thrilling, golden-lit, Lifetime-y epiphany worthy of a herpes-medicine commercial. I didn't.

I just gritted my teeth, stopped sniveling—well, stopped sniveling quite so much—and mumbled to myself, "Time to get EMPowered, dumbass."

I wrestled my snacking down to a less appalling level, and worked out like a fiend. Climbed and hiked. Field hockey and old-school DDR. 

Ineptly but enthusiastically punched and kicked a heavy bag, steadfastly ignoring that it looked like a very large tube of raw cookie dough. 

Briefly tried biking but quit in a hurry, as a behind like mine does NOT look good in skintight shorts and displayed atop a bicycle seat.

Mom seemed impressed, but a little worried, by how I spent the rest of high school in a haze of healthy sweat and semi-healthy(ish) eating.

"Elissa Megan Powers, you'd best not be f**king around with an eating disorder," she intoned, watching me like a hawk for any bulimic tells.

And with a background in dance, Mom knew far more about Ana and Mia and friends than all the skinny bitches in my school put together.

Mom needn't have worried. I toed the tightrope of "MAJOR FOOD ISSUES" without tumbling into the abyss of "OUTRIGHT EATING DISORDERS"—barely.

But even while grunting dutifully up a climbing wall, glowing with dewy perspiration, looking all "you-go-girl"-y, I was hiding something. 

Inside, I still secretly despised my big, soft, flabby body for not being the trim, taut, powerful body that a Real Superheroine should have.

Then, hi-ho, I was off to college! Hello, Freshman 15! Well, Freshman 25. Okay, fine, Freshman 28, as it turned out. (Psst: 30, actually.)

In class, I'd be barking at dumbass males, "Superheroines should be defined by their accomplishments, not by their boobs, butts and hips!"

Back in my dorm, look in the mirror, and golly gosh, what did I see? Boobs, butt and hips, and plenty of 'em. WAY too much of 'em, honestly.

Didn't help that my freshman roommate, Cassidy, was on a yearlong mission to browbeat me into slutting it up—nay, "expressing my sexuality."

"Expressing my sexuality," in this context, meant letting Cassidy dress me up like one big, reluctant, thoroughly embarrassed Bratz® doll. 

To Cassidy, my jeans and tops were never low enough, my shorts and undies never small enough. Sweatpants, of course, were beyond the pale.

I'd spend the day in class sparring over sexy superheroine outfits, then spend the night sparring over my own outfits' lack of sexiness. 

Near tears, stubbornly defending my underpants to Cassidy: "They're not 'granny panties' just because they're not a f**king THONG, okay?"

Oh, Cassidy was ALL about the thong. I assume that her glutes would've broken out in hives if any full-sized underwear had ever touched 'em.

I wondered how much impact I'd have on real-world sexism, if I couldn't even have a rational conversation with my roommate about underpants.

Unlike in class, with Cassidy I lost more arguments than I won, as my trembling self-doubt and lack of confidence were no match for her.

Flirty, outgoing, extroverted and—more relevantly—overbearing, Cassidy saw me as clay to be molded in her own "look at me, I'm hawt" image.

All my fine, fierce opinions about "sexualization" or "objectification" were useless against her Marianas-Trench-worthy (peer) pressure.

Cut to Abashed, Red-Faced Me, sipping only the shallowest of breaths so I wouldn't pop right out of the peekaboo top Cassidy forced me into. 

Matters came to a head at Spring Cape Fling, when she cowed me into dressing as Clobberina, partner to her own cosplay of Hothouse Flower.

In Real Life, Clobberina's track-and-field-ish costume looks kinda sexy—but mostly badass—on her lithe, powerful, sculpted athlete's frame. 

On my softer, pudgier body, with too much upstairs and WAY too much downstairs, Clobberina's outfit looked more like day-shift stripperwear.

Cassidy, half-drunk and fully aglow with all the attention Hothouse Flower's floral bikini deserved, couldn't understand my mortification.

"You're the hit of the party, E-Pow!" she gushed, to demands of "Clobber me with that big ol' superbooty," and the evergreen "Take it off!"

Why wasn't I basking in all the male attention being lavished on me? Wasn't that the REAL reason why superheroines dressed the way they did? 

"Besides," she slurred, "everybody knows that bewbs 'n' booties are the only REAL superpowers your stupid heroines have. Flaunt it, E-Pow!"

Of all the hundreds of verbal harpoons Cassidy had sunk into my blubber—shut up, I like whales, okay?—she'd hit a real nerve at last. 

As a superheroine, the very last thing I wanted to be was a titillatingly packaged—if chubby—piece of Ass Candy for the boys to gawk at. 

My lifelong dream was, to Cassidy, just one more opportunity to one-up every other girl in sight and to tantalize some drunken douchebros.

To quote my boy Jean-Luc, "We draw the line HEAH!" Full vertebrate status: ACTIVATED. As Daddy always said, "Time to get EMPowered."

I finally, sputteringly spoke my mind, blurted out repressed harshness, and terminated our pseudo-friendship with 45 seconds of truthiness.

Cassidy's face was still frozen in a Taylor-Swift-worthy mask of total surprise as I stomped out of the party, feeling shaky but righteous.

A welcome side effect of antagonizing Cassidy: No one would ever use the nickname "E-Pow" for me ever again, for which I am eternally glad.

<And that's it for now, folks! Next time, this chapter rolls on with Emp discussing her supersuit, and bringing up a fair number of concepts that have never quite made it into the Empowered comics proper. Click here to jump to our next excerpt from the story!>