firehose

Marx on the cover of Sierra Magazine

Social games are almost purely mechanical, but when Marx joined Zynga in late 2011, she started fleshing out backstories, doing writing that players wouldn't ever see, but that could potentially have a big impact on the quality of a game.

"I [worked] on Hidden Chronicles, a hidden-object game, and I got to develop — in conjunction with the creative director — the whole backstory, and came up with the characters, and the bios for the characters. I've been doing game bibles here," Marx says. "Nobody ever actually asked me to do it, but to me it's just a good thing to do, to write a story bible for your game that anybody can look at. It lays out the basic tone and feel of the game and who the characters are and what the setting is and all that basic information. That's the kind of thing I'm used to doing for animation and television, so I always do it for any game I'm working on here."

Marx does design work as well — her official title at Zynga is senior narrative designer, which she finds amusing. "It's a fairly new term," she says. "A few people working within the games business as writers decided that there was a need for another category that we could identify ourselves [with]. People who could not only write, but do game design.

"When I first interviewed [here], a producer said to me, 'Why don't you have any other narrative designer credits on your resume?' I had to laugh — I said, 'Because it didn't exist!' The term didn't exist! You just called yourself whatever. Game writer."

More than any other job in writing, Marx loves world building — creating characters, deciding how their societies function, creating their politics and religions. Before building story bibles at Zynga, Marx worked on them for other games. For one fantasy RPG, she came on board when the game's setting, a chunk of land floating in space, was already established. But she had to figure out how the story, and its world, could function.

"They had created a look for all the characters, but they didn't know how to put it all together. The challenge for me was to figure out, 'OK, how and why does this kind of group of people exist on this floating chunk of planet? How can it exist? ... And then what are the rules of that?'"

Even within her world building, Marx finds ways to work in narrative. Why are these different races all floating on the same chunk of rock? Because they were created by an advanced civilization for different purposes. Why are the day/night cycles so short? Because the chunk would rotate faster than a larger planet.

Despite all this, Marx says she's "first and foremost a storyteller." That's been her thing since she was a kid. Since before she could read, even. She conjured up stories to entertain her brother, practicing rudimentary sequential storytelling with stick figures. Her three-decade career as a writer, which started in Los Angeles in the late 1970s, can be traced back to one defining childhood influence: comic books.

So she did. Marx began taking night classes on screenplay writing at the Sherwood Oaks Experimental College, which brought in working writers and actors and producers to talk about the industry. She networked. She got a job in the production end of the TV business and worked up to script reading. Then came the big break: Meeting Roy Thomas, then-editor-in-chief of Marvel Comics, and successfully pitching him a story for the comic Savage Sword of Conan.

"My dream was to break into writing for comics," Marx says. "I got to know this whole group of comic book people, and there was an organization that still exists actually, called the Comic Art Professional Society, in LA. I started attending those meetings and doing a lot more networking and that was how I got my break into writing for animation."

In 1979, Marx met an Australian artist named Peter Ledger at one of the Comic Art Professional Society meetings in LA. They sparked, but he was headed back to Australia. A couple of years passed; during that time, one of Marx's friends at CAPS told her that the DePatie-Freleng studio was looking for writers who could do Fantastic Four for an animated series.

"I just called and said, 'I've written a Fantastic Four story,' which I had, and it got me in the door," Marx says. "And I was just hired."

Then Ledger came back. "This time it really caught fire," she says. After a year together, they moved to Australia for three months so Ledger could get a divorce. And then they were married.

Marx with the Jem and the Holograms doll

After Jem finished its run in 1988, Marx started writing for the live-action series Captain Power and the Soldiers of the Future. Captain Power attempted to appeal to adults with a post-apocalyptic setting and season-long character arcs; for kids, there were toys that could interact with the television during CG action scenes. This was a new storytelling challenge — Marx had to figure out how to blend the animated sequences into the narrative of each week's episode.

"It felt very cutting edge," Marx says. Chalk that up to story editor J. Michael Straczynski, who would go on to create Babylon 5. "I had written a five-part miniseries for the second season. And [then] this total asshole decided to go on one of these crusades and turn our show into what Wertham tried to turn comics into in the '50s. He started blaming the show for all kinds of violence and having horrible negative effects on kids because they were shooting guns at the screen ... and he basically destroyed the toy line. Mattel just backed out."

It was a disappointing loss, but if it wasn't for Captain Power's cancellation, Marx may not have two decades of game design history under her belt today.

Conquest of Camelot

Hard times

Hard times

Marx in 2013

The little time she doesn't spend at Zynga goes to writing comics. For DC's New 52 initiative, Marx has been writing a rebooted Sword of Sorcery, which DC last published in the early 1970s. Its final issue runs in May 2013. She's also writing DC's Birds of Prey series, which stars a team of female superheroes like Batgirl and Poison Ivy. Comics, at least, give her an opportunity to write strong female characters — and she no longer has to sneak her comics in through the bedroom window.

And on Friday nights, with a week of narrative design behind her and a weekend of comic plotting ahead, Christy Marx takes a brief break from writing to enjoy a video game for a few precious hours.

She and her husband, Littlejohn, play World of Warcraft together. They've been questing as the same avatars for six years.

You can bet she's got some stories about them.

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Most days, if I’m working, I ignore my mother’s dog. If she’s really feeling neglected, she will stretch to her full height, which isn’t much, and push against me, her forepaws in the small of my back.

At night, when I sleep on the couch — it’s always on a couch — she will sleep too, a warm gray curl fitted in the crook behind my knees. At night, if I’m working — I’m always working — she will pretend to be asleep but never close her eyes.

Sometimes I will turn to my mother’s dog and whisper, “Hey, do you wanna…” just to see her sit up and tremble. She is waiting to hear how the sentence ends.

“Don’t tease Tootsie!” my mother will chastise, loud in my mind’s ear.

“All right, all right,” I will grumble at no one. “Toots, do you wanna go for a walk.”

My mother’s dog is a miniature schnauzer, a stocky little thing made of perfect right angles and, I think, nerves. When her fur is overgrown she looks less like a dog, more like a stuffed bear. She is so cute when she trots or gallops, when she howls or sighs. She is always sighing. Mostly I avoid looking at her directly. Looking at her feels like a heart attack, my chest gets so tight.

“I know this is going to sound crazy,” I told the veterinarian, “but she’s on the couch too much. Usually she shadows me around the house, but now she just sits there. And — how do I make this not sound crazy — her butt isn’t as perky as it used to be.”

The veterinarian smiled.

“I’m very impressed!” he said to me. “The problem is her spine.”

He put his fingers against my mother’s dog’s back, near her haunches.

“It’s actually this vertebra right here.”

Then he said, “You will be an excellent dog owner. I know the type.”

He winked.

In the waiting room, the receptionist put her hand on my arm.

“Do you want your name on the paperwork,” she asked. She was pointing her clipboard toward me. I looked down at it, at my parents’ names.

“Um, not yet, that’s all right,” I said. Then I clapped my hands over my mouth at the very memory of both of them, and gagged. I tried to not vomit in front of her.

Once, as a child, I made the mistake of asking why I wasn’t allowed to have a dog.

“Poisoned!” my adoptive father shouted in lieu of an answer. “They were poisoned! Rat poison! The neighbor! The neighbor did it!” He scowled and beat his right fist against his chest, as if to ward off some epic dole.

I got a parakeet instead.

I didn’t want a dog. Now I can’t picture not having a dog. Now, when the dog gallivants across the lawn in pursuit of a butterfly or squirrel, my chest becomes so small and tight with love-panic. Of course I am trying to imagine losing her, trying to prepare myself for what that day will feel like — or worse, what all the days after that would feel like.

In quiet moments I turn and look at my mother’s dog and hold my breath, watching for the almost-imperceptible rise and fall.

“Toots,” I might whisper to her, “do you wanna…?” because I am making sure she still comes alive.

There isn’t a longer, more terrible grief than a dog owner’s anticipatory grief. “A dog,” writes John Homans, “can’t figure out that it’s being measured for its grave.”

The two scariest things my mother ever said to me were “I thought you would have a family by now” and “that little dog will be yours someday.”

“Please don’t talk like that,” I snapped.

I used to drive alone between Chicago and my parents’ house, which is twenty-something hours away. During college break I’d sneak into their house in the middle of the night and sit down at the kitchen table with a book or a sandwich.

My mother would invariably wake up first, would appear in the kitchen in her Snoopy t-shirt and boxer shorts, thrilled. It wouldn’t be long, would it, before my adoptive father lumbered in. “Well!” he would bellow from the doorway. And then he wouldn’t hug me; instead he would cup my head in his great, heavy hands, would handle my face roughly before patting me, hard, on the shoulder.

Then it would be all three of us, sitting around the kitchen table with our cups of coffee, interrupting one another.

Once, when my mother was in the hospital, I sneaked into the house, dropped my luggage in the den. My mother’s dog quickly found me out. She threw herself at my feet, a yelping whimpering whorl.

“Well,” my father said from the doorway, “who is it?”

“Hi!” I said. “Sorry to wake you.”

He frowned at me. “Who is it?” he repeated to the dog.

“Oh,” I said, my chest balling into two rolled fists, becoming smaller than any other feeling I’ve ever had. “No, it’s me, Jenny. Your daughter Jenny.”

“Jenny!” he said. “Well! I wondered why the dog was going nuts.” He staggered toward me, took my face in his great, cracked hands, and pressed my head, hard, to his sternum.

This was probably the last time my father ever called me by name.

I hated her as a puppy. She barked at literally everything. Her shrieks would turn to growls when my father or I went to hug my mother.

“You aren’t even listening!” I shouted.

“Hmm?” my mother asked, her head jerking toward me. “Oh. I hear you. You were talking about your English professor.”

“God!” I shouted, rising from the couch and crossing the living room in one easy motion. “Enjoy your replacement daughter!”

“Jenny,” my mother said, but I was already flouncing down the hallway toward my childhood bedroom, which never had a locking door. I slammed the door anyway, flung myself onto the bed.

I waited for my bedroom door to open, but no one came.

“God,” I whispered into a pillow. I shook, furious.

My mother had pleaded with her husband to let her have a dog, and after years of refusing, he finally told her yes. He had driven my mother to the farm, had chosen the whimpering thing himself, had held that squirming little potato in his great, gnarled hands.

I rolled onto my back, resolved to stew to in my childhood bedroom all night. I put a pillow over my face.

“Jenny, love Tootsie,” my mother would order, pointing at that wriggling clutch of teeth and toenails and fur.

I’d eye the dog, unconvinced.

“She’ll be yours someday,” my mother would say then. Her voice would become low and serious, a warning.

It wouldn’t be long, would it. I wondered how long a dog lives. I gritted my teeth, then sobbed into the pillow. My father had made it clear: my parents both expected to die within the dog’s lifetime.

That animal was an egg-timer.

I will be 31 soon. I write about videogames for a living, same as I did when I was 24.

Everything else, though, is different. For one thing, there’s this dog.

She’s nine.

Sometimes we are walking together — me, shuffling and grumpy, hating the outdoors, her, nuzzling each individual strand of grass, it would seem — when someone will stop me to say, “Hey! Cute dog!”

I immediately reply, “Thanks! She was my mom’s.”

“Is she friendly?” the person may ask, stooping to get sniffed.

“Of course she is friendly,” I answer impatiently.

My mother’s dog is waiting by my feet right now, pestering me with her plaintive looks.

Sometimes I stop typing and look down at her, like this. And she hears the pause and she looks up at me with those wide, wet horse-eyes, just like this.

And I have to smirk at her, I have to, because here we are, just the two of us, only ever just the two of us, what a pair. Probably we are the only pair in the world that has ever really made any sense.