New comics every Monday and Thursday!

Draw!

by Rick on September 23, 2011 at 3:36 pm
Posted In: Dispatches

Last time I posted a little about what goes into putting together the art for this site, and so this post will delve a little more into the specifics of the process. I think it should be understood that this is the way I work. There are as many different ways to do comics as there are comic artists, and I feel strongly about everyone finding the method that works best for them.

As I said last post I read over the script a few times to get the feel of the story, the characters, and to note any reference needed for the piece. As to reference, James brought up an interesting question in the comments last time. If you’re dealing with a fantasy or science fiction story where a world is being created, how much reference is actually needed? The general answer is, it depends. The specific answer for this strip is, quite a bit. Greg and I are creating a world of our imaginations, but it’s a world based on the design and technology of a historic period, the Victorian Age. Staying true to that means we need to adhere to those basics as a starting point for our extrapolations. For instance, if we want a flying riverboat, a good place to start would be with a riverboat design from that period. Then we can push it and pull it and add things to it to make our version of the boat one that fits in the world we’re creating. The fashion, the technology, the architecture of the time needs to be researched so we can use them as the basis for the design sense of our make believe world. It goes a long way to solidify the believability of the strip.

Once the set-up work is done I begin to lay the story out. I am adamant about telling the story visually. I tell every writer the first time I work with them that I will not change their story. My job is to interpret the script visually. But, if I find a way to enhance the story, to make it read more clearly, or to enhance the drama intended, I may make changes in the panel directions. I might add panels, combine panels, change the angle of a shot, move in closer, move out wider, anything it takes to improve the storytelling. If the change is drastic I’ll always contact the writer and the editor and let them know what I have in mind, so I can get their approval. In this specific case, Greg is such a visual writer that I don’t often have to do that. Sometimes he’ll call me before he writes a scene to get my input on how it might be staged. That’s one of the reasons this collaboration works so well. We have a mutual trust that we are both heading in the same direction with the same goal in mind.

I could go on about storytelling for days and I’ll come back to it at a later post, but let’s move on.

Once I have an idea of how many panels will be needed for this specific day’s work and how they will be arranged on the page, I take a sheet of 11×14 2 ply Bristol and pencil the boarders and the panels. Then I begin the actual drawing.

Lately I’ve been drawing the individual elements of the panels on vellum and then use a light box to compose them on the board. I like drawing on vellum because of the way the pencil glides on the surface, and the fact that it’s translucent gives me the option of trying different poses and positions for characters without having to redraw everything. I’m sure many of you know that this can all be done on a computer graphics program as well. Maybe someday I’ll move to that, but for right now, I’m comfortable with this.

Layout for first screen

Screen 1, Chapter 1, rough

When everything is transferred to the board and I’m satisfied with the position and size of all the elements, I’ll tighten up the pencils making minor changes as needed. Nothing is engraved in stone. I may make changes in the art throughout the process. I’ve replaced entire panels even after they’ve been inked and colored if something doesn’t work. For me, that’s the biggest advantage of working on the computer. The artist has the ability to make changes at any point without too much fuss.

So, we have our board laid out and the pencilled drawings are tightened up. We’re ready to move on to inks. And we will…

Until next time

Rick

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Process 05b – Hold Fast!

by Greg on September 20, 2011 at 1:00 pm
Posted In: Dispatches

Continuing, then. From the need to Tell the Truth, to be Honest, to the intestinal fortitude to do the same. So, courage, in this context, works in two forms that blend and blur.

You can’t tell the truth if you don’t have the courage to do it.

Put it another way: if, as I have argued, good writing is emotionally honest writing, this requires, in turn, the courage to be the same. All writers write from themselves, and thus, in some manner or fashion, they are writing about themselves. English majors and professors of literature and critics of various and sundry qualifications love this; they adore reading into the text, the idea that what has made it to page or screen is more about the writer than the story. That’s not what I mean. That’s not what I’m talking about. This isn’t Mary Sue-ism, this isn’t wish-fulfillment, and rarely is it as blatant as the audience (and particular, certain critics) believe. Just because a character in a novel I once wrote had an abortion doesn’t mean that my girlfriend at the time did the same. The line is not so straight, nor the connections so literal.

A writer’s ability to empathize is part of their creativity, a necessary part. But it isn’t enough to take what we know, what we have experienced, and then to drop it on our characters, into our stories. If it’s going to work, it’s going to have to be raw, unvarnished, naked. It’s going to have to draw on those things that make us uncomfortable and nervous and embarrassed. Our empathy for our characters is going to make use feel those things for our creations, our stories. In pursuit of the emotional core, we strip ourselves, mine ourselves, and thus expose ourselves. We are not writing for ourselves, whatever we may say to the contrary; if we were, we’d never want to be published. We’re writing to show our work to others. We are, always, presenting ourselves to be judged.

That’s never fun. That’s never easy. This is, incidentally, one of the reasons why certain writers often come across as either arrogant or aloof. That’s armor, that’s simple self-defense. When you release a story into the world to be accepted and praised or rejected and loathed, you are putting yourself into the world in the same way, no matter how much you might wish to pretend otherwise, no matter how far you seek to remove yourself from your creation. This is why, for the most part, most writers hate most critics, I think; the critic assumes the role of judge, and much like a FIFA referee, dispenses their assaults and accolades from a position that is almost impossible to assail. The writer – especially in the age of the interwebs – is vulnerable from all sides. And I would argue that the writer must be – if you’re telling the truth, if you’re committed to your craft, then there is a necessary investment in your work. If you spend 100 days building a model boat, only to have your best friend – or a total stranger – tell you that it stinks, you got it wrong, that’s going to hurt.

Even if it’s true.

This is not to say that all criticism is invalid, of course, nor that writers must be handled with kid-gloves. But if you write, and if you publish, you are going to be judged. And amidst those judgments, there will invariably be someone who is braying for your head on a pike. Sometimes literally. Someone, somewhere, someway, some day. Because if the First Rule is “Show, Don’t Tell,” and the Second Rule is “Write What You Know,” then the Third Rule is as follows:

You are never going to write something that everyone will like.

(I think of this as the Mark Twain Corollary, going hand-in-hand with his quote about a classic being “a book that people praise but don’t read.” As far as it goes, I’m totally making up these Rules. There are rules, to be certain. But I’m not actually a huge fan of them beyond the most basic as listed above.)

Thus, you, dear writer, you’re going to get it in the teeth. Sometimes you’re going to get it in the belly. Sometimes you’re going to be taken to the ground and curb-stomped something vicious, and even better, sometimes it’ll be by someone who is accusing you of writing exactly what you weren’t.

So you damn well better have the courage to take the beating. You damn well better have the courage to sit down and write it anyway. You damn well better have the courage to shout down your lesser angels that are telling you that you cannot do this, that you will fail, that it is too hard, too difficult, too time-consuming, that nobody will care, that it will never be good enough.

Writing is not a static craft. I believe, with absolute heart, that one can never be “good enough.” Writing demands better, that what you attempt tomorrow reaches further, is more informed, is more refined, is more expert than what you delivered yesterday.

This leads to a more nuanced Courage. There’s a note above my bride‘s desk in her office, just a little Post-It, I’m not sure when she wrote it, and I’m not sure what the project was she wrote it about. “Courage to Fail.”

This is, more than anything else, crucial, in my opinion. Good writing requires risk-taking. It requires taking the story places you’re not comfortable with it going, sometimes. This is not writing for effect. This is writing honestly, so honestly that you question whether it’s too much, and yes, sometimes it is.

This courage requires a commitment to writing scenes that, frankly, can scare you – both in their content and in your faith in your own ability. These are moments that, as you work, make your stomach clench with butterflies and that make your heart race. And it is wise to remember, those moments? Sometimes, those moments, done right, are the moments that will do the same to your audience. Those moments that scare you, those raw, frightening moments? Those are the moments, perhaps, of the greatest possibility, where you can forge the purest connection with your audience. Those are the moments of resonance.

Those are the moments that are remembered.

Next week, whips, chains, and Discipline.

Hold fast!

 

Greg

3 Comments

Art Process – A Beginning

by Rick on September 16, 2011 at 2:12 pm
Posted In: Dispatches

It’s one thing to know how to do something, and quite another to pass that knowledge along to someone else. For a while now Greg and Eric have suggested that I write a blog post on process, how the visual side of this opus is put together. When you’ve done something every day for a long time you really don’t consider how you do it. You just, well, do it. Sometime write down instructions, in detail, on how you brush your teeth. See?

When I began to consider what I might write, how much detail I should include, I realized that I couldn’t do it in one post. Maybe if I broke it into parts it would be more digestible, less like watching grass grow. We’ll see.

When I receive a script I give it a read through, just to get a general idea of what the story is about, a quick overview. I’ll set the script aside and go do something else for a while. Coming back to the script, I’ll read it again, this time paying attention to possible research that will be needed. This could be anything from locations to props to costumes. Years ago I drew Blackhawk for DC. The series was set in the late 1940’s and took place all over the world. I’m a stickler for accuracy and spent a great deal of time doing research for the series. As I said this was a long time ago (prepare yourself now) before the internet!  All the research had to be done either at the library or in a book store. It was easy for Mike Grell to write, “A street in Singapore, 1947”, and quite another to draw said street accurately. Suffice to say I became a pretty good researcher.

Then I consider characters. Are there existing characters in the story I’ve never drawn before?  Are there new characters to design?

Then I go about gathering my research, becoming acquainted with the characters, or doing model sheets for new ones. Next, I pencil tight thumbnails of each page on 81/2x 11 sheets of paper, blocking out storytelling, and in some cases, making sure I nail a certain pose on a figure so I don’t have to struggle with it later. It’s easier and faster for me to do it with a smaller image than it is with a large one. Then I enlarge the thumbnails and transfer them to 2-ply Bristol board using a light box.

Everything I’ve just written is true, except when it isn’t.

I have adult ADD, and my focus and patience can be erratic, to say the least. So, depending on my mood, I might work the way I just wrote about. Or, I may do loose thumbnails on any scrap of paper lying around, or I may do the thumbnails in my head, or I might even not do any thumbnails at all, pick the most important image on the page, figure out how I want to present it, and build the page around it.

I may do the research at the beginning, or do it as I go, when needed. The same with characters. I might do sketches before I start, just to get the feel of them, or I might just block figures in on the page and fill in the details later. If I don’t do thumbnails I’ll sketch panels on a piece of vellum, adjust size if needed, and transfer them to the board via light box where I’ll tighten them up. Or I may draw individual elements of a panel separately and compose them as I transfer them to the board.

Confused yet?  Imagine how I feel.

So, consider this an introduction to how I approach things generally. I pretty much fly using only instruments. Next time, I’ll rewind and talk specifically about Lady Sabre and how this particular strip  comes together, in as much detail as you like.  This might take a while.

Until next time

Rick

3 Comments

St. Louis Bound

by Greg on September 13, 2011 at 1:47 pm
Posted In: Dispatches

Blog for today is delayed as I try to get my act together for Bouchercon 2011 in St. Louis, which I shall be attending, and at which I have no idea what I’ll be doing, aside from hanging out with folks I see perhaps once a year.

And I get to see Rick in person for the first time in too many years to count.

Blog post on Thursday will continue the “series on what Greg thinks about writing if you’re interested.”

Not coincidentally, Thursday will also see the start of Chapter Two. We’re much happier with the pacing for Chapter Two; don’t have the hang of everything quite yet, I fear, but I am optimistic that it’ll be a vast improvement to what I feel was the major flaw with Chapter One, ie, my pacing stank on ice.

Hold fast!

 

Greg

1 Comment

Process 05a – To Tell the Truth

by Greg on September 6, 2011 at 2:00 pm
Posted In: Dispatches

Right, then. Honesty.

This is an odd one in many ways, because writers are professional dissemblers. We’re a pack of liars. We make stuff up, and if we’re extraordinarily fortunate, we can even get people to pay for us to do it. The title to Lawrence Block‘s exceptional book on writing – one of his many, actually – Telling Lies for Fun and Profit, really says it all. Or, to paraphrase the late Spalding Gray, writing is “telling the lie that tells the truth.”

So writers are liars, and the beauty of it is, the audience knows this. As with a magic show, they arrive willing, even eager, to be fooled. They know they’re going to be tricked, and they submit themselves willingly to the deception. They willingly suspend their disbelief.

To a point. Right up to the moment that they’re taken too far, and then they’re gone, and you will not get them back. Right up to the point where your lies are so blatant and bald they can no longer ignore the deception. And once they’re gone, they are gone, brothers and sisters. They’re out and more than that, they’re likely a little ticked off at you, too. Because it’s one thing for everybody to accept the deception, and it’s another to throw it in their face. You can be a liar, but you don’t ever want to put your audience in a place where they are forced to name you as such. They’ve come willingly, remember, they’ve come to be deceived for their pleasure. You abuse that at your peril.

(This is, incidentally, why coincidence is so difficult to manage in fiction. Coincidences do happen, after all, sometimes with alarming frequency. But a fiction is a crafted, structured facade, and reliance on coincidence, as with Deus ex Machina, betrays that. It’s good to remember that being Honest is not the same as being Realistic. Reality has coincidence, and a lattice work of causality that can be daunting, if not impossible, to effectively recreate in a fiction. A story has Rules, ie, and the audience presumption is that, if a detail is included, that detail will be relevant. An example – I work at a coffee shop about 8 blocks from my home, a straight line. Every single time an emergency vehicle whizzes past, lights and sirens running, heading in the direction of my home, I have to fight the urge to call Jen. Because I’ve noticed the detail, and I’ve constructed a narrative instantly and unconsciously. It’s absurd, and it’s also, frankly, arrogant, but we are arrogant creatures – on some level, in our minds, the universe is too big to not be about us.

But I digress.)

I offer the following quick example, from a novel I read long ago, the author of which shall remain nameless: Character A is a military officer serving on a naval vessel. Said naval vessel engages in combat, and Character A comes up short, and a lot of people die. Character A loses said vessel, and, we are told – not shown – his courage and self-confidence, as well. Character B arrives, takes Character A out for a night of heavy drinking and a peptalk, and the next day, Character A returns to active duty and Saves the World. Apparently with a hangover.

I call bullshit.

Everything in the above is plausible, mind. That’s not the problem. The problem is that it’s emotionally dishonest. It’s emotionally false. Even in my above summation, you can see, you can imagine, the emotional state of Character A following his defeat. You can believe in that. You can even, if you’re exceptionally invested or exceptionally empathetic, feel it. Thus, when the cure comes from a bottle and a ‘go get ‘em, tiger!’ speech, it rings hollow. It rings wrong. It rings false. As a reader, as a member of the audience, I want more. I want echoes. I can accept the go get ‘em speech as a means to start the long road back. But I sure as hell don’t buy it as the cure-all the author in question presented it as.

This emotional honesty is, to me, one of the most important – if not the most important – elements of good writing. You can write your story about Clockwork Men from Jupiter, or a Master of Magnetism, or an Amazon Princess, or an ape in a lab, you can craft the most outlandish, surreal, absurd scenarios, but if I believe in your characters, I’m there to the last page, panel, or frame. If I believe in their inner lives, in what they feel and follow why they feel it, I’m in. If you’re just moving shells around from action set piece to sex scene to set piece, I’m out, and it doesn’t matter to me how pretty the picture or how delicate your prose. If I don’t believe in the heart of your story, it is, quite literally, not worth my time.

Honesty, in this sense, is about telling the truth. Not about relating facts, but about relating those universal (well, as far as we know) moments that we have all shared in some way or another. These needn’t be the Big Truths, this doesn’t have to be about Love or Death or God, and, in fact, I’m more inclined to chase down the smaller ones, myself. In the end, they lead to the big ones, anyway. But, as human beings, there are things we all share, and even if you’re not writing about human beings, even if you’re writing about a pack of rabbits, these eternals remain. We know what it’s like to look longingly at someone who doesn’t see us. We know what it’s like to be cold, to be tired, to be frustrated by the jackass in line ahead of us at the store. We know what it’s like to surprised by a friend or humiliated by a foe. We know what it’s like to lose our keys, or to have a day where every little thing is going wrong. We’ve all been there. We’ve all felt it. If you can draw that line, you engage the reader, and you tell a story that is, ultimately, True, regardless of its genre or its setting. Again, I refer you to Haldeman’s The Forever War, a novel that is entirely outside the scope of our human experience, and yet is as emotionally true and evenhanded as any I’ve ever read.

You have to be honest with your characters. You have to be honest to your characters.

That last part can be hard. That last part requires Courage. Because sometimes you’ll be writing something and you will know, you will know, what has to happen next, and it’s going to hurt to write it. Because a character you love must die. Because a character you love must lose, or be humiliated, or hurt, or heart-broken. Because you didn’t want to write that kind of story, and all of a sudden, there it is, in front of you, and now you’ve got a choice. Because you don’t know if you have the skill or ability or talent or whatnot to actually make the words do what you want them to do, to make the audience understand exactly what it is you’re trying to say.

And you have to choose. Tell the truth of the story, or don’t. Avoid it. Run away from it. Rewrite it so it needn’t ever be.

Or run towards it and be prepared for the agony writing can be.

Which segues nicely into the next part of this unending ramble.

Next time, then, Courage.

Hold fast!

 

Greg

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