Ain't That a Kick in the Head

Wow. So this morning, I got myself an agent. A mighty fine one too: Anne Hawkins, of John Hawkins Associates. I've been dancing a happy little Snoopydance all over the walls today, no surprise.

From Miss Snark, The Rejector, Lit Soup, and others, I hear this is supposed to be a long, hard drudge of a process. For me, not so much. I sent out six queries, got one immediate request for an exclusive three weeks to read the full manuscript. And I've still got a week and a half left before that deadline. It's a pretty enthusiastic 'yes' on both sides!

Of course, I wrote three novels in two years before I had something good enough to show. And I was pretty careful in my choice of queries, too. The Poison Door is an odd beast: hardboiled noir full of two-fisted action, but with an offbeat literary bent. No point querying agents who rep cozies, or police procedurals, or Carl Hiassen-style madcap hijinx.

Incidentally, I haven't forgotten to follow up my comics pages post. I've just been busy. The pages themselves are done, but the wee essay on how they got that way will have to wait for the next free minute I get.

Patience, gentle readers...

How to Make Comics - Fun!

Starting some pages for a new graphic novel, so I thought I'd take the time to document the process.

First, my supplies:

cardstock,

a blue pencil (non-photo blue, or pthalo blue light some art supply stores call it),

a kneaded eraser so I don't leave crumbs,

a lapboard (I got Cool Dog in CHina years ago and he's still hanging in there),

and last, but certainly no least,

a comfy chair. :-D

I start by blocking out the story. It's a sort of push and pull between the words I'll be using and their placement on the page and the action/shots/moments I just *have* to show. A lot of this happens in my head. A lot changes here, so the drawing at this point is raw scribbles, circles and squares, stick figures.

Now, here we are at the end of this stage. My page is blocked out and the scribbles developed into roughs. This took about two hours for all four pages, but that's a heckuva lot to upload with a dial-up modem, so I just loaded two...

Now, here I am another couple hours later, with the pencils I'll be inking over. Some would consider these still pretty loose, others quite tight. For me, the big question is, 'can I look at them and see what I'm supposed to do with the inks?' That's it.

Note that the guy's head (his name is Sam) changes a LOT on that one page. I felt Sam needed more anger and confrontation, less resignation. After all, it's conflict that drives stories...

I'll post more as the inks come in...

Now that's what I call drawing

Jo Booker. Her work just blows me away. Really. I'd post an example, but her superior technical wizardry is far, far above my wee head.

Funny, but when you wear the 'cartoonist' label, you find a lot of *very* different people under the umbrella with you.

Me, I'm basically a genre novelist who often works in pictures, but good luck telling someone you've just met that at a party. So I say I'm a cartoonist. Suddenly, I could just as easily draw:

Animation
Three-panel gag strips
One-panel politcal satire
Men in their underwear throwing cars at each other, or
Big heads on small bodies, preferably on rollerskates...

Jo mostly does big heads and satire, and with breathtaking ease. Her portraiture and reg'lar painting are mighty damn fine too.

We worked China together about a million years ago (or was it just last week?), and she's awesome. If I can find where in this glorified shearing-shed I've hidden my China stuff, I'll post some stories.

Check out her blog, too! It's here, or in the link to the left. I tell you, that girl goes everywhere...

Draw Draw Draw

When I remember, I like to carry a small sketchbook with me. We got a brief spell of warm weather recently (summer, what summer?), so the Lovely Tiny Dynamo and I betook ourselves to the Dux de Lux for a midafternoon champagne. As you do...

These were done with my spiffy new fountain pen and no net. scary, but fun!

Muses and Mercenaries

Jenny Rappaport put up a post on her blog, Lit Soup, that got me thinking. It was about the balance between creativity and pragmatism. As a creative-type who hasn't had a day job in something like ten or fifteen years, it's a balance I should know something about.

For me, it's a matter of place and time. The two ends of the spectrum are too dangerous, otherwise.

At the creativity end of the spectrum, I went to school surrounded by black turtlenecks and European cigarettes, endlessly encouraged to 'draw my feelings about the chair' or 'explore the way the poo scumbles across the canvas'. We were taught to look up to artists who never touched their own work, and others whose art involved stripping naked and pelting themselves with raw meat. I'm not kidding.

Nothing against those artists, but under conditions like that, it's understandably easy to crawl up your own ass until you've forgotten that fresh air exists. A trust fund helps. So does a grant.

For me, the danger is different. I'm at endless risk of turning into a mercenary hack. I approach my work with a real sense of craftsmanship and pride in a job well done. (Except of course, that the job's never done as well as it might have been, but The Unattainable Search for Perfection is a different post...) That counts for my novels every bit as much as my tattoos.

The world being what it is, I'm lucky enough to trade the exercise of my odd little talents for occasional sums of money. Under conditions like that, it's understandably easy to do the job, take the money, and look for the next job. Before you know it, you've forgotten what it's like to feel that sense of joy in your work. You no longer feel quite so lucky about your career.

I lost a fair amount of my 20's chasing dollars and exercising craft. I'm still making up for lost time.

These days, I follow the muses where they lead, humbly when I can, full of Luciferean pride when I can't. Some of my efforts cost me more than they make. It's all part of the game.

Hence, the balance between my inner muse and my inner mercenary. In those creative times, I give myself wholly and fully to the work. Everything I have and all that I am goes into doing the best that I can in that moment.

Then the mercenary takes over. He's the hard-nosed bastard who can fix you with a flat-eyed stare and name a price that makes you swallow hard. Take it or leave it.

And there is a heirarchy. Writing, painting, making comics, the muse does the work without thought, and the mercenary sells it. Tattoos, work-for-hire and commissions, the mercenary knows he'd damn well better bring back something the muse likes...

Just a thought!

Pats on the Head

Hmm, let's see....


http://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/03/books/review/Hajdu.t.html?_r=2&n=Top%2fFeatures%2fBooks%2fBook%20Reviews&oref=slogin&oref=slogin

Woo hoo! It worked! Article in the NYT about graphic novels as serious literature. This one even managed not to be terribly condescending.

I mean, I *know* I'm a lot closer to the Sweet Potato Queen than Thomas Pynchon in the 'artistic voice' sweepstakes. At least, maybe. If the Sweet Potato Queen woke up in a tangle of sweaty sheets with a fresh bruise, a chain of hickeys and a hangover so bad she couldn't hold the match to her Marlboro.

Thing is, after a whole work-weekend of, "Tattoos are, like, art now," and a work-week of "Comics aren't just men in their underwear throwing cars anymore. Well, not entirely," I'm getting a little tired of the pats on the damn head.

No one to blame but myself, I suppose. I could have gone on to grad school and then professor-ship, all the while sucking at the public teat to fund my 'work'. But I made a conscious choice to make a living from my art instead.

And every time I go to a museum or gallery to see the latest batch of trash bags thrown over coat hangers or mason jars full of feces or whatever, I do a little happy dance.



Oh, and last weekend I did an Indian I was pretty happy with. The guy came back and I got a happy snap without all the blood in...

Also did a mess of drawing and some work on some how-to stuff, but I still have to plug in my scanner and shout curses at it for 45 minutes before I can post any of that.

Get right on that, shall I?

T'were Paradise Enow

One thing about my adopted home-- New Zealand's heritage is one of warriors and missionaries. Our nearest neighbor (and sibling rival) Australia was stolen from one of the world's oldest static cultures by a bunch of gold diggers and convicts. Which pretty much says it all, really. (Gently teasing the Aussies is a favourite sport here-- you just have to remember to use small words. ;-p)

The first missionaries to land here thought that New Zealand might just be the lost Garden of Eden. Now, we all know that 'the garden' is in modern-day Iraq, and that the Babylonians (or was it the Summerians) destroyed the thing with over-irrigation, but those Victorians can be forgiven. This place truly is one of the most beautiful spots on earth.

When the sun is shining.

Which it's not. Somebody seems to have misplaced my summer, and I would like it returned. No questions asked, just put it back where you found it.

Thank you.