Quill Award Update

Today I'm firming up plans to attend The Quill Book Awards in New York City on October 10. As I mentioned a while ago, Mom's Cancer was one of five nominees for Best Graphic Novel, and the winners will be announced at a black-tie star-studded gala two Tuesdays from now. The event will even be taped for later broadcast on NBC-owned television stations.

I thought it was kind of odd that no one representing the Quill Awards ever contacted me, even to tell me I'd been nominated. I wondered if they planned to wait until voting was done on September 30, look over the results, and only invite the winners. But it turns out they've been talking to my publisher, Abrams, instead of me and Abrams was generous enough to buy a couple of the very expensive tickets for me and, most likely, Editor Charlie. Assuming I can book a flight, I'll be there. Charlie's offered his couch and even promised to straighten up the place a little.

Oddly enough, I do own a tux. It just seemed like something a grown-up should have. The last time I wore it was to a Girl Scout father-daughter dance early this year and I'm pretty sure there are still raffle prize tickets in the jacket pocket.

The way the Quill Awards work is that books were nominated in 20 categories by thousands of booksellers and publishing professionals, with the winners chosen by popular vote via the Internet. If you haven't voted, I'd be grateful if you'd go and vote for Mom's Cancer. You have until Saturday. (If you wanted, you could even vote for Mom's Cancer as "Book of the Year," but that's just getting ridiculous.)

I expect I'll have more to say on the subject sometime between September 30 and October 10. Thanks!

Strange New Worlds

This'll be the last "Star Trek" post for a while, I swear. However, my friend, cartoonist, and fellow Trek fan Patricia Storms left a comment in my post of September 22 suggesting I list my favorite episodes. She didn't actually specify how many, but since she has three clear favorites I thought I'd try to match her. Interestingly, only my top two sprang instantly to mind:

1. Balance of Terror. If I had to put one "Star Trek" episode in a time capsule to explain to future generations what it was all about, this would be it: The battle of wits and wills between Kirk and his equally matched Romulan opponent, wonderfully and sympathetically played by the late Mark Lenard ("In a different reality, I might have called you friend"). The deliberate evocation of World War II submarine movies, right down to the Enterprise crew whispering as if the sound of their voices could somehow travel through space. Stiles finding a little love for Vulcans in his racist (specist?) little heart. I think this episode is the perfect balance of action, character development, and Roddenberrian idealism.

2. City on the Edge of Forever. Of course. A lot of fans would list it first, but I downgrade it only slightly because it was such an atypical episode; if it were the only "Star Trek" episode anyone ever saw, I suspect they'd find it a gripping story but not come away with a full appreciation of what the series was about. Still, it had Joan Collins in her prime, Spock at his most ingenious and loyal, and Kirk faced with a truly unwinnable dilemma. It was an unusually adult story with a great mix of drama and comedy (and it contains quite a bit arch comedy). I've read Harlan Ellison's book in which he complains about how his original script was bowdlerized by Roddenberry. Comparing the two, with all respect to Mr. Ellison, I think Roddenberry did him a favor.

3. A difficult choice. There are plenty of great episodes left to choose from, but do you go with high-concept sci-fi, drama, comedy? "Where No Man Has Gone Before," "The Corbomite Maneuver," Arena," "Doomsday Machine," "Tomorrow is Yesterday," "Amok Time," "Trouble With Tribbles"? Somewhat to my surprise, one did emerge to stand out in my mind. But I'm gonna have to explain.

"The Savage Curtain." A chubby rock monster captures Kirk and Spock and pairs them up with a fake Abraham Lincoln and Surak of Vulcan to fight four of the most evil characters in history (also fakes). I have no excuse; I just love everything about this episode and watch it with a dumb goofy grin every time.

One reason is that I was around 13 when a local television station began syndicating "Star Trek," which hadn't been on the air since 1969. They made a very big deal about it and kicked off the series with a midnight showing of "The Savage Curtain." I could barely contain my excitement waiting weeks for that midnight to roll around. So there's some personal nostalgia involved.

A better reason is that "The Savage Curtain" has one line of dialog that I think perfectly sums up everything "Star Trek" is about and has stayed with me all these decades later. Surak is the Vulcans' Christ/Buddha/Socrates who led them to the path of pacifism and reason. When Surak meets Kirk, he gives him the Vulcan salute and says, "In my time we knew not of Earthmen. I am pleased to see that we have differences. May we together become greater than the sum of both of us."

"I am pleased to see that we have differences."

That's just about all anyone needs to know about "Star Trek" right there.

Fly!

As I mentioned a week ago, we took my twin daughters to start college yesterday. I know they check my blog (I'm Dad; I know all!) and I don't want to embarrass them, so I'll just sum up the experience by saying I don't believe I've ever in my life been so happy and sad at the same time.

They'll do fine. And if my wife and I discover we still like each other after raising kids for 18 years (things look promising so far), we'll do fine, too. But it's a different world for everyone. Strange and unsettling.

Pitching to the Stars

I wrote about my great affection and appreciation for the original "Star Trek" a while ago, but in fact my relationship with the series goes a bit further than that. This is a story I don't tell very often--mostly because it ends in abject failure--but I did talk about it during my Comic-Con Spotlight Panel and I think it gives some insight into how I approached the writing of Mom's Cancer.

The 1960s' "Star Trek" was followed by another series that began in 1987 called "Star Trek: The Next Generation." It ran for seven seasons. I enjoyed the show as a fan, though never as passionately as I did its predecessor, and around the beginning of season six I heard from a friend that the show would consider scripts from unagented writers. This policy was unique in all of television and the news hit me like a thunderbolt. In a few weeks I came up with a story, figured out proper TV screenplay format, and sent off a full script with the required release forms. Shortly afterward, I followed with a second script, the maximum number they allowed.

I don't know how much later--surely months--I arrived home to a message on my answering machine. "Star Trek" wanted to talk to me. Neither of my scripts were good enough to actually shoot, but they showed enough promise that they were willing to hear any other ideas I might have. Would I care to pitch to them?

Yeah. I think so.

Paramount sent me a three-inch thick packet of sample scripts, writer's guides, director's guides, character profiles, episode synopses: all the background a writer would need to get up to speed (not that I needed them--I'd been up to speed since 1966). I spent several weeks coming up with dozens of ideas, distilled them to the five or six best, and made the long drive to Paramount Studios. Just getting onto the lot was a small comedy of errors: the guard at the gate didn't have my name on the list and I'd neglected to ask which office I was supposed to report to. Unlike anyone who's worked in Hollywood in the past 30 years, I wore a tie and sportcoat--a bad idea on a hot day when I was already inclined to sweat prodigiously. But I eventually made my way to the office of producer Rene Echevarria and threw him my first pitch. He stopped me after two sentences.

"We started filming a story just like that last week."

Crap. That was the best one.

Pitches two, three, four and five fared no better. After desperately rifling through my mental filing cabinet for any rejects with a hint of promise, I was done. In and out in less than 30 minutes, weeks of work for naught.

Still, I went home satisfied that I gave it my best shot. I wrote Rene a letter thanking him for the opportunity and expressing a completely baseless hope that he might give me another chance someday.

I got the next call a few weeks later. Rene had gotten my letter, looked over his notes, and decided that, although none of my pitches were good enough to shoot, I merited another shot.

Months later came my second try. Luckily, by now I was smart enough to spare myself the drive and pitch by phone. If I remember correctly, Rene liked a couple of my stories enough to take them to his bosses, but by this time the series was into its final season and the available episode slots were filling fast. In anticipation of the end of "The Next Generation," Paramount was already producing a successor series, "Deep Space Nine." In my last conversation with Rene, when it was clear "The Next Generation" was done with me, I asked if he could arrange for me to talk to "Deep Space Nine."

"Why would you want to pitch to those guys?" he asked, bewildered.

Nevertheless, I soon had an appointment to pitch to those guys, got another thick packet of blueprints and biographies, and started writing. I parlayed that opening into several pitches over the show's seven-year run, most to the very professional, generous and kind writer/producer Robert Hewitt Wolfe. And when Paramount started production on the next "Star Trek" series, "Voyager," I tried my old trick on Robert.

"Why would you want to pitch to those guys?"

So I got more packets of cool stuff, more experience, and more rejection. Although they liked some of my ideas enough to mull them over, I never got close. It was exhausting. At last, after eight or nine years and forty or fifty stories, "Star Trek" and I mutually agreed we'd had enough of each other and parted ways.

Lessons in Writing
Here's my point (and I do believe I have one, eventually): even as a complete failure, my experience pitching to "Star Trek" made me a better writer. What I realized was that the stories they quickly rejected focused on some science-fiction high-tech premise or plot twist, while the stories they liked focused on the characters. If I said something like, "Captain Picard begins at A, goes through B, and as a result of that experience ends up at C," I had their attention. I had to be hit over the head several times to realize that a good story isn't about spaceships or aliens or ripples in the fabric of space-time, but about people.

That sounds blindingly obvious, but I realized how unobvious it was as I talked to friends and family about the experience. As soon as someone realizes you have a distant shot at actually writing a "Star Trek" episode, they can't wait to share their idea with you (never mind how fast they'd sue if you actually used it). And literally without exception, every idea I heard from someone else was about a spaceship, alien, or ripple in the fabric of space-time. Not one that I recall even mentioned a character, how they'd react to the situation, or how they might be changed by it. Once I learned to look for it, it was striking.

These were lessons I internalized as best I could and took into the writing of Mom's Cancer. I realized early that my story couldn't be about the medical nuts and bolts of cancer treatment. First, because there are too many treatment options for anyone to cover; second, because I knew such information would be obsolete very quickly; and third and most importantly, good stories are about people. My book isn't about radiation and chemotherapy and cancer, but about what those things do to a family. If something I scripted or sketched didn't drive my mother's story--if the plot didn't serve the characters--I cut it.

Whatever success Mom's Cancer has had and will have, I think that was the key. With all due gratitude to all the Treks.

For What It's Worth

Darrin Bell is the talented creator of the comic strips Candorville and Rudy Park, as well as the proprietor of a comics forum called ToonTalk that I visit from time to time. It's not the busiest forum on the Web, but it is a convivial place where a few pros hang out and happily share their advice and experience with anyone who asks. I pass some time there myself and recommend it.

A recent poster wrote that he had some gag writing experience and wanted to try drawing his cartoons as well. He's taking some classes and already knows he has to "practice, practice, practice." But, he asked, what exactly should he be practicing? It's a question I've been asked before, so I thought my reply might make a good blog post. Interestingly, I think it's one of those questions that every cartoonist would answer in their own way (in the ToonTalk thread, it sparked a discussion about the merits of "simple drawing" versus "bad drawing") and reveals more about the respondent and their philosophies of cartooning than it does cartooning itself.

Anyway, here's what I wrote. By the way, if anyone can help me track down that Thurber anecdote I alluded to and probably butchered, that'd be great.

Some of my comments will repeat others, but I'll try to distill my thoughts and advice as best I can. All below is only my opinion:

Absolutely give drawing a shot yourself. Even if you eventually decide your art doesn't have the quality you're looking for, getting a feel for how words and pictures can combine to create something bigger than either of them alone will make you a better cartoonist. When the art supports the gag and the gag illuminates the art, and neither communicates the full idea without the other, that's good stuff.

Learn what you can from the work of others but spend most of your time drawing from real life. I think cartooning is about simplifying things to their essence. Good cartoonists know what to leave out. Don't draw Jim Davis eyes or Garry Trudeau eyes, look in a mirror and draw your own eyes, then draw them over and over until you can express as much with two lines as you originally did with 20. I think studying the work of other cartoonists can be a very helpful part of that process as you specifically look to see how they solved the same problems.

(There's a cartooning story I've always liked and unfortunately I don't have time to look it up, so this may not be accurate: I think it involves James Thurber, who was accosted by a reader demanding to know why he got paid a princely sum to draw a cartoon that consisted only of three squiggly lines. He answered, "If I could've drawn it with two, I would have charged twice as much." Again, accuracy not guaranteed, but illustrative of a good point.)

Re: developing your own style, comic book artist Neal Adams has said that "style" consists of the mistakes artists make that keep their art from being a perfect representation of the thing they're drawing. If we were all perfect artists, all of our drawings would be identical photo-realistic renderings. I don't think I completely agree with that, but it's food for thought. I do believe style evolves from choices--choices of material and media, scratchy vs. smooth, anatomically accurate vs. fantastically exaggerated, etc. Make enough of those choices for yourself and after a while, without you even consciously trying, your style won't look like anyone else's.

So, to your original post, I'd elaborate on the "practice, practice, practice" advice to suggest you practice drawing everything around you: telephones, cars, coffee tables, comfy chairs, cats and dogs, hands and feet. Draw them as well as you can, then "dial down" the realism. As an exercise, maybe see how little you can draw and still have your art communicate "telephone," "car," "chair," etc.

At this point, play with as many media as you can: markers, technical pens, india ink, brushes, nibs, washes, different textures of paper, digital. You could hit an art supply store and for probably less than $30 take home enough experiments to last a month. Give them all a fair try.

In addition to that, learn what you can about how the gag business works and how pros do their jobs. And take any chance you can to look at original cartoon artwork done by pros. When I set out to seriously study cartooning, I learned more by looking at a wall of originals for a few minutes than I could've via books or trial and error for years.

Good luck!

Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah

My wife, two daughters and I are back home from a summer-ending trip to Disneyland. As I'm pretty sure I've mentioned once or twice, my twin daughters begin college in about a week (later than most, we know) and we wanted to send them off in style. We were also joined for a day by Kid Sis, who hadn't been to the original Magic Kingdom in years and I think had a good time with us.

Having written that, I almost feel like I'm unveiling a terrible secret: "Hi, I'm Brian, and I love Disneyland." It's not cool--in fact, pretty much the opposite. I'm embarrassed.

There is certainly an adult, rational, cynical side of my brain that understands the Disney Corporation to be a crushing behemoth that competes fiercely, exports some of the most vapid aspects of American culture around the globe, and never misses an opportunity to wring every last cent from its properties and customers. One of the great truisms of U.S. jurisprudence is "Don't Mess With Disney" because their lawyers will bury you. You don't have to explain that to me; I get it.

And yet....

There is the other side of my brain that grew up in 1960s' South Dakota watching the Mickey Mouse Club and Wonderful World of Disney (in COLOR! once we finally got a color television set). My Adult Brain knows now that those programs were little more than commercials for Disney theme parks and products (surely Uncle Walt invented multi-media synergy), but my Kid Brain saw them as windows into an exotic realm I would probably never enter. I had a friend who'd visited Disneyland and returned with one of the mouse-eared hats, just like the ones I saw on TV, and we treated it like a sacred holy relic. When he let me perch the ears atop my crew-cut for a moment, I felt cold, electrically charged mercury flow through my spinal column. He told and retold the stories of his travels and was a hero for days.

When I made my first visit to the park around age 9, I was not disappointed. And now that I have the means to visit Anaheim pretty much whenever I want--which since we've had children has been every couple of years--I'm still never disappointed. Fact is, I'd rather give my leisure money to the Disney Corporation than a Vegas casino, a cruise line, a liquor store, gasoline for a fast car, or whatever it is people spend their cash on in the name of fun. I find real value in the immersive environment, attention to detail, genuine commitment to pretty good customer service, and opportunities to evoke old memories while making new ones. I like studying how so many creative people have applied their talents for 50 years to entertain me. And I perceive a purity of intent and purpose that I think escapes Disney's harsher critics.

The Disney folks and I have a business arrangement: I give them money and they give me magic. It's a fair trade.

By the way, the photo above illustrates how empty Disneyland's Main Street was last Wednesday morning, our first day in the park. We walked onto ride after ride, with even the most popular demanding no more than a 10-minute wait. After years of only going during school holidays (because that's when our kids were free, just like everyone else's kids), it was an extraordinary experience that spoiled us. Nothing but off-season mid-weeks for us from now on, I'm afraid. If the kids can't make it, too bad for them. My wife and I will send them a postcard.

Dog Days

Apologies for my lack of posts lately. No big reason. Some weeks are just less interesting than others and I seem to be in a welcome end-of-summer lull.

Here's the latest thing I drew in my sketchbook, which may or may not have anything to do with future book proposals I may or may not be working on:

Was that vague enough?

I did recently finish a tiny project that I enjoyed very much. Mike Peterson is a journalist and friend I met on the newsgroup rec.arts.comics.strips. His job involves bridging the gap between newspapers and children--for example, developing a series of articles that newspapers can publish while local teachers follow along with related lesson plans. He's also responsible for the "Nellie Bly" series, in which a character named for the famous reporter explains current events to children (often with a thoroughness that educates adults as well) and "Drawing Conclusions," in which he dissects newspaper editorial cartoons for kids.

Anyway, Mike's latest project is a series explaining the science and mythology of the constellations. Although my astronomy pedigree is kind of dusty and rusty--dating back to my university days teaching astronomy labs and running public telescope viewing sessions, plus a weekly astronomy column I wrote waaaaaay back when I was a newspaper reporter--I volunteered to review Mike's drafts to spare him any embarrassment I could. Turns out Mike's a good writer who did his homework and also had a professional astronomer standing by, so I didn't have to do much.

But it was all good, fun stuff ... and also very important, I think. I worked for an astronomy professor who opened the first class of every quarter by pointing out how everyone pays obssessive attention to the half of the universe below eye level, but knows almost nothing about the half of the universe above. If you don't understand what's going on in the sky, he said, you're missing out on half of life. I don't know if that's actually profound, but it stayed with me. In addition, anything that impresses upon a young brain the notion that the universe has a lot of interesting questions awaiting even more interesting answers is enormously worthwhile. I can barely imagine a higher calling.

Miriam Engelberg Update

My friend* Miriam Engelberg has posted a remarkable "Comic of the Week" on her website. No telling how long it'll be there (typically a week, though recent weeks have been anything but typical) so check it out soon. [LATER UPDATE: The "Comic of the Week" to which I referred has been replaced and doesn't appear to be available online. However, Miriam's comics are always worth a look; click the link anyway.]

I gather Miriam actually did this a while ago. Her self-described "web slave," Gina, informed Miriam's mailing list that she has stopped chemo, is being treated well by hospice, is tired and experiencing some symptoms related to her brain tumors, and is doing about as well as can be expected. I'm really hoping for the best for Miriam and her family, even if I don't have a clear image of what "the best" would look like.

Miriam is the first to admit she's an unschooled artist. During part of our NPR "All Things Considered" interview that was edited out of the aired version, Miriam said something like, "I'm not a real cartoonist like Brian." She was wrong (not least because I hardly consider myself a real cartoonist either). Yeah, I can draw better than Miriam, but her latest work demonstrates how that's almost irrelevant. The mystery of cartooning is how it transcends its parts to become more than the sum of words plus pictures. I think her latest "Comic of the Week" is first-class cartooning.

*Footnote on the use of "friend": It's presumptuous of me to claim to be the friend of someone I've e-mailed a few times and met twice. But I couldn't think of a better word. Besides, she did offer to let me sleep on her futon; if that's not a friend, what is?

Quill Award Field Report

I mentioned on August 22 that Mom's Cancer has been nominated for a Quill Book Award in the Best Graphic Novel category. Voting is open to the public and winners will be announced October 10. The nomination is a surprising honor I'm very happy and grateful to receive.

That happiness and gratitude are only slightly tempered by what I see in the field. In the past few days I've been in two Borders stores and one Barnes & Noble (I like bookstores and, yes, I also patronize and treasure small independents) and seen no advertising, no ballots, no tables filled with Quill-nominated books, and no awareness among the staff at all. Keeping in mind that Barnes & Noble and Borders are two of the Quill Awards' corporate partners and are supposed to be promoting the thing, I was nonplussed. In one Borders I did find stickers on some Quill-nominated books (though not mine), so it seems like headquarters is at least making an effort. But judging from the blank stares I encountered everywhere, that effort hasn't percolated down to the workers who interact with the public. Two of the stores had sold out of Mom's Cancer (hoorah for me!) and, as far as the kids manning the computers knew, had no immediate plans to re-stock it (boo!), Quill Award or no.

The Quill Awards only started last year. I like the concept. Books are nominated by booksellers and other publishing professionals (which theoretically weeds out the riff-raff) and the winner is chosen by popular vote (which theoretically weeds out the critical darlings that no real people read). But looking over press reports of last year's awards, one repeated criticism of the Quills was that winning had very little impact on sales. There was no bounce.

That could be a consequence of the awards' newness. It takes time to build awareness and reputation. If my little microcosm of the literary world is any indication, however, it could also be because the folks who should be promoting the Quill Awards, and maybe even have a few copies of nominated books on hand in case somebody happens to ask for one, have never heard of them.

Lynne White

When I wrote and drew a story about cancer, put it on the Internet, and worked hard to get it published, I knew it would be read by people fighting cancer themselves. I wanted it to be read by them. So I was kind of prepared to get e-mails from readers telling me about their own experiences. For quite a while I felt bad that there was nothing I could do to help, until I realized most just wanted someone to listen. I could do that.

What I wasn't at all prepared for was the reality that when you write a book whose readers include cancer patients, some of your readers aren't going to survive long. The first time I heard that someone who'd read Mom's Cancer had died, I was startled. I don't know why. And now I've just learned of the passing of Lynne White, who was a long-time supporter of Mom's Cancer and frequent commenter on my blog. I knew she was a cancer survivor but, to coin a cliche, I didn't even know she was that sick.

Lynne struck me as a tireless engine of enthusiasm and delight. Some of her comments to my blog are nothing more than encouraging exclamations: "I am so thrilled for you!" "Brian, this is wonderful!" She corresponded with my mother and lifted her spirits tremendously. She was also an artist and cartoonist herself, and we passed some notes about technique. Her cartoon character was a dog named "Pogo," and she was kind enough to send Kid Sis a copy of a self-published Pogo book that was then passed on to me. Some of Lynne's other artwork is still available on her blog.

Here's a message Lynne sent to my Mom during a rough time in May 2005:

"Yes, dwell on what is good, whole and right. Live for this day.

Allow yourself your feelings; let the anger out, ask for what you need, and feel the sunshine.

Peace."

Peace to Lynne and her family as well.

Blue Green Floral by Lynne White

P.S.: I sent a draft of this post to Lynne's daughter Jill for her approval and permission to use Lynne's art. Jill replied, in part:

"My mom once said to me that she never wanted anyone to say about her that 'she lost her battle with cancer' as this is a common phrase that is often uttered regarding someone's death. For this, to her, implied some sort of failure. She never failed, she just had to leave us a bit sooner than we all would have liked. So as you think of your mother and her disease, just remember that it takes an incredibly strong person to be knocked down time and time again, and still be able to pick themselves up repeatedly. No one would should ever consider that as loss, rather a strong spirit that won many times, they just walked away when they were ready."

Oddly Normal

Otis Frampton is one of the good guys in the world of comics and cartooning. We made Internet contact a while ago and met briefly at the San Diego Comic-Cons in 2005 and 2006. Otis was among the first and most encouraging of the friendly creative people I've met. I think his work shows a lot of talent and heart.

Lately, Otis has kept pretty busy drawing official trading cards of characters from Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and Marvel Comics. He's also the creator of the "Oddly Normal" series published by Viper Comics, the first four issues of which were recently collected in a trade paperback. Oddly is a 10-year-old half-witch, half-human misfit whose birthday wish goes horribly awry and sends her into a strange magical world, where she makes new friends and enemies. It's a little pre-teen angst, Wizard of Oz, Wendy and Casper, Harry Potter, plus a lot of Otis.

At any rate, in the back of his first Oddly Normal paperback collection, Otis published a few pages of artwork done by friends who interpreted his characters in their own styles. He extended the same invitation to me for his second Oddly book, which will be out sometime next year. I happily accepted.

Remember (and as Otis reminded me), the point of the guest art gallery isn't to copy Otis. When I started to sketch, I asked myself what Oddly would look like if I'd created her. With Otis's permission, here's my take:


The little yellow critter is her pet/pal Oopie. By the way, in light of my manifesto of August 25, you may be surprised to find that although I inked the black line art by hand, I did the colors in Photoshop. Conscious choice: Otis's art is all digital, very crisp and clean. Although my Oddly looks very different, I thought she should share that aesthetic. But it'd be interesting to see how she'd appear in watercolor, pastel, pencil, etc.

My thanks to Otis for letting me play in his universe for a moment. I enjoyed it.

Oh, The Humanity!

I haven't done the "You Tube" thing before and don't intend to make a habit of it, but I just came across one I couldn't resist.



The first half of this clip is the funniest 2½ minutes of television I ever saw in my life, while its final line stands as the Gold Standard of well-intentioned befuddled futility. Of course your mileage may vary, and maybe you had to be there... If you're not as entertained as I am, that's all right. Sometimes I post as much for me as you.

Color Experiment 1

In anticipation of my next project, I've been experimenting with different ways of handling color. Coloring black-and-white line art is a challenge in digital media. Cartoonists spend a lot of time debating and sharing the best ways to achieve the look they want and have it appear in print as intended.

Of course, one approach is to simply color the original with inks, watercolors, markers, etc., then scan it as a single work of art the same way you would a photograph. The main drawback is that you only get one shot at that; mess up the coloring and you're starting over from scratch. A more subtle drawback is that printed blacks come out much cleaner and blacker if they can be printed by themselves. It's good to keep blacks and colors separate if possible.

Another approach is to scan the line art and then color it digitally with Photoshop or similar software. That's what I did on Mom's Cancer. Once you learn to do that right, it works pretty well. Some artists (not me) are Photoshop masters who can use different techniques and effects to create beautiful work. But unless you're really good (again, not me), I think Photoshopped work has a sterile quality I dislike.

A similar approach is to do the entire project digitally, line art included. Increasing numbers of artists work entirely on the computer, start to finish. Without igniting a heated "Digital/Paper" debate, I'll just say I don't have the equipment to do that and wouldn't want to if I did.

In fact, I feel pretty strongly that I'd like to go the other direction, making my work as hand-crafted as possible. It's more fun and shows more life and personality. Today's experiment was aimed at finding a new way of doing a black-and-white drawing on one piece of paper, watercolor on another piece of paper, and combining them in Photoshop.

Here's my line art:


This is india ink on bristol board, about 5.5 x 8.5 inches, done with a brush. To start, I scanned this at a very high resolution (1200 dpi) in bitmap mode to capture nothing but pure black and white--no grays.

In Photoshop, I flopped (reversed right-to-left) the image. I then printed this reversed version onto an 8.5 x 11 inch sheet of watercolor paper. This became the back of the surface I painted; I used a lightbox to see the drawing through the paper and painted on the other side. The result looked like this:


Remember, the flopped line art is printed on the other side and I could see it while I painted. I could have simply put a piece of watercolor paper over the original drawing and, with light shining through both sheets, painted it that way. But everytime I try that I can never keep the two sheets lined up, even with registration marks and tape. By printing the line art on the back of the actual watercolor paper, I made sure it didn't go anywhere. Also, I want the option of doing the line art and coloring at two very different scales. For example, with this technique I could draw my line art huge, shrink it down, and color it with tiny of splashes of paint to create a particular look. In this case, the painted image is just a little smaller than the corresponding line art.

Then I scanned the watercolor, selected the black line art from the original, pasted it on top of the color, matched them up, and cropped. Only the blue sky is colored digitally. The composite picture looks like this:


Not my neatest paint job ever, and if I were doing this for real I'd probably do quite a bit of supplemental touch-up and color detailing in Photoshop. But this is basically the look I was going for and I got a few ideas to try next time. All-in-all, a pretty successful experiment.

Quill Award Nomination: Go VOTE!

So in light of my previous post, it somehow seems an apt day to discover I've been nominated for a Quill Book Award in the category of Best Graphic Novel.

The Quill Awards were established in 2005 to "celebrate excellence in writing and publishing, recognize and praise the creators of important books and great literature, interest more consumers in acquiring books and reading, and act as a bellwether for literacy initiatives." According to the Quill's website, "the Quill Awards pair a populist sensibility with Hollywood-style glitz and have become the first literary prizes to reflect the tastes of the group that matters most in publishing: readers."

Books are nominated for Quill Awards by a committee of 6,000 invited booksellers and librarians after meeting some qualifying criteria, including earning a starred review in Publishers Weekly (check) or being one of Borders' Original Voices (check). Readers vote on the five nominees in each category between now and September 30. Winners are announced and prizes awarded October 10. The polls are open now!

This is very cool. Very, very cool. It will be an honor to lose to Alison Bechdel.

A Day to Remember

I'm not fishing for unnecessary sympathy, but I didn't want August 22 to pass without noting that it would have been Mom's 67th birthday. If you find yourself with a glass of something tasty in your hand today, it would be nice to send a little toast her way.

Cancer Did Not Make Miriam a Shallower Person

I've written about my erstwhile competitor Miriam Engelberg, author of Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person, a couple of times (for example, when we were profiled together in USA Today and when we were interviewed together on NPR). Miriam wrote a cartoon collection ("graphic novel," whatever) about her experience fighting breast cancer that came out a month after Mom's Cancer.

Frankly, I don't think my publisher and I were overjoyed to find unexpected competition in the "cancer comics" market. My petty, pouty, envious attitude changed as I read Miriam's book, corresponded with her, and spent a little time with her in person. I thought her work was genuinely honest and insightful, darkly funny, and I liked her a lot. It also became clear to both Miriam and me that we got more press attention together than either of us would have alone. As I once wrote, it was like being in an arranged marriage neither of us volunteered for, but we were good together.

You may suspect where I'm going with this. A couple of days ago Miriam told her mailing list and blog readers that new tests have found cancer growing in her brain. I don't think the news was a surprise; Miriam has now entered a home hospice program. For readers not sure what that means (and I do get an occasional e-mail asking, "my father just went into hospice, when do you think he'll get better?"), hospice is about pain management, familiar surroundings, comfort and dignity. It's not about treatment, although if a miracle happens I don't think anybody objects.

I'm sad for my friend Miriam, her husband and her son. Although I hope everyone buys a copy of my book if you haven't already, I wouldn't mind terribly if you bought Miriam's as well (Amazon.com even makes it easy to buy both at the same time). It would be for the best cause I can think of.

More Inking Life

Cartoonist Mike Lynch has posted some great pictures of the cartoon art exhibit he helped put together in Long Island, N.Y. called "This Inking Life: The Essential Cartoonist." As I wrote on August 6, Mike asked me to contribute a couple of pieces, and he was kind enough to take a photo of one of them hanging in the gallery.

I stole this picture from Mike's blog. Come and get me, coppers!

I don't part with my originals easily. Right now, everything I drew for Mom's Cancer, minus the two pages in New York, is sitting in an accordian file beside my desk. If I had to, I could recreate the entire book (although it'd probably be quicker and easier to redraw it from scratch...). A lot of cartoonists aren't very sentimental about their work, and can often earn more by selling their originals than they did from their publication. I suppose I might feel different if I had their output. After you've drawn a few thousand comic strips, I imagine you start looking for constructive, profitable ways to get rid of them. But I can't foresee ever letting the bits and pieces of Mom's Cancer out of my sight for very long.

Take good care of my babies, Mike. I know where you live.

Extended Coverage

Comics expert, historian and Web buddy D.D. Degg commented on yesterday's post that he tried to click on my cover montage to view individual thumbnails up-close. No dice, I'm afraid. But below are the two to which I think he referred:

This was the cover concept I proposed at first, with my "Mom in the Chemo Chair" art flopped. The colors are pretty arbitrary, but I wanted to use strong primary red-blue-yellows to communicate "Comics!" while at the same time use muted browns and grays to communicate "But not funny!" I think the result was a fairly unattractive palette that would have surely changed if we'd gone this direction. If I recall correctly, some on the cover committee found this image too clinical, distressing, and depressing.

This cover evolved a bit later in the process, when I somehow got it in my head that "oak tree" would evoke a contemplative, sunrise-sunset, circle-of-life theme. I dunno what I was thinking. But I spent the better part of a morning driving around taking photos of real oak trees, intending to find one standing by itself in an open field that I could Photoshop into a silhouette, under which I could insert a drawing of Mom. It wasn't until I'd shot a couple dozen pictures (it turns out to be unexpectedly hard to find an elegantly proportioned oak standing by itself in an open field) and brought them home that I realized the scale was all wrong: Mom would be completely dwarfed by these giant trees. So in the end I just drew a little one instead. The drawing of Mom sitting on the bench was a real quick sketch I did with a brush-pen, a new tool I was trying out. If we'd gone this direction I would have redrawn it, although I really like the spontaneity and quality of line I achieved here. The panel separating Mom from the background is supposed to communicate "Comics!" and also symbolize...I don't know what. Being trapped in her own world, seeing life from a limited perspective, having her world close in on her? You decide.

In his comment, D.D. also complimented the cover typography. I heartily agree. All the type in my samples was intended as placeholders only. I think Abrams designer Brady McNamara came up with the font we used--though art director Mark LaRiviere may have had a hand in it too, I just don't remember--but I thought it was terrific. Big, fat, Deco-evocative sans serif letters that managed to say "comics" and "classy" at the same time.

No one remembers who came up with the bit for the back cover involving the six panels of Mom with the words stripped out (probably Brady again). It wasn't me but I loved it. Charlie surprised me by adding my drawing of the Eisner Award, which I'd sent him as a lark, to my bio.

George Lucas once said that the only aspect of the original "Star Wars" movie that exceeded his hopes and expectations was John Williams' score; I felt that way when I saw the my book's cover coming together. It's not at all what I pictured when I was writing and drawing Mom's Cancer, but once it was done I couldn't imagine it being anything else.

Exhaustive Coverage

It's been longer than I'd've liked since my last post. Sorry. My book life is kind of slow right now, while my real life is not.

Part of my Comic-Con Spotlight Panel slide show described how Abrams and I designed the cover for Mom's Cancer. One thing I learned about the publishing business was that, unlike almost every other book-related decision that involved only Editor Charlie and me, picking a cover involves everyone. Marketing, sales, management: covers (at least at Abrams) are chosen by a committee of people whose expertise and interests don't always overlap.

Here's Charlie's very first rough of how he thought the cover should look. He just printed a copy of one of my story's pages, blacked out the captions, added the title, and indicated how the colors might look. Charlie liked the "iconography" of this image--the sense the panels simultaneously communicated that this was a comic and at the same time suggested looking into Mom's life through a window. It really spoke to him.

I wasn't immediately sold. I understood why he liked it, but I wanted to build the cover around my drawing of Mom sitting in the chemo chair. That was the very first picture I sketched when I conceived the idea of telling our family's story as a comic and it meant a lot to me. If I recall correctly, members of the cover committee found it too bleak and busy. I reluctantly moved on.

Over the next several weeks, Charlie and I batted dozens of ideas back and forth--generally beginning with an overarching concept and then playing with color, font, layout, etc. to get different takes on the idea. One time it was "cartoon panels," another time "trees." These were all my brainstorms that Charlie was genuinely happy to consider and pass on if he liked them. The image below summarizes just a few of the variations we went through.

No one liked any of my alternatives as much as Charlie's concept; in the end, neither did I. The last one in the lower right corner was my last-ditch attempt to find a cover guaranteed to please my editor, who'd spent 12 years at DC Comics working with talent like Alex Ross, Roger Stern, Chip Kidd, etc. I don't recall Charlie sounding as amused as I'd hoped when I called him to discuss it, but the Comic-Con audience loved it:

Anyway, after weeks of sketching, drawing, coloring and e-mailing, we at last arrived at the cover we did. I was happy, my editor was happy, the committee was happy. Most of all, my most important and potentially harshest critic, Mom, was happy. And Charlie called it pretty much from the start. Also note that on his mock-up, Charlie inserted a little caption box reading "Eisner Award Winner" when at the time I had not yet won it. Right again. This was not my last opportunity to learn to trust his judgment.

My Friend Ronnie

I have a best friend in Canada I've never met. "Ronniecat" was one of the very first readers of Mom's Cancer on the Web and one of its greatest supporters since. She's talked it up to friends, cancer clinics, hospitals, and bookstores throughout two or three eastern provinces. She corresponded with Mom before she got too sick to write. I cited Ronnie in my book's dedications and wish I could've done more to acknowledge her friendship to my family.

Anyway, Ronnie was nice enough to mention Mom's Cancer in a recent post on her own blog, which I thought provided a nice excuse to return the favor and point it out to anyone interested. Ronnie began her blog when she suddenly went deaf at the age of 39. She wrote movingly and fascinatingly about her experience trying to find her way into the deaf community while at the same time seeking a medical solution for her condition. She eventually received a cochlear implant that restored some of her hearing and, in the months since, her writing has moved away from that topic to address anything that catches this smart, opinionated woman's attention. It's a daily stop for me.

I don't think I say "thanks" enough, so thanks, Ronnie.

This Inking Life

Mike Lynch is a professional freelance magazine cartoonist who actually makes a living at it, a strange and wonderful enough accomplishment on its own. In addition, he's the co-chair of the Long Island Chapter of the National Cartoonists Society, a man I got to know first online and then in person, and a well-connected extrovert who seems determined to drag me kicking and screaming into the brother/sisterhood of cartoonists. I hope it's not too presumptuous to also call him a friend.

Mike wrote a couple of months ago to tell me about an exhibit of cartoon art he's helping put together for the Great Neck Arts Center of Long Island, N.Y. He lathered me up with enough flattery (it didn't take much) to convince me to contribute two pieces of original art from Mom's Cancer for the show that, as you can read on the postcard above, runs from August 12 to October 1. I gleaned from my conversations with Mike that a big part of the center's mission is understanding the artistic process. With that in mind, I also sent along the preliminary sketch and finished printed version of each page, all matted together in the same frame. I think they turned out kind of cool. I wish I had pictures of the finished pieces to share, but last week my girls took the camera to summer camp, where they worked as adult volunteer counselors. So instead, here's a picture of their camp:


They're gonna kill me for that. Anyway, Mike has many, many other friends and/or blackmail materials. Among the artists contributing are Isabella Bannerman (Six Chix, Funny Times), Sy Barry (The Phantom), Mort Drucker (Mad Magazine), Nick Downes (The New Yorker), Joe Giella (Mary Worth, Batman), Guy Gilchrist (Nancy), Irwin Hasen (Dondi--hey, I know him!), Bunny Hoest (The Lockhorns), Dan Piraro (Bizarro), Stephanie Piro (Six Chix), Frank Springer (Phoebe Zeit-Geist, Terry and the Pirates), Rick Stromoski (Soup to Nutz), Carla Ventresca (Six Chix, On a Claire Day), Mort Walker (Beetle Bailey), and Mr. Lynch himself.

The center is also planning a reception and two cartoonists' panels to mark the exhibit, and I don't think I'll be able to fly cross-country to get to any of them. But if you're anywhere near Long Island, please check it out.

Ich Liebe Annik Rubens

Many visitors are finding me today from a German podcast by Annik Rubens via her website Schlaflos in München ("Sleepless in Munich," I guess). If you understand German and can download and play an MP3, give it a listen. I think she said nice things. Even if she didn't, she said them in such a velvet-smooth sultry radio voice that I don't care. In any event, my thanks to Ms. Rubens.

And if anyone is actually interested in reading my book in German, it's available from Amazon.de. Danke!

Sell Sheet

Today, Editor Charlie sent me a new "sell sheet" Abrams has put together to further promote Mom's Cancer to booksellers. I think it's intended as a reminder and update: "You saw this book back in March, but look at all the great reviews and press it's gotten. Maybe you'd like to order a few copies?" Kind of building on what we've accomplished so far--which, when you see it all listed in one place like this, is pretty remarkable I think.

Click on the image above to open
a larger PDF of the Sell Sheet

Keeping in mind that Abrams is a smallish publisher with fewer resources than, say, a giant like Random House, I've been pretty satisfied with their promotional efforts for my book. They can't afford to fly me around the country, but then I'd rather not do that anyway. When opportunities such as my recent Tucson speaking engagement come up, Abrams helps make them happen. I know Mom's Cancer is getting more support than many (most?) of their other books, and Charlie assures me that even though the fall season of shiny exciting new releases is just around the corner, they'll keep doing all they can for mine. Sounds more than fair to me.