Ends and Odds

I neglected to mention that I recently received copies of the Italian edition of Mom's Cancer--titled, oddly enough, Mom's Cancer. The last time I mentioned the Italian edition, I said I was surprised they didn't translate the title. Editor Lorenzo from my Italian publisher Double Shot-Bottero Edizioni was kind enough to reply that they "talked very much between us if we had to translate the title or not. At the end, we decided for the original title, because the word CANCRO still (frightens) people, and because the book was famous with its original title." That's a nice explanation.

Now that I have it in my hands, I'm happy to report that Lorenzo and his partners did a terrific job. I'm very happy with the look, feel, and quality of their work. Again, my thanks to them; I appreciate the risk they took and hope it's a success for them.

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I think I've decided, with regret, to miss the Baltimore Comic-Con next month. It's not an easy decision. I'm honored, humbled, amazed to have my work nominated for three Harvey Awards, and believe that if someone pays you that kind of respect you should reciprocate by showing up. It seems like the least you could do. But the fact is I live on the other side of the country, the date conflicts with other commitments, and the cost of what would be a cross-continent hit-and-run round trip is pretty high. Editor Charlie is planning to attend and can represent me if I improbably win. I just don't want to leave any impression I take the nominations for granted, because I don't.

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Wednesday should be interesting. A curator from the Norman Rockwell Museum in Massachusetts is coming to my home with a cameraman to film an interview that will, as I understand it, accompany the "LitGraphic" exhibition I'm participating in later this year. A couple of weeks ago I sent the museum nine of my favorite original pages from Mom's Cancer, which they'll display with the work of several other writer-cartoonist types. Although "sent" isn't quite the right word; the Rockwell people constructed a specially padded portfolio just the right size for my pages and dispatched an 18-wheel truck to pick it up. (To be fair, the truck was also picking up a lot of other art for other museum customers on its way cross country. But I'm greatly pleased to imagine they sent it just for my nine sheets of paper.) In short, the Norman Rockwell Museum is obviously a first-class professional organization used to working with a much better class of exhibitor than me. But I could get used to it.

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Free to Breathe

The National Lung Cancer Partnership is a non-profit lung cancer advocacy organization founded by physicians and researchers to increase understanding of how the disease affects women and men differently. Its mission is to decrease lung cancer deaths and help patients live longer and healthier lives through research, awareness and advocacy.

I discovered the group when Mom was diagnosed and it was called Women Against Lung Cancer, and found it to be a tremendous source of reliable, useful information. Somehow my sister Brenda ("Nurse Sis") got involved with them and recently, almost to her surprise, found herself helping organize one of several "Free to Breathe" walk/runs the group is holding across the country this fall: Glastonbury, Connecticut on September 23, Raleigh, North Carolina on November 3, Philadelphia on November 4, and Los Angeles on November 11. Brenda's working on the L.A. one.

Right now, she needs two things: volunteers to help put on the event, and corporate sponsors to help pay for it. If you have some time or funds to give to a good cause, please e-mail the National Lung Cancer Partnership at info@NationalLungCancerPartnership.org or call them at 608-233-7905. Smaller donations and pledges are also welcome.

I usually avoid endorsing particular groups or organizations. I don't feel I have the expertise or time to make sure all of their information and services are legit, and I'd hate to steer anyone wrong. However, I'm happy to vouch for the National Lung Cancer Partnership and the work they do, and think the "Free to Breathe" campaign is a good way to contribute. Besides, Nurse Sis could use the assist.
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How to be a Successful Comic Artist

I stole this from Eddie Campbell's blog and guarantee that cartoonist and friend Mike Lynch will steal it for his blog before the week is over. It's an invaluable guide to the nuts and bolts of cartooning, done by George Storm in 1923.

Click on the top image to see it at a readable size. For those not so inclined, I blew up a couple of panels I liked below.

The keys to the kingdom are yours. Best of luck in your new career!
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Coin of the Realm

I only asked my daughters to bring me back one souvenir from their trip to the U.K., if they were able to find it without too much effort. They were.

It's a 2-pound coin, worth about $4 U.S. I wanted this coin for two reasons: first, because the rings of gears and stylized circuit board make it an unusual tribute to technology, capturing progress from the early Industrial Age to the Electronic Era. I further learn online that the innermost circle's subtle pattern of whorls around a rudimentary wheel is meant to symbolize the Iron Age, while the outermost ring of criss-crossed lines is meant to symbolize the Internet. Neither is obvious to me but I appreciate the effort. An inscription on the edge of the coin quotes Isaac Newton: "Standing on the shoulders of giants." (The "heads" side is a portrait of Queen Elizabeth.) Not many governments acknowledge the importance of science and technology on their money like that.

Second, there is something about the coin I find irresistible. I'll say no more for now; I leave the reason for my fascination as a puzzle for the reader. All the necessary clues are in the image above. I'll update this post in a couple of days to explain.

UPDATE, August 7: Thanks for commenting and playing along. Your answers are better than mine, which I hope isn't too disappointing.

What I love about the two-pound coin--the quality that made me have to have it--are the 19 interlocked gears in that ring. Any odd number of gears arranged like that would be unable to turn (the size of the gears is irrelevant, assuming their teeth mesh up). Every gear turns adjacent gears in the opposite direction, alternating clockwise, counter-clockwise, etc.:

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Turning the top gear clockwise (red) moves the gears next to it counter-clockwise (blue)....

Go all the way 'round the ring and, with an odd number of gears, you hit a point where two adjacent gears want to turn the same direction. Won't work. The whole thing is locked up.

Examples of true irony (as opposed to the Alanis Morissette kind) are hard to find in life and I treasure them when I do. I think the government of the United Kingdom commemorating the formidable triumph of the Industrial Age with a machine that can't possibly
work--can't even move--qualifies as ironic. At least, it's the most fun I've had for $4 lately.

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Return to Hearth, Home & Paranoia

For the interested regulars, my daughters have returned home safely from their month in Scotland. They brought back a few souvenirs and 1300 photos, most of which look a lot like this:


What's not to love? Happily, they received A's and full credit for their Medieval Warfare classwork. More importantly, they also seem to have picked up all the intangible benefits of youthful international travel--independence, confidence, new perspectives and friends--that my wife and I could have wished for. A tremendously successful trip on all accounts.

What's funny is that they just drove off to visit a friend seven miles away and I asked them to call me when they arrived. I'm fine when they're eight time zones from home but turn into neurotic Dad when they're under my roof. I trust them; it's just all those other drivers I worry about. And hey, it's a narrow winding road. Anything could happen.

Parenting = Always envisioning the worst-case scenario.
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After the Con

Well, that went pretty much as I expected.

Comic-Con International in San Diego was a tightly packed pressure cooker of crowds, noise and fun. Compared to the past two years, my impression was that the mob was a little less unruly, perhaps because convention organizers stopped selling tickets and advertised the fact that particular days were sold out. We had no trouble getting our badges. In terms of organization and crowd control, Con organizers seem to have learned from past difficulties. Still, 120,000 people in one place is a bunch no matter how you slice 'em.

A short movie I shot on Saturday, the busiest day, panning the convention floor from the mezzanine. Booths are downstairs, several simultaneous panels are going on upstairs. It's all more than anyone could possibly absorb.

People-watching is a terrific sport at Comic-Con. We criticize TV newscasts and other media for only focusing on the outlandishly costumed, complaining that the weirdos don't represent the normal level-headed comics fans like us, but in fact we're just as bad. People in good costumes drew conferees who couldn't wait to take their pictures, and if they got together with a few friends--like the Batman-Robin-Catwoman trifecta or a gaggle of Star Wars Stormtroopers--they could stop traffic for 20 yards. Usually in the worst possible spot.

Galactic bounty hunters come in all sizes.

Klingon on a cell phone. "Can you hear me now, P'takh?"

All in all, my general thoughts on Comic-Con were well summarized by Mark Evanier, who moderated approximately 153 panels and has been attending the event since it began. In his blog Mark wrote: I sometimes think that anyone can have a great time at that convention if they'll only do a little advance planning and make the effort to find the convention they want to attend. There are a lot of conventions occurring simultaneously in that hall, ranging in intensity from the high-tech, high-pressure trade show located where the toy and videogame companies are situated, all the way down to the friendly and creative low-tech con in and around Artists' Alley. What interests you is probably in there somewhere but you have to go looking for it. It won't find you.

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I found my convention.

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The Eisner Awards were long, more than three hours, but the ceremony moved along most of the time. My sister Elisabeth ("Kid Sis") came and it was great to see her. I thought most of the presenters did a commendable job. Actor/comedian Brian Posehn was very funny, as were Ben Garant and Tom Lennon from "Reno: 911." Garant and Lennon noted with surprise that no Eisner Award winners had yet thanked God for their victories. That became a running gag after they left the stage, as a couple of winners thanked God sarcastically and Gene Luen Yang (American Born Chinese) appeared to do so sincerely. The evening's other running gag involved trophy presenter and co-host Jane Wiedlin, guitarist for the Go-Gos. Ms. Wiedlin is an attractive woman whose responsibilities included herding winners off the right side of the stage to have their photos taken; after a while, the winners deduced they could get a nice embrace from her if they pretended to walk off in the wrong direction. My two categories were near the end of the evening and I had the pleasure of hearing Neil Gaiman mispronounce my name twice. Then I lost and slumped back to my hotel to silently weep myself to sleep.

Paul Dini and Mark Evanier presenting Eisner Awards, with Jane Wiedlin to the left. It may be hard to see at this resolution but the award second from the right was missing its spinning globe. Unbearable suspense built through evening as everyone wondered who would win the broken trophy. As I recall, it went to comic book artist Paul Pope (I assume Comic-Con will get him a new one, although personally I'd be tempted to keep the broken one).

My book signing on Saturday didn't draw a big crowd. However, quality more than compensated for quantity. People who've read and appreciated Mom's Cancer enough to seek me out at a convention are invariably the nicest people I've met. Almost every conversation touches me in some way and reminds me why I wrote the book. The people staffing the Abrams booth told me they got similar reactions even when I wasn't there. It's hugely gratifying.

Signing books, with my editor Charlie Kochman and his girlfriend Rachel (left) and Wimpy Kid author Jeff Kinney and his wife Julie (right).

In addition, I met and answered a few questions for a master's candidate at Northwestern University doing a thesis on the form and aesthetics of graphic memoirs, including mine. I saw some of his analysis and it's quite academic and literary, not at all "fanboyish," and I'm sure we'll follow up with each other later. It's a treat to talk to someone who takes the medium seriously, not to mention flattering to be considered worth studying.

Nice People
[Fair Warning: all of the people I mention below can be described as "very nice." Some even as "extraordinarily nice." This is my honest appraisal of their character; I am not naturally a pollyanna and would tell you if they were jerks--or, more likely, not mention them at all. (So if I met you at Comic-Con and don't mention you below, assume you were a jerk.)]

Editor Charlie took a small party of us to dinner Friday night before the Eisners, including my friend and bestselling author (I never get tired of writing that) Jeff Kinney. Jeff's Diary of a Wimpy Kid has spent 14 weeks on the New York Times Bestseller List for Children's Chapter Books; I believe it's currently #2. I met Jeff's wife Julie, and he and I sat at one end of the table talking shop and saying catty things about the Bestseller List's #1. As I probably said too often, if all of the success and opportunities coming Jeff's way had happened to anyone else, I'd be jealous. Knowing him, I can only be happy for him. Jeff and Julie also came to the Eisner Awards and sat through the entire ordeal even though they didn't have to. That's loyalty. Or something.

Other Abrams authors I spent a few minutes with were Brom, whom I got to know when my book was released in New York and whose new book, The Devil's Rose, is packed with his lush and disturbing paintings, and Lela Lee, creator of the Angry Little Girls series, which I understand has an enormous fanbase. Both good people.

Before the convention, I made a list of the people I wanted to find. Top of the list was Otis Frampton, creator of the "Oddly Normal" series published by Viper Comics. Otis is a great guy and we finally had a chance to talk, in contrast to last year when we said a quick Hello expecting to meet up again and never did. I met Otis's wife Leigh, whom he married in Japan over Christmas. Leigh is terrific. Like many spouses, she doesn't quite share her partner's passion for this comics universe, but plunges in fully to provide all the support she can regardless. I grok.

Me with Otis and Leigh. The critter on Leigh's head is one of Otis's characters, Oopie, which Leigh sewed days before the Con and wore for four days straight. That's love.

Second on my list were Raina Telgemeier and Dave Roman, also married (to each other) since the last time I saw them. I found Raina first and had a nice long talk with her about her work on "The Baby-Sitters Club" graphic adaptations and new projects we're both contemplating, and briefly caught up with Dave later. Dave and Raina also both did stories for the latest Flight 4 anthology. Raina didn't believe I'd actually made a list that had her name on it until I pulled it out and showed it to her; then I think she became a bit spooked. Nicest people in the world, buy their stuff so they can keep doing it.

With Raina

I had a long and very good talk with Michael Jantze, creator of the formerly syndicated comic strip "The Norm," who lives in my part of the country. He'd read Mom's Cancer and, like many readers, found ways in which it related all too well to his life. I was very pleased to discover that merely by virtue of being on his cartoonists e-mailing list I am considered a member of the Northern California division of the National Cartoonists Society ("just Northern California," he was quick to point out). I thanked him and said that as an antisocial loner I probably wouldn't be showing up to too many functions; he pointed out that I'd pretty much just defined the word "cartoonist." Just thinking about it makes me misty.

With Michael Jantze

I've met "Luann" cartoonist Greg Evans a few times before, a fact I reminded him of when I reintroduced myself to him as he manned the National Cartoonists Society booth. He's always very nice about it. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: "I actually met you at the Schulz Museum recently, and at the Eisner Awards a couple of years ago."

Mr. Evans: "Oh!"

"Yeah. In fact, I was nominated for two Eisner Awards last night but I didn't win."

"I'm sorry."

"My strategy is to keep introducing myself to you everytime I see you until you finally remember me."

"Well, now I'll remember you as 'that Loser Guy.'"

In print that looks like kind of a nasty comeback, but in person--said dryly with a sly smile on his lips--it was hilarious.

Greg Evans (in green shirt) at the NCS booth.
I swear this photo was in focus when I took it.

I saw some amazing original art and almost bought a couple of pieces in my price range. It was tempting. However, I was stopped by my "rule" that I only acquire artwork directly from artists with whom I've made some personal connection. I've decided that rule doesn't apply to deceased artists and almost picked up a Walt Kelly "Pogo," but that's a slippery and potentially expensive slope indeed. In the end I came home with nothing but some free posters I'll never post, a free t-shirt I'll never wear advertising a movie I'll never see, and four art pens that cost me $10. In point of fact, aside from a few pieces of art and a nearly three-foot-long $1200 USS Enterprise, I didn't see anything I really wanted. No regrets.

Someday, my lovely, you will be mine.

That's about it. My wife and I managed to escape the convention center and spend some time doing other things in San Diego, one of our favorite cities. We didn't rent a car and had no regrets about that, either. Between the city's trolleys and bus system, we got everywhere we wanted to go.

The next notable event on my radar is the Harvey Awards, to be presented at the Baltimore Comic-Con on September 8. Mom's Cancer is nominated in three categories. I haven't made any reservations yet, but I intend to attend. I've got an almost-new acceptance speech all ready to go.
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Congratulations to Me!

My forecast for the two Eisner Awards I was up for--posted here
July 18 and completely untouched, unedited, and unrevised in the interim--was 100 percent accurate! As a psychic, I went 2 for 0!

Unfortunately, in terms of actually winning one of the awards, I went 0 for 2.

I still had a very fine time. Just arrived home; more stories and pictures when I have the time and energy later. Thanks for everyone's well wishes and my congratulations to the winners. Which I totally predicted.
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38 Years Ago Today

I don't always enjoy everything about being my age, but I will always be grateful I was alive to witness and remember this:



I consider it a rare privilege in all of human history, as if I'd been standing on the shore watching Columbus set foot in the Bahamas or Lewis and Clark reach the mouth of the Columbia. You young punks may have all the strength, speed, stamina, flexibility, resilience, health, beauty, mental acuity (what was my point? My mind wandered a bit. Oh yeah I remember now...) but I've got Apollo 11.
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Comic-Con Pre-Flight

Quick note for those interested in how our girls are doing in Scotland: great! Their course on Medieval History & Warfare sounds engrossing without being so demanding that they have no time for fun. They've done quite a bit of exploring on their own, and also tried their hand at Scottish cooking. They'll get to spend a few days in London on their way home and we're looking forward to having them back at the end of the month. Maybe they'll let me post some photos (we haven't seen any yet; their Internet access is limited, plus they have better things to do than sit at a computer typing to the folks).

A tiny slice of last year's Comic-Con

It's hard to believe that Comic-Con International is a week away. San Diego is a city my wife and I like very much and we're going to make a nice vacation of it. I'll also be there to work, which assuages my conscience come tax write-off time. In the unlikely event anyone reading this would like to meet me, I'll be signing Mom's Cancer on Saturday from Noon to 12:30 at the Abrams booth (#1021 in Aisle 1000--look for the big numbered banners hanging from the ceiling).

I may do additional impromptu signings, and will certainly leave dozens of autographed books at the booth; check there for schedule updates. Abrams has several other authors lined up, including my friend and New York Times Bestselling Author (that's a string of words I've never been able to use before) Jeff Kinney, plus a great selection of graphic novels and comics-themed books I'd buy even if they weren't from my publisher. I'm really looking forward to seeing some friends, maybe making some new ones, and meeting some talented creators.

The other place you'll be sure to find me is at the Eisner Awards on Friday night. Jackie Estrada does an impressive job putting the event together and, for the first time, Abrams has enough people and presence to occupy an entire table. Cool. Mom's Cancer is nominated for two Eisner Awards: Best Reality-Based Work and Best Graphic Album-Reprint. A while back I said I didn't expect to win either and might share my guesses as to who might. How 'bout now?

Besides my book, nominees for Best Reality-Based Work are I Love Led Zeppelin by Ellen Forney, Project X Challengers: Cup Noodle by Tadashi Katoh, Stagger Lee by Derek McCulloch and Shepherd Hendrix, and Fun Home by Alison Bechdel. I must admit I haven't seen the first three works, which you might think would handicap my powers of prognostication. It does not. Fun Home is the 942-pound gorilla in this category--critically acclaimed, terrific sales, and huge mainstream crossover readership--and, as sure as the sun will rise over San Diego Saturday morning, it will win no matter what it's up against. It might even deserve to.

I figure my odds are only slightly better for Best Graphic Album-Reprint, where the competition is Absolute DC: The New Frontier by Darwyn Cooke, Castle Waiting by Linda Medley, Shadowland by Kim Deitch, and Truth Serum by Jon Adams. I haven't seen Truth Serum. Shadowland and Castle Waiting are both worthy works to which I would be honored to lose, but my pick for this category is Darwyn Cooke, whose deliberately retro storytelling and inkwork earned wide acclaim and restored something very fresh and fun to the superhero comic. He's won Eisners before, and I think a lot of the voting pros appreciate his uniquely stylized take and will be happy to reward him for it. However, if some bizarre vote-splitting occurs, I might have a shot here.

Having a sincere near-zero expectation of winning removes any tension or anxiety I might otherwise feel about the trip. As I think I wrote last year, Comic-Con International is fun in the same way being at DisneyWorld with 100,000-plus people is fun: you know the crowds will be crushing, parking impossible (in fact we're going sans auto this year), food scarce and expensive, all the good attractions filled beyond capacity, and you'll never get around to half the things you want to do. And yet, with some patience and strategy, it can be a blast anyway.
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Patricia Storms

One of the nice things about cartooning is getting to know other people who do it. Despite being in a competitive business where too many people chase too few jobs, cartoonists have a reputation for being gracious to newcomers and generous with their time and advice. I've found that to be mostly true.

Among the first and kindest pros I got to know after Mom's Cancer gained some notice was Patricia Storms, whose encouragement I greatly appreciated (and which "earned" her an acknowledgement in my book). She lives in Toronto and we've never met, but we've gotten acquainted online and via e-mail, and I think of her as a real friend. Better yet, I think she's a very good cartoonist, with a rich, expressive, confident ink line and a passion for hand-crafted authenticity I really respect. Best of all, she loves books. Over recent months it seems like Patricia's career has really taken off, with several book-illustrating projects and exciting new opportunities. It's been neat to watch and well deserved.

I mention her now because Toronto blogger Debbie Ohi has posted
a nice interview with Patricia, and because I feel like I owe her one. Or several. Now go buy her books. She's a great talent and person.

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Dog Days of Summer

Yesterday, I had to teach myself to draw a prairie dog, and it occurred to me I was applying some principles that some of you might find interesting. If not, come back in a few days and I'll try to write something better.

Reference images are a good place to start, and one nice thing about living in the 21st Century is that several hundred prairie dog photos are just a google away. Pause for a moment and offer a quiet prayer of appreciation and pity for old-school artists who diligently clipped pictures out of newspapers and magazines to create their own enormous "morgues" of reference images on every subject imaginable and then cursed themselves for not having a prairie dog on file.

But, to paraphrase Spock on logic, reference images are the beginning of wisdom, not the end.

I don't recall ever needing to draw a prairie dog before. However, I start with the knowledge that many vertebrates--and all mammals without any exceptions I can think of--are basically built the same. We've all got the same parts; only the proportions are different. (I'm talking about quick and dirty cartooning here, not veterinary textbooks.)

Human, Horse, Bird

Human arm, Bat wing

Knowing that is a big head start and helps avoid some common mistakes, like drawing animal legs sticking out of the bottom of bodies like table legs.

Now this is a perfectly valid cartoon cow, depending on what you're going for. However, it will be a more problematic cow to show walking, running, lying down, or chatting about the weather with its fellow cows. It won't move right. Also, if you don't understand how the legs basically attach to the top of the cow instead of the bottom, you miss out on drawing the nice fiddly bits like the hips and shoulders that give your line something interesting to do and help position the cow in space. Since I don't want to spend all day learning how to draw cows, I borrowed the cartoon below to illustrate how an artist who know how cows are put together can do a lot more with them.

I've got no argument with a cartoonist who draws a "table leg" cow, but they should realize it's a choice, with pros and cons.

So with a basic understanding of bone structure and some reference photos, I can sketch out a prairie dog, always looking for how its proportions differ from a human's. I don't need to do a detailed anatomical study--after all, it's a cartoon--and I end up with a critter that might be a prairie dog, groundhog, woodchuck, nutria, or any of a hundred similar rodents. I'm not claiming it's a great prairie dog but for my purposes it's close enough; if I draw it standing in a hole, readers will get it and I've done my job.

However, I still have some decisions to make. How much do I want to anthropomorphize my prairie dogs? Do I want them to move and react like fuzzy little humans (e.g., Mickey Mouse) or retain their essential prairie doginess? In real life, an alert prairie dog looks different than an alert person. Depending on the character and story, I may want to map human poses onto their little bodies to help readers recognize movements and reactions they're used to seeing in people. There are different degrees of this:

Alert prairie dog, Alert anthropomorphized prairie dog, Alert prairie dog businessman wondering if the coyote next door is going to catch him before he gets to his commute train

If I were drawing a lot of prairie dogs or creating ongoing characters I'd have to draw the rest of my life, I'd spend a long time sketching them in every pose and activity imaginable, making sure I understood the shapes and how they moved in space, always looking to streamline and simplify. But in this case I just need a prairie dog to be a prairie dog, and I'm done.

Writing it all out, that sounds like a lot of thought and analysis just to draw some stupid prairie dogs. In fact it's a pretty quick and not entirely conscious process, and I've already made a lot of decisions before I put pencil to paper. But these principles and questions are always in the back of my mind. I ain't sayin' it's the only way or the right way; it's just one way that seems to work sometimes.

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Fledglings Update

1. Our two young scrub jays are doing just fine in our backyard, skittering around while their parents fuss over them. They're getting bigger and more aerodynamic every day, though I don't know enough about avian development to predict when they'll be flying. We're trying to leave them alone to develop on their own.

2. Our two young daughters are doing just fine in Scotland, finding their way around a small hamlet adjacent to campus and figuring out which bus takes them into the next decent-sized town. They got e-mail access today and found an Italian restaurant so I know they won't starve. We're trying to leave them alone to develop on their own.
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The Highland Fling

In theory, the point of parenthood is giving your children the confidence and skills to be independent. In practice: harder than I thought.

Around noon today, my wife and I put our 19-year-old daughters on a plane bound for Scotland, where they'll earn college credit studying medieval history and warfare for a month. This seemed like a really fine idea a few months ago. It even seemed like a fine idea as the departure date got closer and more concrete, and we had to do things like buy electricity conversion kits and contemplate our girls being completely beyond our ability to swoop in and make their boo-boos all better. It didn't even seem like a terrible idea when a couple of car bombs were found in London yesterday; London's a big city, our kids were only going to spend a few hours passing through, and the terrorists seemed pretty inept anyway.

So today we saw them off to Scotland, waving goodbye at the security checkpoint leading to their departure gate. I swear, less than a minute later and 20 steps away I stopped at a television showing footage of a flaming car crashed into an airport terminal. My wife walked up behind me.

"London?" she asked.

"Scotland," I answered.

Urk.

It took the network another five minutes to tell us that the scene we were watching was in Glasgow, not our girls' destination of Edinburgh. As terrorism goes, it seemed like a relatively minor incident (and, again, idiotically inept), but I saw that Glasgow Airport suspended flights and, at this writing--with my wee bairns still en route somewhere over the Arctic Circle--we have no idea how it'll impact their flight and the connection they need to make in London. Guess we'll find out in the morning.

Rationally, I know there are a lot of 19 year olds doing much riskier things in the world, and that mine won't be blown up. Whatever happens, they'll figure it out and be all right. But I don't think I'll rest easily tonight.
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UPDATE 1: Well, they called when they got to Edinburgh a few hours ago (6 a.m. Sunday our time). That's most of the way there. We're expecting to hear from them when they reach their final destination soon.

UPDATE 2: Took a little longer than we expected, but they made it all the way. Whew.
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Freeform Magazine, plus Trees and Jays

A few minutes ago, I e-mailed answers to a long list of questions sent to me by an editor of a Thai art and comics magazine called "Freeform." It was actually quite a detailed and exhaustive interview: my background, my family, my writing and drawing technique, what I've learned, the best and worst parts of the job, etc. I'm again boggled by the idea of people in Thailand reading about me and my work. I'll try to mention it when it appears, although I'm pretty sure it won't be published in English.
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We just got some trees in our yard professionally trimmed. We don't have a large yard but we do have some foliage too big for me to handle myself. As a result, I've learned a few new things.

First, regardless of who you hire to trim your trees--no matter how professionally certified or well recommended--they will always tell you that the last professionally certified, well-recommended guys you hired completely botched the job. You're just lucky the trees lasted long enough for these new guys to rescue them from the brink. I've heard it before but this was the first time I noticed it to be a universal constant. I think the same might be true for house painters, car mechanics and plastic surgeons, but need more data.

Second, I learned I am able to keep baby birds alive for two days. Traumatic childhood experience had convinced me otherwise. No, the arborists didn't disturb their nest. In fact, we noticed the two fuzzy fledglings on the ground under the trees a couple of days before cutting began. They're scrub jays, members of a common, aggressive, foul-tempered species with a grating squawk that I nevertheless resolved to protect. Their parents were still tending to them on the ground, feeding them and fending off predators. But what to do about the heavy-booted tree trimmers?

We considered and quickly rejected postponing; it took time to get the appointment, and the arborist already had his crew lined up. We called a veterinarian friend of ours (the same one who blessed our lives with Amber the Simple Cat) and were advised that we could capture the birds and try to raise them ourselves by hand-feeding them mealworms (not bloody likely), or corral them in a safe corner of the yard where their parents could still get to them. We tried that. The risk was that we'd disturb them so much that the parents would abandon them. The tree guys took two days, so each day before they came I laid a towel in a box too deep for the chicks to hop out of, supplied a shallow bowl of water, caught them, stashed them to the side, and left them alone.

And what do you know ... it worked! They're alive! Mom and Dad Jay made themselves scarce while the crew climbed the trees and rrrrevved their chain saws, but the moment the guys broke for lunch or left for the day, Mom and Dad swooped down for a cheepy family reunion. I let the babies out of the box at night and then recaptured them next morning, braving parental scolding and swooping and pooping.

I was struck by how fast baby birds develop, visibly different from day to day. Their wings are coming along; I wouldn't be surprised if they went from furry tennis balls to full fliers very soon. The first day, they were easy to catch, pretty much sitting indifferently while I scooped them up. A day later they were wailing and skittering like little road runners, and their capture took some effort. If I'd had to catch them a third day, I'm pretty sure I would need an anvil, a giant magnet, and a pair of rocket-powered roller skates.
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Should they survive to fly, I expect my reward to be a couple of new bossy scrub jays who hog all the bird seed and squawk outside my window at the crack of dawn. But maybe, just maybe, deep in the recesses of their bird brains, they'll think kindly of the big pink monkey who tried to keep them out of harm's way for a couple of days.

Lulu Radio & MoCCA

Two things:

I forgot to follow up on an earlier post and mention that my interview with Lulu Radio is now available online. I just listened to it and, while I always hate the sound of my own voice, it's not terrible. Some things I'd've done differently: I said toward the beginning that Mom was diagnosed with cancer in 2004; it was 2003. I began drawing the comic in 2004. I'm bad with dates.

In the interview, I referred to "Mom's Cancer" a few times as "the project." Listening back, that grabs my attention like a pointy stick jabbed in my ear. Calling it "the project" makes it sound too impersonal, like a new account you take on at work. Trust me, there was nothing impersonal about it. I wanted a word that encompassed not just the comic but the book, the correspondence, the press, the recognition, the whole "Mom's Cancer" ball o' wax, and "project" was the best I could do on the fly. Better next time.

At the end, the interviewer asked me where people can find my book. I mentioned Barnes & Noble and Borders, and added that the easiest and cheapest place would probably be Amazon--which is true, but I wish I'd mentioned Your Local Independent Bookseller. Those are the people who love books, deserve the support, and in some cases have treated my book very well. They're cultural heroes. But another reason authors always urge readers to patronize small independents is that their contracts are probably structured to give them a bigger royalty if a book is sold by a Mom 'n Pop shop rather than a giant chain that gets a big discount on the wholesale price. When a book shows up on a pallet at Costco marked down 50%, the author's getting pennies (a lot of pennies, but still...). Just being honest with you.

The interviewer, Rich Burk, did a nice job and seemed like a very good guy. When we spoke before the interview, he explained that he's a radio announcer who, among other jobs, does play-by-play for the Portland Beavers minor league baseball team. He's got one of those great radio voices that always takes me aback a bit in person: "Wait, are you talking to me? The voices in the little electric boxes never talked to me before...!" Still, it was an enjoyable few minutes.

Item Two: The Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art (MoCCA) in New York City has asked me to loan some original art from "Mom's Cancer" to an exhibition of graphic novels they're hosting in the fall. MoCCA's mission is the "collection, preservation, study, education, and display of comic and cartoon art," and it has become an important, high-profile, well-respected institution in the field. It's a great honor to be asked and I'm thrilled to contribute. More details as the date approaches, I'm sure.
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Mister Wizard

I was trying to think of something to write about the death of Don Herbert, whose "Mr. Wizard" television program was the introduction to science for millions of children--including many who went on to become real scientists and never forgot how important he was to them.

But in fact Mr. Wizard's heyday was a little before my time and I don't have vivid memories of his program, which ran from 1951 to 1965. I know I saw it, and grew up with a general awareness of Mr. Wizard's responsibility for the dry cell batteries and coils of wire that cluttered the floor under my bed. I read one blogger who called Mr. Wizard "a Mister Rogers for geeks," and that sounds about right. Herbert had the same even, direct, patient tone as Fred Rogers, and he never condescended to kids. Mr. Wizard understood that even though you might not know how a coil of wire around a nail becomes a magnet or how a needle gently placed on a cup of water can float, you weren't an idiot.

Still, not really being a rabid first-hand fan, I was probably going to let Mr. Wizard's death pass unmentioned until my newspaper editor friend Mike Peterson referred me to a nice remembrance on the Huffington Post by Marty Kaplan. He wrote anything I might have better than I could have. An excerpt:

It's a pity that scientists today, including those who owe their career starts to him, are so often snobbish about show biz. That mandarin condescension toward the masses is why Carl Sagan, one of Don Herbert's television successors, was dismissed as a vulgar popularizer by many of his peers. Entertainment, as Herbert knew, is the art of capturing attention. Scientists depend on public funding, and therefore on the theater of persuasion. Scientists, like it or not, have become hostages to culture warriors, and their ranking in the public's hierarchy of epistemologies, like it or not, depends on the sympathies of citizen audiences. Evidence and proof, conjecture and refutation, theory and argument: these may be defined by scientists with reference to a community of their peers, but if they have any hope of staving off a new Dark Age, it's their non-peers to whom they must also communicate....

That's one good reason why Mr. Wizard was important and will be missed.
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On Economy

Phil May's Self-portrait

Finally, and by complete happenstance, I've discovered the source of a quote that has been a cornerstone of my cartooning philosophy but which I could never track down. I first heard the story decades ago and long ago forgot where. Now I know.

Phil May was born in 1864 and died in 1903, only 39. He was one of the great British cartoonists of the late 19th century, contributing to Punch and other periodicals. In 1885, May went to work for the Sydney Bulletin in Australia, where he came across an editor who thought he wasn't getting his money's worth out of May. Evidently believing he was paying by the line, the editor asked if May could produce more elaborate and detailed drawings. Replied May, "When I can leave out half the lines I now use, I shall want six times the money."

That's what cartooning is all about to me: distilling a thing to its essence, so that nothing but the information needed is presented, and everything that is presented provides essential information. May's reply reminds me of my all-time favorite quote about writing by mathematician and philosopher Blaise Pascal (1623-1662), who concluded a long-winded letter with, "Sorry this post was so long, I did not have time to make it short."

I work on that. In both writing and cartooning, my first inclination is to do too much. If I'm writing a 3,000-word article or 100-page report, I'm very happy if my first draft goes 10% to 20% over because I know subsequent drafts will only improve with tightening. Same with cartooning, I think. I'll draw something several times, figuring out what I can get rid of and what needs to stay, trying for fewer lines and less clutter in every iteration, working hard to make it simple. I always fall short but it's an interesting and worthwhile target to aim for, I think.

When I can leave out half the lines I now use, I shall want six times the money.
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Five Centuries of Pulchritude

This clip has been making the rounds and I found it fascinating enough to borrow myself. Five hundred years of female portraits in Western Art. I was especially struck by how similiar many of the women look--how consistent the ideals of female beauty were in several different countries over a few different centuries. And then of course how everything gets more ... interesting ... around the time photography takes over painting's role as an accurate recorder of images, and art becomes more about individual expression and exploration of technique.



It's 2 minutes 52 seconds. Even if the art doesn't excite you, everyone could use 2:52 of Bach in their lives.
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Moving Out, Moving On

At the end of Mom's Cancer I wrote that Mom, Nurse Sis and Kid Sis moved to Hollywood and bought a home together, at least partly to realize Mom's life-long dream of living there. In the book's Afterword, added to the last page as it literally went to press, I wrote: "I don't think I ever saw her happier living anywhere than she was in Hollywood. She loved her new neighborhood: the fluorescent bougainvillea spilling over her back fence, the giant avocado tree that dropped guacamole hailstones into her yard, the towering palm at her curb, new friends walking dogs and pushing baby strollers past her door. It was where she needed to be."

I spent the past few days helping my sisters leave that Hollywood house forever. After Mom died, it was simply too much work and expense for them to keep up, and not particularly suited to either of their lifestyles. It was Mom's dream that they shared with her and for her but couldn't continue without her. Kid Sis found a great apartment and moved out several weeks ago. Last weekend was Nurse Sis's turn and it meant making some overdue decisions about Mom's belongings, facing some strong memories and emotions--but mostly it just meant a ton of exhausting work. Packing and moving is hard under any circumstances.

Out of respect for my family's privacy, I never wrote much or posted any photos of that house. Now that they're gone, here are a few pictures of a place that made Mom very happy:

The front porch. Mom loved sitting in the white wicker chairs and talking to passersby like the Queen of the Neighborhood.

Bougainvillea completely covered the backyard fence. Calling it "fluorescent" hardly did it justice.

The giant avocado tree in the yard next door. I shot this a couple of days ago and the tree is considerably cut back from when Mom lived here, when branches hung over the fence and fruit dropped year-round, splatting to the ground to be happily devoured by Mom's dog Hero.

Mom's palm tree, which I suspect was a big reason she had to
have this particular house. It was part of her vision.

It was good to spend time with Mom there and, for my sisters' sake, good to let it go as well. It was necessary and overdue, but sad nonetheless.
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Harvey Awards

I've been away from home and office for the past four days (more about that later), without Internet access for most of that time. So it was only upon returning late last night that I learned Mom's Cancer has been nominated for three (!!!) Harvey Awards, which will be announced in conjunction with the Baltimore Comic-Con on September 8. Holy cow! Or, as a cartoonist friend said when he wrote me with the news, "How many awards/nominations do you NEED, man?"

The Harvey Awards are named for Harvey Kurtzman, a creator of MAD Magazine and other pioneering comics work, and sprang from the same wellhead as the Eisner Awards. Both were created after the short-lived (Jack) Kirby Awards faltered in 1987. Like the Eisners, Harveys are nominated and voted on by comics professionals. I've read articles comparing and contrasting the Eisners and Harveys, and confess that the difference is too subtle for me to detect. I'm no historian of comics awards; best I can figure is it's a Shia-Sunni kind of thing or, for "Life of Brian" fans, similar to the schism between followers of the sandal and the gourd. For my part I am genuinely surprised and honored by the recognition, and hope we can all just get along.

Harveys are given in 21 categories. I'm nominated for "Best Artist," "Best Single Issue or Story," and "Best New Talent." A complete list of all the people who are going to beat me is available here. My sincere thanks to the Harvey Awards organizers and the pros who nominated my work. That means a lot.
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Whew.

Two hours ago I finished a big, important, exhausting project that's been getting me up early and keeping me up late for a couple of weeks, not to mention cutting into my blogging time. I'll tell you about it someday. Meanwhile, I'm planning to get back to a saner work schedule that should include time to write here. That is, as soon as I return from a few days' travel starting tomorrow--

Funny. Just as I was typing that sentence (precisely between the words "return" and "from," in fact) I got a phone call from Rich Burk from Lulu.com, who interviewed me for a podcast that'll be posted at Lulu Radio (http://lulu.libsyn.com/) sometime soon. You'll recall that Lulu is the kind and generous publishing company that awarded Mom's Cancer the Lulu Blooker Prize on May 14. So if you ever want to hear a six-minute interview with me, featuring my flat nasal voice stammering "um" and "uh," there it is. Or will be.

Incidentally, before we started recording, Rich and I spent a minute debating how one should pronounce "blook." I've never thought about it much but have been rhyming it with "kook." However, Rich was surely correct that it should rhyme with "book," especially since the Blooker Prize is a pun on the more literary and high-minded Booker Prize. So we went with that. Nice guy, nice interview.

Thanks for reading. More and better later.

The Italian Job

Deadlines. You know the drill.

Editor Charlie forwarded me the cover art for the Italian edition of Mom's Cancer, which is being published next month by Double Shot-Bottero Edizioni. Looks a lot like the English edition, which is fine with me--although I also don't mind when a foreign publisher changes things up to fit their perception of the audience, as the French did. I find that very interesting. I'm surprised the Italian editors didn't translate the title.


I guess some writers demand painstaking control over how their work is presented overseas. I certainly understand that need but don't necessarily share it. My publisher Abrams has my foreign rights (which, as I've explained before, I voluntarily and happily assigned to them) and our understanding is that the pictures and words of Mom's Cancer remain as unaltered as translation allows. As long as I get that, I'm pretty flexible about format, cover art, soft or hard cover, etc. Of course I want it to look its best, but I figure the foreign publisher's job is knowing what appeals to their market. Since selling books is in our mutual interest, I don't mind investing some faith in them.

I got a very nice note from the Italian editor about a week ago, telling me that they debuted my book at a big national book fair and got a lot of positive response. They seem enthusiastic about it, which feels great. As always, I'm a bit befuddled and bedazzled that people I don't know halfway round the world are reading my story in a language I don't speak. Don't know if I'll ever get over that. Hope not.

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I Feel the Earth Move Under My Feet

I live in Earthquake Country and we had a fine little one yesterday: a nice, sharp boom-shudder that sounded and felt like a fully loaded cement truck had run into our living room. Somewhere in the house, something I still haven't found fell off of something else and hit the floor. My wife and I looked at each other, our attention quite engaged, and flinched through that fraction of a second of waiting to see if it stopped or got worse. It stopped.

Our sport is guessing whether a temblor is small and nearby or large and distant. This was certainly the loudest one I can remember but it left nothing swaying, so I guessed it was a pip-squeak magnitude 2 directly underfoot. My wife was more impressed and guessed a magnitude 4 farther away. The U.S. Geological Survey has a nice website that within 10 minutes told us it was a magnitude 3 whose epicenter was four miles beneath a high school less than a mile from our house. We called that one a tie.

Magnitude 3 is nothing, a trifle. My personal best was of course the magnitude 7 Loma Prieta quake of 1989, which knocked a section out of the Oakland Bay Bridge and interrupted the Giants vs. A's World Series. I was working as a supervisor in an environmental chemistry lab at 5:04 p.m. on October 17 when the earth broke 110 miles away. I suddenly felt dizzy and thought it was just me until I saw everyone else reeling, too. Now, the official advice is to stay indoors and ride it out under a sturdy piece of furniture; in 1906, a lot of people were killed when they ran outdoors and got clocked by falling debris. All I know is that everyone in the lab simultaneously realized they did not want to be inside a concrete slab building filled with hazardous and flammable chemicals and gases if it decided to come down. I got behind my co-worker Ken, who is about 6-foot-7 and 250 pounds, and followed him out like a running back on the heels of a blocker. Out in the parking lot I saw the most amazing sight: asphalt rippling like waves on the ocean, with parked cars bobbing up and down like boats. It was, frankly, both deeply disturbing and really cool.

(I imagine my friend Sherwood, whose home I reckon was right on top of the Loma Prieta epicenter, has a much scarier story to tell, assuming he was in the area at the time.)

There's a kind of irrational, fatalistic insouciance that goes with living in Earthquake Country. I think you either get used to the idea that the world can shake itself to bits at any second or you move away. I have a friend who grew up near my neighborhood back when it was a plum orchard and remembers how the neat ranks of trees were split and offset by the faultline that ran through them. I always laugh when I tell people that, although it's not really funny. But the fact is that, although some locations are better than others--bedrock beats alluvial plain--almost nowhere on the West Coast is safe.

I don't believe in fate but I do trust probabilities and statistics. Big quakes happen on scales of decades to centuries, while major quakes (like 1906) happen on scales of centuries to millenia. Modern building codes give me some confidence that my wood-frame home will survive anything short of total disaster. We take the prescribed precautions. All in all, I'll be here a relatively short time (geologically speaking) and like my odds better than if I resided in Tornado or Hurricane Alley. For us, living here is worth the risk. Still, it's interesting to get a little kick in the pants once in a while. Makes you think.

My Little Earthquake, all over in
about half a second (courtesy USGS)
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