Adding to the reference library.. Peter David.

I somewhat accidentally picked up another book to add to the reference library, Writing for Comics and Graphic Novels with Peter David.

I was reading a review concerning said book and hopped over to Amazon for a peek inside, then into the cart to see total costs including shipping for the UK. Wasn't paying attention and purchased the bloody thing as I was multi-tab-tasking. Two days later the thud of this book being squeezed through my doors mail slot wakes me from a 4 hour sleep.

Gotta say I'm not disappointed at all. I always fear books like these, that somehow no good information will be imparted and instead feel more patronizing than humbled. Not that I'm above being patronized, but it's just enjoyable on the receiving end.

Two days later I'm buried in a masterfully written reference on very close points that make me feel that I'm on the right track. At the same time he points out the pitfalls comic writers face by avoiding hard truths.

I'm currently carrying this around along with my dog eared script. Big stupid smile across my face. Got my pitch game in tact.



... Read more!

V¡tne!, off to first draft review.

i've sent off issue one's first draft last night. 24 pages of, 'here goes what little esteem i have'. once i get some feedback, i'll be adding another two heads to the proofreaders list and so on.

i've also began final draft on the synopsis, which will be posted in its convoluted copy written glory. I look forward to its reaction, if any, it'll receive.

On an aside, i came across a great book at the central library today.


[The Storyboard Design Course] by [Giuseppe Cristiano]

very succinct, yet still very informative. kinda the way i like my reference books.
... Read more!

Today I decided I was a penciler

Today was what you could call, a productive one. I've heard of these in forums and, like a female orgasm to the uninitiated, am confused when they occur.

Frequented the Edinburgh National Galleries and the Central Library where, upon requesting the requirements for a library card, was pleasantly surprised by "Just your name sir". Yes, that's right, no ID. It was like being a kid at the local library back in '88:

8 YEAR OLD ME: CAN I GET A LIBRARY CARD
LIBRARIAN: YOUR BILLY'S BROTHER AREN'T YOU?
8 YEAR OLD ME: YEAH
LIBRARIAN: OF COURSE

(note: in the interest of clarity, I have no brother.)

It gets better. Not only did I not require ID, but the card was also free. Free !?!?!?!?! Needless to say, I was jocund the rest of the day. That's right, jocund.

But I digress.

My excursion beyond the walls of my 400 sq ft. flat was for a brief art study at the galleries, and this, is the result below.


[The apotheosis of St.Jerome..] [Giovanni Battista Pittoni]


[faceless baby]


['Venus' of 'Mars & Venus with Cupid and a Dog' fame][Paolo Caliari]


[A burly man with burly needs]


[protocol]

... Read more!

The world doesn't need another comic book writer.. but I digress.

It's true the world doesn't need another comic book writer. Not one that's mediocre and not one who thinks their different unless they can prove otherwise.

How about one who wants to prove otherwise but has no work to showcase right now? No, don't need them either.

So who am I bringing my style to the game? The answer: A nobody just like everyone who ever started.

I'm excited for two reasons.

1. It came to me, not in a vision, no no, but instead in simple terms. That this medium suits my perspective better than others, that of novel and short story. This statement alone will scare many, that's fine.

Yes, a good writer will tackle each cousin of this tree but what I'm saying is that of all the cousins, I find comic book writing to be the one that makes my heart feel good.

2. The layout, design and organization gives my nagging ocd a hard on.

Yeah, well that doesn't pay the bills nor does it get you a pitch. Heartstrings and trumpets over to the corner, assertiveness and talent other side.

Fair enough, I'll work my way to that end. Call me realistic.

Blasphemy some say, foolishness the others.

Nonetheless.

I've been translating a vignette to script these past few weeks, tentatively titled, V¡tne!. Its vision has mended well with the medium and i've found myself in utter disbelief at how quickly i've attached myself to its mouth.

The synopsis will be kept under wraps until i flesh out the first book, the artist to be desired is a friend of mine here in Edinburgh, a Mr. Paul Scott Canavan.

He's a conceptual artist by trade yet we've found a common ground on the visual appeal to this project. Egon Schiele meets Ashley Wood.

We'll see.

Consider this the rantings of an aspiring comic book writer and his pronouncement.
... Read more!

a critic

I've stepped out of every restaurant.

From elegance to sacrilege and those that require the remedy of murder to cleanse the butcher who calls himself a restauranteur. There are 9 categories and I have walked out of all of them, every kind.

Today is much the same, though the surroundings change and this, truth be told, is what I am after. I don't seek the finest tartar nor gratuity seducing sycophantic service, care not for fresh baked stale or God forbid, Ale. The tangible is only a word, I search instead the perfect atmosphere to relinquish my hurried mind into.

Too many of this and not enough inspiration.

The step I place my girth upon this time is not stone this time but light marble and tile, not terra-cotta but a melange and speckled, like battleship linoleum of the forties. The tile mends the steps to the right and left of its stone railing brother, bringing yellow to the taupe as it meets the centering tiles, scaling like a centipede to the top of a head where I stand flanked by this monstrosity of modern gaelic architecture.

I stand in afternoon light, the sickly kind that fucks the smell of sweet stagnating hops on a Sunday, the same scent that currently lingers behind me, mmm..childhood.

On any given evening I could enjoy this décor, even accept the tenement stench. Today however, I walk out of this restaurant reminded only by the plump barkeep servicing an evening room to tourists. A room that could have tempered the walls with bullshit to prose but instead lays witness to a certain tourist; that with a unique sense of entitlement.

'Open on the end- of morning's hour,
if you crave the drunk-ens sour.
Or postpone well past a dinners quarrel,
to serve well- distinguished myrtle.'

... Read more!

mine delicate wraith

** Unfinished

** Following an older poor women through the streets of Edinburgh, a man tells the tale of what he sees as he does so for 3 hours.



It came from the corner of my eye while I walked to work last Sunday. I had in my right hand the dedication of a four year BA tangibly formed into the weakest coffee my tongue could fondle.

Standing amidst irritated passerby's by my slow going waltz, I tried to comprehend the exchange I’d just had when in shaking my head, turned upward to notice the subject of this story. The shell of a person is easier to notice, much easier to distinguish through the melee of fabricated here-says and second skins than most other forms of broken spirit.

I believe anyhow.

At 2 o'clock to my facing north she crossed the street on a vertical, ignored the rules of engagement and somehow, though I have never seen British cars stop for more than strollers and even then, managed them to cease their cacophony; like a modern day fem-Christ.

It felt, even from where I stood half a block away, that the weight of every sin must have laid into those shoulders, a walking sacrifice for all to see. It was obvious in how she held every single moment she had ever shared in each step while crossing the street.  It was almost beautiful.

--

Propped in her bones she looked 50 some odd years, the face though awful hard spoke female, caucasian with a gypsy frame. Her girth told the possibility of childbirth which lead me to imagine that she had lost it somehow, dis-ownership, abuse or good ‘ol fashioned abortion, though its not the worst thing you know.

She wore layered frocks, not tattered but what you would imagine a 17th c. pauper to wear like armor. Her skirt moving above bare ankles only when they shifted, revealing thick bunched socks encased in heavy boot, lifting each in succession towards something, or nothing simultaneously.

If anyone around had taken notice of her they wouldn't have seen a destination. It reminded me of a friend who commented, “There’s something to say about a man who walks with purpose, that gives him soul.” This after he had finally found work after nearly 9 months of collecting the dole.

This situation differed.

I’ve seen most kinds of despondency try to sell itself. Gypsies, poor bastards and their dogs, charities for children, even charities by children for children with child-only-diseases paint the windows to the soul with ash covered melancholy. But this women made the memory of my own sorrow seem pale and anemic.

I have no idea what had eaten the human being that stood parallel to me, to steal her footing, to gnaw her bones to the spirit most of us agree exists. All I know is that it must have been a once gallant stroll for it to show through the wraith of a woman that now held it, and I say it showed else I shouldn’t have noticed it.

Watching her body motion southward had me become aware that my own walk was far too deliberate for its destination, I slowed, I stared like a crow to a mouse. I released my tension because she had none.

I looked at my watch. It was six minutes to the hour. I looked towards my work then back at her still focused on the same speed, still one foot over the other, still a shade. It felt as if no one else saw her, as if she was mine alone.

Before she arrived at the next corner to once again question the need for traffic lights, I started to follow.

Chapter 2

I threw the coffee into the bin, I no longer felt angry at its stale flavoring but a little sad that the guy who served me couldn’t make a good cup of coffee despite 4 years of academic prowess. It’s like learning to shoot without bullets and when the time comes to do so, you haven’t been prepared for the kickback. You’ve wasted all this time not learning the fundamentals is what I mean.

We sauntered down Castle st. where she turned east towards Waverley. I knew I was staring, locked so as to see more of this accidental story she exuded, any goal I may have had had not yet been established, right now it was just important that I kept track of her, until she moved out of the crowds.

We passed a fellow to our left smoking dejectedly, a cup too small for the change he was silently requesting sat off to the side of his feet. He looked as if wishing the asphalt were a mirror so he could agree with someone else with the self-assessment his mind had conjured. He sat in his mid-twenties, a checkered t and loose jeans, his hair gelled and his posture weak. I would never become friends with this individual I thought to myself.
He felt weak, obsessed with consumption, he looked, for all intensive purposes stupid and I had no pity for his minor qualms even though they could be of varying enormity. For all I cared, he and his girlfriend could find others means by which to  collect 40 quid for the abortion.
But as soon as I thought this, I recoiled. Not because of some deep seeded sense of morality, I didn’t feel bad for my thoughts or him. I thought, what if I’m right and he is panning for abortion monies. I stopped, quickly glancing ahead to make sure my specter was in place, looked at buddy who couldn’t even be bother to look up at a stranger who was feeding his dreams with pence.
Throwing 60p into his tiny fucking cup I muttered, “713 Ashcroft, corner to Minto”, the address to the cities only abortion clinic and kept moving.

I leaped back into the crowds queue forward and spotted my girl, I needn’t walk fast and she stood out well enough but it was her face I wanted to see again. The back of her vale had already told me its story.

It was dark grey covering another mahogany colored hood beneath it.



** unfinished

... Read more!

Two paragraphs concerning the penis., et al.

Two paragraphs concerning the penis

A flaccid fingered instrument operating much like a gauge for water pressure, the monitoring of this geyser lacks precision in its youth, needing guidance, aims for accuracy during mid-life and finally garners a stained apathy in its elder-hood.

Best held with a firm grasp, the tubes purpose doubles as a central ‘off’ button which can be ‘pushed’ by slapping it hard. Mine serves a second service as I hold it in my good hand, the right, and with my thumb on the base of the head and forefinger underneath, bend to make my puppet dance.



A paragraph concerning the penis [sexual]

A flaccid fingered instrument operating much like a divining rod, the male penis spends much of its youth searching to bury itself in the soft mound of pubescent earth. This stage does not yield but resembles the throws of rejection benzodiazepine addiction can induce upon its victims, ending with the hapless, shrinking retreat of curling into itself; sickness all over its thread.



A sentence concerning the penis [psycho-analysis]

Form and firmness are tantamount to its place amongst the herd, though the Armenians prefer to venture into tangible proof of this via the fighting style [...], it is unfortunately not practiced by many outside the culture.v


... Read more!

The Untitled Belgium

unfinished...

I arrive at the airport without much thought.

It’s necessary that I don’t think, that I relinquish control and responsibility like the good Catholic I am not, this so that I can maintain composure to the upcoming and inevitable fear of my flight. I am headed to Belgium and it will not come quietly, not without stress.

The motions come easy. I try ignore the ticket desk and her check in. The girl serving me is just that, a girl, times are tough for those over forty I think. Questions come answered with instinct, no chit chat, I’m unsure if this pleases me but I survive the incongruity. At security, like a good citizen, I do pay attention, searching with my good eye closed for an untrustworthy face; then, when finding none, back again[I return] to ignoring the process of my departure.

I place within myself a sense of calm by false association, a game I play when needing to remove myself from a situation, much like a game of this is not rape.

I am the everyday traveller and this is just a part of my job.

Fear is the upcoming presentation, that prick Johnson at the office; cocky son of a bitch, Joanne my secretary sucking my prick with teeth exposed, I am annoyed at the inconvenience of this call out of town business. To supplement my self preservations attitude, I will adopt a sense of apathy, cross my legs, read the paper and order a scotch without looking up at the help. I am a busy man after all. This flight is my bitch but not quite.

This I convince myself while sitting aboard the abominating union of advancement & nature, let the pilot worry I say too many times, but as we rise and level off, I feel little fear.

Fuck I’m a good bullshitter.



My fear of flying can be explained quite easily in one sentence: I believe myself important enough to live. Not to anyone else, no, I’m not that self involved but to myself instead rather.

How selfish of me.

Who the fuck am I? I am a nobody I tell those with a chip on their shoulder, to help alleviate the thick air that sometimes manifests in debate. I place myself on their petty level to bring about a sense of tribe, of community. I loathe those I need coddle to serve a greater purpose, that of shifting the balance of stupidity amongst the layman. Losing battle that is.

Flying however, has me believing otherwise, that somehow I am worth my existence’s weight in gold, of which I am not only enthralled by but dually invested in. I’ve cultivated if you will, a deeper sense of its meaning. How typical of the living.

My death would serve no purpose I will say. Save to fulfill the balance & cycle of life, the less incongruous part of myself will rebuke.

I am a self involved man because all I have is my own life, a dangerous singularity by itself. A rather pathetic reason for existing if not for the large learning curve we are alloted at the onset of our conscientiousness.. the early 20’s.

I become most apologetic & retrospective in flight. I changed man.

...unfinished

... Read more!

truth without numbers

"Wrapping my misgivings in a character allows me more grace to shoot from the hip, so to speak". He said this as he pulled a cheap cigar from his inside pocket. I say cheap because the paper wrapping had an advert on it, 'Seymours Car Diner': 241 Montgomery Road' .

Carl had a terrible ad on television, the kind filled with obvious family members and the obligatory hot niece and stupid uncle. Classy, you know. Made you want to take your grandmother in the hopes she would either choke on the salad or set off a diabetic attack due to the lemon pie she'd 'earned' due to her walking a quarter mile that week. Just give me my fucking inheritance.

1976 was an awful year and Milford Tajeadn, an Armenian no one had heard about, had written his peace of mind on the subject with the clarity of a sage, or if in Cleveland, a dope addict and I ain't talking green smoke either but rather black opium.

'Gracious be the poppy growers', the Asians must be praying every chopstick rice-ridden meal they ate by the docks.

But I digress. I do that.

I was tasked by the daily financially deprecated newspaper that is The Herald, to write a piece on Milton, the whole ‘What makes him tick?’ none sense. Bullshits a better word, but I’m trying to clean up my vocabulary.

We decided to meet in the Park by Simpsons department store where we currently sat and where, dear Mr.Tajeadn, a seventy-four year old with a prick meets sardonic wit was explaining to me how his characters transcend the Pinnochio syndrome, that of bringing them to life so fully and seemingly, so effortlessly.

My editor, a rotund piece of garbage named Olafmann said Milton’s gift was part Jew, his mothers side, and all connection. Olafmann was as classy as Carls commercial but without the underaged hot niece.

“I don’t write with any hard ideas in mind, the contrived nature of this craft should be left to the romance novelists shilling to add another bathroom to their cottages. My domicile has one shitter and two rooms, if I need another shitter I’ll kick the wife out and convert the living room.” He wasn’t kidding either.

His wife, Margerette, was a tall Dutch he had met while serving in the Armenian military as a stout 18 year old. She was a prostitute who hovered the local bar, yeah I said prostitute, and he had a spare four dollar in his pocket. He joked that, “Had the military hired Jews to run the numbers rather than crouts, I would have only had enough for blowjob from the fat girls. No Margerette.”

So Milton buys himself a drink, double cause he’s rich and tells the barkeep he wants the works from the nicest blonde they got. Barkeep calls Margerette over and voila! best arranged marriage story ever except it gets better.

M&M go upstairs, I call them that, do what they do, pay the four dollars and Tajaedn heads back to the barracks for his next run at trying to survive frontline only to return two months later to a, yup, you guessed it, knocked up prostitute. So Milton, the non-practicing good Jew he is, marries Margerette so as not to offend his mothers dignity or face at the synagogue. I’ve heard of Christian guilt, but Judaism guilt? Never before.

What you ask, was a Dutch doing in Armenia and better still, how do we know it was Milton’s kid stoking the the Dutche’s oven? I haven’t a fucking clue.. shit sorry, I haven’t a clue. Milton never spoke of it save to say his wife miscarried a month after the civil ceremony.

So why did he stay married to a prostitute. He allured to that answer as well in simple Milton fashion, “Free pussy from a vending machine?!” He looked at me perplexed. Classy.

Milton had, by all accounts, a typical war riddled upbringing. Once you've sat through several of these tear inducing, hearth wrenching to sometimes heart warming stories, you've heard most all of them. The enemies are always interchangeable, be it Nazis to Gooks or Russians to Columbians. Go ahead try it, grab any story set during any given war and replace all instances of race and military with that of your choice.. bam! different story, same shit.

The aggressors are all the same, the heroes as well. Hell, if you exchange the two you’re just reading their History books. You think the Reds would write a book calling out their failures?

“So why write a story about 1976?” I ask him looking down at a blank sheet of paper. I ain’t got no notes, I don’t believe in them.

“It’s a nice round number.”
“It’s a nice round number?”
“Yeah, I figured I should consider the marketing aspect. If I ain’t writing garbage like those fucking pseudo-smut novelists, I gotta find a way to catch the eye of the common reader. 1976. big white letters. Catches the eye doesn’t it?.” He says this as he holds a copy of the book up against the sky, either inspecting it or reveling in his genius I cannot tell.

“So you decided on the common theme of your book based on a marketing ploy?”
“Ploy sounds I should be rubbing my hands together with glee. I wrote a story concerning a theme that no matter what year you placed it in, whether it be today, September 4th 1976 or December 19th 1945, would resonate with thinkers. I can preach to the converted and I can try and reach another demographic as I do so. Maybe line the pocket book too.”

He was right. Hell it was my god damn philosophy.. dammit, sorry. We shared a philosophy.

This made me like Milton.

Maybe it was the idea that something interesting and good could come of a fluke occurrence like my being assigned Milton Tajaedn as a story, that indeed it had nothing to do with the stars, with fate. That life was random and this was one of those events that gave an opportunity at friendship or a door to learn by, but I felt good that day. I felt warm that there wasn’t a deep seeded plan, that I wouldn’t miss the party just because I couldn’t follow orders without asking. That I wouldn’t suffer in some archaic hell due to ignorance, willful or other.

I was smiling and so was Milton.


... Read more!

Sunday

Fall has begun its decent on Scotland earlier than expected for us. Mid-August summer gave up a meager fight, where it’s entrails of green once patched the city, the bright colors of flora death can no longer be missed.

The early afternoon of a Sunday tricks you into a false comfort, warmth, almost due to the vehicular exhaust rather than the sun. It envelopes you but not like smog, cleaner, lighter even. By five the winds come in, they bring the same determined chill, changed only by the absence of drizzling water.
Everyday after work, I wish I had brought my jacket, more-so for the comfort of its size, as I sneak my body in like a non-existent, urban-fall turtle.

On this specific Sunday a Canadian Thanksgiving in Scotland has just come to pass. The company of nine guests included each of one Greek, Indian & British born, leaving seven Canadians to introduce the holiday and its gathering of family and friends as a gracious enemy to the bulimic.

In the ranks of said company stood three unique strangers.

The first was of British decent.

Having served as a nurse to paramilitary operations in Burma. She spoke of her given name being synonymous with the strict medical background of an Oxford education and the compassionate nature by which she would slip the dyings wishes between her legs, where they would pass without sufferings on their mind.

Hers was a gift where syphilis need not apply to the deads set of concerns.

The second was a Navy boy.

Serving three years within ranks one rung higher than cannon fodder, his OCD had never found a better home he would tell, lament on the tip of his tongue at home now being a traveled brigade.

In his second year of service the color major to his regiment called him into office. With grand fashion he spoke of the boy’s direction, the ambition he exemplified: The Navy spirit as it were.

He spoke of his own past, mirroring the boys own, stood solemn & proud as he faced him, told of his twenty some odd years in service. Smiled. He made the boy feel in his heart of hearts that he was on one of life's proper tracks, that is until the color major pulled a gun from his holster and shot himself upwards through the left cheek.

The last thing he told the boy was never to stay loyal to just one cause, an enigma awaited those who searched. Bang!

The boy has been traveling since. He’s just come back from S.Korea. He fucking hated it.

The third of the unique lay in the body of a light strawberry ginger, light milk in appearance, light effect in breasts.

She darted eyes to and from hosts then company, seeking to break solitudes from her tired searching fingers. She moved her skirt below her navel and found gazes in men that told her who she could place hurried interest in. She was only here for two more days.

We left without a suitable candidate writing scattered directions to their flat. She will sleep in her cot made for one again this evening, her fingers finding solitude again.

Thanksgiving had ended.

... Read more!

bare with me as i update the coffers

Patience non existing reader, I'm update the bloggies with my plethora of loose leaf genius.. bare with me as I update the coffers.
... Read more!