One Sunday afternoon in 1982 I received a phone call at home from a Very Big Name Artist. I was Larry Hama's assistant editor at the time. This guy was someone who's work I'd been reading for years. I was really floored to be talking to him. He was calling because the color of a pinstripe on a spaceship was wrong. It's not a red ship with a yellow pinstripe; it's a yellow ship with a red pinstripe! Awed by this luminary, I promised to give the matter my prompt attention first thing Monday.

And, I did. First thing Monday, I had my phone number unlisted. It's been unlisted ever since.

  The Mission
  Writing: Selling The Story
  Pencilling: The Dance
  Lettering: Balloons Are Round
  Inking: Satan
  The Priest Hate List

I'm not your mom. Not your guru or your shrink. I edit comics for seven hours a day, five days a week. The rest of the time I'm busy having a life. Believe it or not, the world didn't end because we got the pinstripe wrong. These things happen and, as the demands of the retail environment press upon us, they will most certainly continue to happen.

Comics publishing, as you know, is the science of creating fresh concepts and ideas and shoving them through a high-speed press. This has nothing to do with art. Or self-expression as catharsis. It's economics. It's supplying a consumer need. It's comics. Kids roll comics up and stick them in their back pocket. Comics have big muscle guys bashing the snot out of each other, and firing ray beams while flying through the sky. The more artsy Arkham Asylum stuff is cool, but that's another department. I produce comics.

When we approach comics, we're talking about skill and craft. To produce a successful, accessible comic, you need both. This handbook walks you through some procedural things, but pretty much concentrates on my sensibilities and preferences. None of this is meant to infer that you must do things my way (although that would be helpful), but it is instead designed to open a dialogue between us and give you a clear idea of what kind of work I'm looking for.

Bring an open mind and a sense of humor.


WHAT WE DO HERE

If you're working for me, you're on a mission. That mission is Tell The Story. Preferably a good story, but the reality of publishing is you do as good a job as possible by the deadline. But, in any case, you Tell The Story.

There is a food chain involved here. I believe an acceptable axiom would be everyone on the food chain hates the person that directly precedes him or her. The colorist hates the inker. The inker hates the penciller. The penciller hates the writer, and often changes the writer's story in order to improve on the writer's shoddy work (which is okay, because once the writer dialogs the piece, he changes it back to improve on the penciller's hackwork). And so it goes. The letterer escapes relatively unscathed (unless he or she is flat out incompetent, but even that is the editor's fault). Everyone hates the editor, because it's all ultimately my fault.

Tell The Story. It's a cooperative effort, and no one creator is any more or less important than the others. No one is indispensable. You'll note I didn't say Tell The Writer's Story, which would imply a greater measure of glory for the writer. The writer loses control of his story once he signs that voucher. In fact, the entire chain relinquishes certain rights to their work once they trade it for hard, cold cash. The story that begins at the plot conference is rarely the one that makes it to the comic shop. That story's been Fed-X'ed around the country for six months and several people have contributed their perspectives on it. It forces an organic change; a refinement of the idea into a solid team project.

Tell The Story. Starts with a plot conference. Then the plot comes in and I reject it. A couple drafts down the line and we've got the plot which goes off to the penciller who immediately calls me up to complain about how lame and inept the story is. This is my second plot conference, where I indulge the penciller who has suggestions (most of them stupid) for changing the story. However, amid the really dumb ideas there's usually one or two that actually punch things up. Artists are usually more visual thinkers than writers, so it's important for me to get their input.

That's when the drawing starts and the book begins to take shape. Tell The Story. Don't chose confusing angles or weird panel layouts to impress your friends, indulge your artistic muse or combat boredom. Tell The Story. Make it clear. Establish locales then characters every time a scene changes. Put something interesting in the lower right corner to encourage our readers to turn the page. And, pay special attention to the boring stuff. That's the stuff that'll hurt your rep because you're not interested in it and would tend to just hack through it. Point out the stuff you just hate to draw and make it a special challenge.

And, don't ever hide Mighty Mouse in the crowd. Or Beatle Bailey. Or Fred Flint-stone. Don't waste my time trying to put mustaches on Tippy The Turtle. I mean it. I'll fire you. That's unprofessional, and has nothing to do with your mission. Tell The Story.

Then the writer does the dialog. This is where the writer shows how little faith he has in his own story by over-writing, covering up all that pretty art with globs of boring copy. Give your readers a little benefit of the doubt and trust your artist. He's on the same mission. Don't try to force scenes back into the exact mold you'd conceived them in. The artist has interpreted your story, now take the ball and run with it. If you've a valid gripe that the artist has just flat out changed the plot, call me. But, before you pick up that phone, evaluate as objectively as possible whether the story is stronger for the artist's input.

Since the letterer is held blameless, we'll just skip him. DC has some of the best letterers in the industry, and I've never had even a single complaint about any of them.

The inker is often a tortured, haunted soul. An artist in his or her own right, the inker is relegated to an ostensibly mechanical task. Make the pencils reproducible. Separate the planes of reality to evoke a three-dimensional image from a one-dimensional sheet of mando paper. And try not to let your artistic sense obliterate the penciller's unique style. Tell The Story. Avoid indiscriminate use of zips and color holds and other tricks that confuse the storytelling. Add texture and improve line weights, but make every effort to preserve the integrity of the pencil work.

The colorist always works at gunpoint. Everyone else on the food chain has blown their deadline at least once and has eaten up all the available lead time. By the time the colorist gets it, the Keebler elves down at the separator are yelling for the color guides. Don't panic. Tell The Story. It would help if you'd take the time to read it. Know what's important to see. Don't try to correct bad inking by overpowering it with color. Separate planes. Take the ball from the inker and head for the tape. You're in the home stretch; going back to fight with the inker is counter productive. Make it clear. I'd rather it was clear than pretty. Better clear than a dramatic, unprecedented achievement in visual transmogrification.

Mr. Artist & Ms. Writer, the mission is to park your ego at the door and concentrate on product. Your artistic integrity and superlative creative powers mean zip to me if a 12 year-old can't figure out what they're looking at. Tell The Story. Tell it well and tell it effectively. I don't mind if you hate me. Just do it.

After all, we're all on the same mission.

  Writing: Selling The Story