Bugs Are So Creepy!

This post is from my message board (You'll All Be Sorry) at comicbookresources.com in response to a very nice guy who asked whether or not I could read over his pitches (if I understood his request correctly). I actually do have a couple tips in that regard, but first, a little bit about an industry secret, which is, within a few moments, we probably know if you have a shot or not, and it's not because we're geniuses with amazing talent radar.

Here ya go:

While I can't read people's pitches (just not a good idea legally, I've been told often), I will say that I am regularly suprised by the demeanor of people who want to pitch at a comics company.

I hate to reveal an industry secret, but it is very easy to spot those who are likely to have a shot and those that aren't. Those that aren't aren't listening. If you tell them that a 48-part epic that includes every hero in the DCU from Anthro to Zatanna is not a good first pitch, they don't listen, so convinced are they in their own brilliance. If you have advice about storytelling, they are certain in doesn't apply to them.

They are often vaguely hostile and insulting. I've had letters from these people where they start off with, "I'll be honest, I don't follow your work..." which is fine, except, why in the world are you asking my advice?

They often overwhelm you with everything EXCEPT a readable, exciting and concise presentation of a strong idea. Please do not bring me folders and folders of material featuring the backstory of the guy pumping gas in page three. I not only can't read it, I don't WANT to read it, and no one else does either.

Being an editor is a hard job. Yes, they DO want to find exciting new talents. But if you fail to present yourself as a sellable and professional commodity, it's your own fault if you get no shot. I'm sorry, but that's true in ANY industry. No one's TRYING to keep you out. There are many, many resources out there...use them!

I had an editor tell me the true story of a current industry superstar who COULD have been a superstar months or years sooner, but his pitch was so completely unprofessionally produced that it was essentially unread. But this writer was so clearly of the group that was going to make it in somehow, that he found another way in and pretty soon companies were knocking on HIS door. Very few roadblocks will deter those that conduct themselves well, don't give up, are willing to do what needs to be done, AND have talent. It will not be handed to you, so don't even have that expectation. This creator was talented and dedicated beyond reason, so the notion that he might NOT make it in was never really in doubt. He cut his own doorway.

In some ways, I was incredibly fortunate, and I know that, in that I didn't have to hassle editors or pitch at conventions, etc. etc. But on the other hand, I wrote a column that meant for two years I gave up my weekends, worked my ass off on research and trying to improve constantly, for (at first) no money at all and then very little money. It meant staying up all night some nights after a hard day of work when the next day ALSO was a full day of work. And it allowed editors to see not only that I could write some in different styles, and could make people laugh, but also that I could follow a self-imposed deadline (truthfully, I was better at that last when there was no real JOB attached, somehow). It showed that I wouldn't quit even when the only real reward was some people might laugh a little bit.

I used to be really a bit tender about how I broke in, because I felt bad that I got in over some folks who had taken the classes and gone to the seminars and had hassled editors, etc. etc. But enough pros I respect have said that EVERYONE finds a different way in, and I've gained enough distance to see what a ridiculously massive amount of effort went into my silly column that now I'm more comfortable with it. Deserved or not, I didn't blow my shot when it was given to me. I put everything I had into every assignment whether it was Deadpool or an X-men backup or a Simpsons single page Sunday strip. I never intended to have this career and I didn't have a master plan...but that's not the way YOU should approach it, not if you want in. You should have a master plan and when a pro or editor advises you to relook at it, you should dang well relook at it. If you do, you will instantly set yourself apart from the guy who wants Marvel to get Bryan Hitch to draw the epic saga of his City Of Heroes character.

I hope that makes sense. I want to be encouraging. But I do not want to encourange those who are unrealistic and hostile. I want to encourage those who have a goal and some idea of how to go after it.

Good luck!

Gail

PS. When I have a bit of time, I will post some actual tips for those who are serious about trying.

One Other Thing...

...A while back I teased out that I had ghost-written for Bill Jemas.

This sent people scrambling to their collections of MARVILLE and...jeez, I'm drawing a blank. Honest to god, I can't remember what else he wrote. Anyone with a better memory help me out here?

Anyway, it wasn't Marville. Or any other comic.

At the time, I was a humor columnist on Jonah Weiland's Comicbookresources.com, doing a comics parody thing weekly called You'll All Be Sorry. It was strangely popular even with the people I often made fun of, and a couple companies, including CrossGen, paid me to make fun of them a little (although, true story, they objected to a page I wrote that had Mark Alessi as the unholy ruler of a snake-worshipping cult. Why, I can't imagine).

I'd spoken to Bill a couple times, once after I'd really slammed him in my column (in a relatively unrealistic way...the main gag was that he'd been left in the snow to die by Joe Quesada. Not true, to my knowledge). And whatever else you may say about the man, he had a sense of humor about being poked at. He thought it was really funny and told me personally.

To be honest, in fact, I had pretty much nothing but positive exchanges with Bill. I liked that he was willing to do things that no one thought would be commercial, just to see if they were wrong. And he was a big supporter of Gus Beezer, if I understand correctly. When my first couple Deadpool issues came out, he sent me a very nice personal note about them.

So, while I do understand a lot of folks didn't like him, I didn't really see that side personally, and we always had a very cordial relationship.

One day out of the blue, he asked me to write a bullpen like page, ostensibly from him, based on a solid comedy concept...he said that even when he did something that was almost completely positive for fans, he was so disliked by fans and the fan press, that someone would find a way to twist his motives so that it was evil. So his gag was, what if he made an announcement that he was giving away free cookies, how would the usual suspects find a way to make that seem evil?

I thought that was pretty funny, so I wrote up some things, and I think he used most of it (don't really recall...I do think it actually made it into Marvel Comics as a fake bullpen page, or maybe on Newsarama or something). I think I did two such gigs for Bill, and he reworded them...he had some solid comedy chops, truth be told. I think he was looking for some inspiration and structure to bring them out.

Anyway, that was my 'ghost-writing,' mainly about cookies. It had one funny bit in it:

JOEQUESADA:

Uh, see, Bill is like the bad cop, and I’m the good cop -- I mean, he likes to shake things up. Uh, he’s probably kidding about the whole cookie thing, I bet. It’s more than likely a joke. I’m 90% certain that he’s just kidding. Oh, forget it. You guys grab him and I’ll stun him with this shovel.

Mystery solved!

Now, about the actual Marvel COMIC that I ghost-wrote a little while later... ;)


Best,

Gail

About The Post Below

Sorry for the typos, I was sleepy.

Gail

"WHY AREN'T YOU BUYING THIS BOOK?"

I've grown to hate this sentence.

I believe it's totally the wrong approach, and on top of that, it's damn smug.

Yes, it's true, a lot of great comics don't sell very well. It's equally true that a lot of not very great comics sell very well indeed. If you look at the 'buzz' on the net, it's darn near an axiom that the comics the internet claims to adore are at the bottom of the Top 100 charts, if they appear on that chart at all.

Almost every writer, even the elite of the elite, has had a personal project, a book they really believed in, tank hugely. These may be mere blips in their career, but they're significant blips. What they say is, no one is failure-proof, in commercial terms. And make no mistake, some of these ARE great books, worthy of much higher sales.

So when a good book tanks, it's inevitable that a well-intentioned pro (or reader) will say, in exasperation, "Why aren't you buying this book?"

Some will shout it, some will whisper, some will write in in blood from their own scalp in letters ten feet high. And I wince a little, every time I see it.

First, I've usually been a manager or business owner. I've had employees, and my thinking was always if they screwed up, ultimately, it was my fault. Either they weren't trained properly, or they weren't overseen with enough zeal, or they were improperly motivated, or they shouldn't have been hired in the first place. They may have gotten a talking to, but I got the blame, and deservedly so. Now why, in a sales environment, would a mistake that ultimately was MY fault, be blamed on the customer?

The answer is, it shouldn't. If we didn't sell, if we didn't close a deal, it's easy to blame the customer, but it's also usually wrong. And it's counter-productive in every way that counts.

Comics readers are a dream prospect, to keep the sales analogy going. They're educated in the product, and they're motivated to purchase. Usually, their desire to buy outstrips their available funds, in fact, and that, my friends, is a great position for a seller (be he or she a retailer, creator, or publisher) to be in. In fact, with the repeated customer (impulse buyers are quite a different issue and not as relevant to this conversation), the interest level is high enough that the main problems are;

1) Competition from other books the customer might like just as much or more, and
2) Enough suitable, profitable venues to supply that customer.

(Insufficient numbers of readers will be discussed in a bit).

I don't like to think of what I do as a business. I don't obsess over numbers sold, or chart positions, and most pros I know feel the same way. They're writing to tell stories. They draw because they love it.

But it is a business, both in real terms (we need publishers and retailers and distributors and all that comes with that just to keep the stories on the shelves) but also in the more abstract way we relate to the readers, the way the stories go from our brains to those of our audience. We want our work seen, and usually, by as many people as possible.

But if we make a book that isn't appealing enough to be picked up off the shelves...is that really the customer's fault? Is it right to imply that a book's failing is solely because of the readers?
To me, it goes back to that thing, that it's wrong to blame the customer if they don't want your product. This is true both of individual creators and even large publishers, and trying to guilt a reader into buying a book is a bad move because;

1) It rarely works, and
2) It's chicken.

Let's look at number one, first. How many books have had their sales improved by this tactic? Manhunter is one of the PAINFULLY small number of books that have gotten a repreive by word of mouth, Spider-Girl is another. In both cases, however, the grass roots campaigns to save the book were almost uniformly positive. They stressed that readers would ENJOY the books, rather than said, "Why aren't you reading this book? Are you an asshole of some kind? Is your taste so terrible that you can't be reading this book I love?"

You show me an attempt to gain new readers that takes the above tone, and I'll show you a failed attempt to gain new readers.

Time and again, I see well-meaning pros ask this question, unselfishly, with the best of intent, about books they love. And time and again I see a vaguely annoyed and insulted audience clicking off the 'I'll never buy THIS book' on their mental pull charts.

Hmm. 'Mental pull charts.' That is a gross phrase, somehow.

The second bit is more difficult. It's chicken to blame the readers. Readers support books they love. Something in YOUR book didn't hit them hard enough to make them pick it up, or once they read it, to KEEP reading it. Maybe your book is exactly what you meant it to be and changing it would destroy it. Maybe you don't care if it sells even a single copy. There's nothing at all to be ashamed of in either case...in fact, I applaud you. Commercial concerns shouldn't be the be-all and end-all of any artistic endeavor, obviously, and all of us have projects we'd do whether or not anyone bought it once it hit the stands. And not every book is a Wolverine/Spider-man/Batman/Vampirella crossover book, thank God. Some are quiet little books about mouse guards and torso killers and Seattle slackers, beautiful and perfect, and with devoted followings, and critical acclaim and probably great groupies, too.

But when you do the less commercial book, you know the deal you're making. It may be huge, it may outgrow comics and be a huge mainstream hit. But it's just as likely that the audience will be a small subset of the already not-huge comics audience. And you did it anyway because it was important, the art had value, the story had personal meaning. And you knew it was probably not going to sell Spider-man numbers, and you were fine with it.

So a book you put your heart into doesn't sell. For me, it was probably Rose And Thorn, a book I was dearly proud of, with a great deal of personal meaning. Adam Hughes covers, great interior art by Adriana Melo...we did our very best on it, but everyone knew it was likely not going to do JLA numbers. But we all believed in it and I think we all felt it was a special comic.

When it didn't sell through the roof, there were quite a few well-meaning readers (and a few pros as well) saying the PHRASE. While I appreciate the effort, I think it has the opposite effect...it turns people off. No one's in this hobby for guilt. They're here because they love the format, love the characters, love the stories. It doesn't make me feel better, nor did it raise sales a whit, to finger wag and blame the people who passed the book by.

And ultimately, we who worked on Rose and Thorn WANTED to do a more personal project. I'm still delighted with the results, and the fact that it wasn't top ten (or top fifty) doesn't detract from that in the slightest.

If you love a book and it could use more readers, I suggest you consider telling people why it's great, what it is you love about it. Imagine someone suggesting you try a new restaurant by saying, "This restaurant is going under...why aren't you eating there?" It's just not appealing. It may feel good momentarily to say, but ultimately, it just bugs the hell out of me to blame the readers when they WANT to support comics. It's we who, somewhere between our computer and the comic shop, didn't give them something they felt intrigued, compelled, or horny enough to buy. Can't blame marketing, can't blame the weather, can't blame video games, because none of those things stopped a thousand other books from selling like crazy. I know some pros who are seemingly above such petty things as even the simplest of marketing, even the most basic methods of getting the word out, AND YET still manage to blame readers for their books not selling. Not everyone is good at (or cares about) message boards and interviews and the like as others. I myself often feel very uncomfortable talking about my own work. But if you can't do any of that, and your book fails to capture much interest, how ridiculous is it to blame the reader? It's like trying to sell a car by posting a FOR SALE sign at the bottom of a deep lake.

So again, if you care about a book, whether it's your own or someone else's, instead of trying to blame the last person genuinely responsible (the reader), why not extoll that books virtues? The internet is fantastic for putting words in front of eyes. If you're going to bother writing the "WHY AREN'T YOU BUYING CRAPMAN?" line, consider instead saying something that moved you about the story or the characters or the art. That's what, I believe, got Manhunter a well-deserved reprieve...it's what kept Spider-Girl going against all odds.

That said, WHY AREN'T YOU PEOPLE BUYING BIRDS OF PREY?

Oh, and buying a book in trade is TOO supporting a book. Sorry, had to say that out loud.



That's it, sorry for rambling.

Gail

If You Only Listen To Me Once This Year...

...I hope you'll check out The Makeshift Miracle, in the currect Diamond catalog. I just got a chance to read this thing and HOLY SHIT, IT'S GREAT!

http://www.makeshiftmiracle.com/

This is the kind of book that makes you think trees might be doorways to something wonderful. It's just that good.

I loved it!

Gail

Please Help!

Early this morning, the Texas home of award-winning writer/artist Lea Hernandez, my friend and co-creator of the graphic novel Killer Princesses, caught fire and burned. Half her house is now gone, and the rest is smoke-damaged. In addition, she lost at least six of her family’s beloved pets, two dogs and four cats. If you knew Lea, you’d know how devastating that is.

She’s lost a great deal of her family’s possessions, including irreplaceable art. She doesn’t yet know the full accounting of what’s been lost at this time.

Most know Lea as the brilliant creator of such works as Rumble Girls and Cathedral Child. She drew the Marvel Mangaverse PUNISHER book, and has drawn for TRANSMETROPOLITAN, among many other accomplishments. She is also the co-founder and original editor for GIRL-A-MATIC, one of the most important venues for female-friendly comics created to date.

She’s also my friend, and it’s entirely possible I wouldn’t have a career in comics if she hadn’t asked me to write Killer Princesses for her to draw.

And finally, Lea is one of the last great firebrand hellraisers in comics.

Lea has two (wonderful, amazing) special needs children and right now they need a place to stay and some clothes to wear. More than that, they need
some help, and fast, in the form of donations to her paypal account. Lea’s a proud person so I’m going to ask FOR her. This is important, and a great chance to do a wonderful thing for a creator who has consistently enriched this industry we all love so much. Please, take a moment and send WHATEVER YOU CAN to Lea’s paypal account and help make this time a little bit less painful for someone who would do the same for you if the positions were reversed.

If you’re a retailer, I ask that you set up a donations jar. If you’re a creator, I ask you to think of how devastating this would be to your career and donate what you can. If you’re a reader, I’m asking you to take a moment and hit the paypal link. You’ll be doing something heroic and you’ll feel great about it, I promise.

Read what Lea had to post on a neighbor’s computer while wearing her pajamas at: Livejournal.com/users/divalea

Donate (PLEASE) to her paypal account at: divalea@gmail.com

Finally, if I understand the story correctly (as told to me by Lea’s good friend and current Girl-a-matic editor), it was Lea’s daughter hearing the smoke alarm that allowed the family to get out in time, so for God’s sake, do everyone you love a favor and CHECK YOUR SMOKE ALARMS.

Thank you so much for helping. Really, any amount you can send will make a difference. That’s all I can say.

And also, if you have a blog or a myspace account, please spread this around as best you can. Every little bit will help and every eye that sees this might be someone who donates.

Sincerely and gratefully,

Gail Simone

Scripty Sample-y

I get asked for script samples constantly...here's the third of three short stories from Bop #86, and a personal favorite of mine. The idea was to spotlight three completely distinct elements of the book in seven pages each. This was illustrated by the very talented David Lopez.

BIRDS OF PREY #68

A WAKEFUL TIME

PART THREE

Well, it’s my lucky day to work with three great artists on this book! David, any panel layouts are just suggestions, and if you have a better, more dramatic way to do this, feel free. Just as long as the basic actions are conveyed.

REFERENCE DAVID WILL NEED:

Current Huntress costume

Helena Bertinelli’s mobster look from the BATTLE WITHIN arc

Don Sigiorello, same arc.

PAGE ONE:

PANEL ONE: Big panel, 2/3 page. Huntress, inside a formerly perfectly normal middle-class American two-story house. But a hardcore gang has moved in, and they’ve trashed most of the inside. There’s spray-painted graffiti on the walls (gang-style stuff), a twin-size bedspring mattress is leaned against the wall. The few furnishings have liquor bottles and ashtrays and crap on them, and the whole place is pretty disgusting. The ONLY area that’s nice and clean is the bigscreen tv and stereo components. In comparison to the first two stories, this one’s going to be a bit brutal. Think European crime comics, or Dark Knight with a uterus. Finally, the big living room has a staircase heading to the second floor.

In the center of this squalid setting is Huntress, in full fury, kicking a machine gun wielding gang member in a flying kick to his head. She’s PISSED OFF.

TITLE AND CREDITS

A WAKEFUL TIME, PART THREE

GAIL SIMONE: WRITER

DAVID LOPEZ: PENCILLER

RACHEL GLUCKSTERN: ASST. EDITOR

JOAN HILTY: EDITOR

HUNTRESS CAP: This is my favorite time.

PANEL TWO: Outside the house, which has overgrown grass and weeds on an otherwise perfectly lovely suburban street. The street is lined with trees, and it’s Autumn, so the leaves are falling. The gang member’s machine gun is thrown through the front window hard enough to send glass shards flying everywhere.

THUG (off-panel, inside house): Wait. NO. DON’T.

HUNTRESS CAP: The leaves are falling.

HUNTRESS CAP: Gotham’s weirdly oppressive humidity becomes

bearable for a few brief weeks, preceding a cold that makes you feel

like your BONES are rotting from the inside.

PAGE TWO:

PANEL ONE: The machine gun, laying on the lawn where it landed, in the overgrown weeds. It lies next to a chubby, unblinking baby doll missing an arm and a leg.

THUG (TAILLESS): ARRRRRRRRRRUUGHKKKK!

HUNTRESS CAP: It wasn’t easy getting him to TALK.

HUNTRESS CAP: Not easy stuff at all.

PANEL TWO: A ten year old Caucasian kid, with sunken, troubled eyes, close up. This scene is all flashback, David, so whatever method you like to use to convey that is fine. He’s in a nice school room, and he’s talking with Helena, who is a teacher in her civilian identity, but we don’t see her yet. Corey’s wearing a Green Lantern shirt, blue jeans, and looks like the weight of the world is on his shoulder.

HUNTRESS CAP: Last semester, Corey was one of my best students.

COREY: C’n I GO now, Ms. Bertinelli?

HUNTRESS: Happy, smart, and FUNNY in a way beyond his

years.

PANEL THREE: Helena, looking down on him from her desk.

HELENA: Corey...

HELENA: I want you to know--I’m not exactly LIKE the other

teachers.

HELENA: If you tell me what’s wrong, maybe I could HELP.

PANEL FOUR: Back to the ganghouse, inside, Huntress is holding the first thug by the shirt with both hands. He’s missing a front tooth and is barely conscious. At the same time, she’s moving slightly out of the way of another Caucasian gangbanger who has a samurai sword and has swung it at her.

SECOND THUG: This OUR place, FOO.

PANEL FIVE: She kicks him, almost not paying attention, smashing him face first (and sword flying) straight into the bigscreen tv.

HUNTRESS: Sit down and shut up.

HUNTRESS: I’ll get to you in a MINUTE.

HUNTRESS CAP: Something in my tone must’ve, I don’t know...

HUNTRESS CAP: ...opened Corey’s floodgates. Because he

started talking.

PAGE THREE:

PANEL ONE: Silhouette, Helena and Corey as Corey talks, in the classroom flashback.

HUNTRESS CAP: Through tears he tried his best to hide, he told

me that his brother Ricky had been recruited by some local gangbangers with ties to the worst of Gotham’s drug retailers.

HUNTRESS CAP: Here in the suburbs, maybe five blocks

from my school. From MY students.

HUNTRESS CAP: From my KIDS.

PANEL TWO: Corey hugs Helena, who is surprised.

HUNTRESS CAP: Then he does something most ten year old boys

have FORGOTTEN how to do...he hugs me.

HUNTRESS CAP: Says he knows I can’t help.

HUNTRESS CAP: “But thanks for LISTENING, Ms. Bertinelli.”

PANEL THREE: Helena watches Corey leave the room.

HUNTRESS CAP: Ten years old, and he already knew that the

Gotham mobs run the cops, even out here where the leaves

fall so fetchingly.

HUNTRESS CAP: “I know you can’t help,” he said.

PANEL FOUR: Huntress leaps to the side as bullets come stinging down into the floor nearby where she had been from the staircase behind her.

HUNTRESS CAP: “But thanks for LISTENING, Ms. Bertinelli.”

FX (bullets): RATATTATTATTATT!

PANEL FIVE: Huntress leaps at the gun-wielding man, who is wearing only a white muscle shirt, brief underwear, and a black stocking cap on his head. Unlike the others, he shows no fear, even though he’s clearly in for a PUMMELLING.

HUNTRESS CAP: This is my favorite time.

HUNTRESS: I have a MESSAGE for you, sleazeball.

PAGE FOUR:

PANEL ONE: She smashes her fist brutally into his face. Helena’s not really the kindest of people, to be honest.

HUNTRESS: You are to LEAVE.

HUNTRESS: RICKY CAMPBELL.

HUNTRESS: ALONE.

HUNTRESS: Are we clear on this? He’s OUT.

PANEL TWO: The thug, incredibly, smiling, even with a bit of blood on his teeth and one eye swelling shut.

THUG: Nah. We like Ricky.

THUG: He stays.

HUNTRESS: What did you...

THUG: He stays.

PANEL THREE: Huntress, holding him up by his shirt, points her crossbow right at his face.

HUNTRESS: You have no IDEA what you’re saying.

THUG: Yeah, witch, I do. I’m SAYIN’I don’t matter. You shoot me, they put someone else in charge.

THUG: Hey, how ‘bout, soon as you leave here, I go round to Ricky’s

house, and beat the crap outta his momma with a double-size BRICK, how would that be?
PANEL FOUR: The thug, up close, grinning.

THUG: I’m SAYIN’ next time I see you face, maybe Ricky’s

DADDY bidness burn down, with him IN it, could be.

THUG: I’m SAYIN’ you LOSE.

THUG: Now get out my house, less you gonna find a pair

and SHOOT.

PANEL FIVE: Huntress’ eyes narrow.

HUNTRESS CAP: He means it.

HUNTRESS CAP: I forgot the rule.

PANEL FIVE: The thug, suddenly alone.

THUG: I’m SAYIN’ we both know you a PUNK, skank.

THUG: And you ain’t WELCOME.

HUNTRESS CAP: You can’t threaten a man with nothing to lose.

PAGE FIVE:

PANEL ONE: Helena, in her apartment, still in her outfit, but taking off her mask, a look of concern on her face.

HUNTRESS CAP: I’ve made it worse.

HUNTRESS CAP: I may have put Corey’s family in real danger.

HUNTRESS CAP: “I know you can’t help,” he said.

HUNTRESS CAP: He was right.

PANEL TWO: Huntress stares at the phone.

HUNTRESS CAP: Babs got me this teaching gig, when no one

wanted to hire me for the thing I love most in the world.

HUNTRESS CAP: She knew what it would mean to me.

HUNTRESS CAP: Damn. For Corey’s sake--

PANEL THREE: Helena, holding the phone.

HUNTRESS CAP: -- this is no time for pride.

HELENA: Barbara? I need some advice.

HELENA: No, not from you.

HELENA: From ORACLE.

PANEL FOUR: Don Sigiorello, in his nightclothes, smoking a cigar, hurriedly packing clothes into a suitcase. This is his bedroom, and he’s a mob boss, so it needs to have that sort of old world elegance that costs a fortune.

HUNTRESS CAP: See, I thought I could BE her. Emulate her

methods. Go ‘undercover,’ with my own team , only using my own

family LEGACY as our entrance fee.

SIGIORELLO: Damn, damn, damn!

HUNTRESS CAP: Instead of beating up a thug in an alley, I envisioned putting whole MOBS away for GOOD.

PANEL FIVE: Sigiarello acts in surprise as Helena speaks, she’s been sitting in a chair in the shadows all along. She’s sitting in a chair next to an antique vanity. Helena is wearing a black powersuit and skirt, and looks every bit the elegant mafia princess.

HUNTRESS CAP: Only it’s tougher than it looks, way more

COMPLEX, as well.

HELENA: Hello, Don Sigiorello. You can stop packing.

HELENA: You’re not going ANYWHERE.

HUNTRESS CAP: And I finally have to admit it--

HUNTRESS CAP: --maybe there’s a REASON why Oracle and

Batman have to be the way they are.

PAGE SIX:

PANEL ONE: Sigiorello grabs a pistol from his suitcase.

HUNTRESS CAP: Maybe because, if they acted like PEOPLE--

SIGIORELLO: KNEW you were bad news, Helena. Friend of your

dad or not, the penalty for trespassing here is DEATH.

HUNTRESS CAP: -- they wouldn’t be able to do their JOBS.

PANEL TWO: Helena checking her lipstick in the big vanity mirror, opening her mouth wide. In the mirror, we see Creote is holding Sigiorello up by his gun hand, apparently crushing it.

HELENA: Yes, but death for WHOM, Don Sigiorello?

HELENA: You’ve already met my friend Creote, of course.

SIGIORELLO: AAAAAAAAARHH!

PANEL THREE: Helena stands in front of Sigiorello, who is on his knees, holding his bloody hand.

HELENA: Here’s how it’s going to be:

HELENA: Right now, the Gotham mobs blame you for the debacle

with the drug shipment from Singapore, the one that nearly

bankrupted the families.

HELENA: They’re on their way now to slit your throat on your own

billiard table.

PANEL FOUR: Helena picks up Sigiorello’s gun.

HELENA: I can save you. I’ve already made arrangements.

SIGIORELLO: What? HOW?

HELENA: We tell them your driver, Freddy, gave the orders without

your permission.

HELENA: I have forged documents in his handwriting under the front seat of his car. Bank statements, plane tickets. I can guarantee

your name will be cleared.

PANEL FIVE: Helena, smiles.

HELENA: In return, you will do me three favors; one, you will

close off the supply of narcotics to the Highland Hills area completely.

HELENA: You will shut down the gangs there. You will

offer our protection to the family of a young man named Ricky

Campbell. Anyone touches them, answers to US.

HELENA: And finally...

PANEL SIX: Helena faces an angry Sigiorello, who is still on the ground. She kneels slightly.

HELENA: Within one month, you will announce me as your

new CAPO.

SIGIORELLO: WHAT? I can’t...they’ll NEVER...

HELENA: Hush. Because you knew my father, you get one

small chance.

PAGE SEVEN:

PANEL ONE: David, this panel is 2/3rds of the page, and it has to be EXTREMELY similar to the layout of the last panel of page ten of issue #82 of Birds of Prey, the scene where Sigiorello warns Helena.

Only this time, it’s the exact opposite. Helena is in control, warning Sigiorello, and she has her hand on his chin, making him meet her eyes, like he did to her in #82. This time, Sigiorello looks upset and scared.

HELENA: But if you fail...

HELENA: ...think of the very worst thing. The WORST thing.

HELENA: And then, think HARDER.

PANEL TWO: Inside a nice BMW car, Creote driving, Helena grabbing her cell phone. Helena’s smiling. It’s night, and they’re in the same clothes as the previous scene.

HUNTRESS CAP: Maybe it’s not such a bad thing, admitting you

need help once in a while.

HUNTRESS: Thanks for the back-up, Creote.

CREOTE: I enjoyed it, actually.

HUNTRESS: Hang on, got someone ELSE to thank.

PANEL THREE: Helena, on the cell phone in the car, smiling.

HELENA: Bar...Babs?

HELENA: Yeah. It went swimmingly. Thank you.

HUNTRESS CAP: Your family’s safe, Corey. That’s what counts.
PANEL FOUR: The car drives off into the night.

HUNTRESS CAP: So let’s see what OTHER impossible things

we can accomplish together, Oracle.

HUNTRESS (inside car): One last thing--that jacket Zinda’s

holding for me?

HUNTRESS (inside car): I’ll TAKE it.

Just To Clarify...

Some people have seemingly read my screed below as another bash against fan-fiction.

Nothing could be further from the truth, except for perhaps something that was very far from the truth, indeed.

Not only do I have nothing against fan-fiction, I think it's a vital and often hugely entertaining part of various genre communities, and I find the creators who rage against it to mostly be pretty silly. I submit that fan-ficcery is likely to create sales, rather than lose them, as it helps to build a sense of belonging and participation that cannot be manufactured by publishers. I LIKE that it's an end-user-driven process, and hat's off to those who engage in it. To me, it's a compliment.

I also think it makes swell practice for aspiring writers, particularly genre authors. I think it's crucial to know when to put fan-fic away, if one is genuinely trying to get one's work published. Fan-fic can be a set of training wheels sometimes (I say this not condescendingly, but as a simple observation of ficcers I've watched in the past), and it's important to know when to take those wheels off.

Also, I don't get why fan ART is somehow okay, but fan WRITING is obviously the work of morons and regression cases. Our industry should be grateful for readers who are dedicated enough to want to share their own visions of stories and characters we publish. Alas, the self-hate and contempt that riddles comics on every level is at work here.

I do have to add here that I no longer read any fan-fic. The major companies (as well as common legal sense) strongly suggest that it's not a good idea. But if you want to write your own stories based on my work, it's certainly fine with me (although the publishers may disagree).

It harms no one, delights and satisfies many...I don't get the controversy, frankly.

Gail

Next Week On This Blog...

...a very surprising thing Joe Quesada did that almost no one knows about.

You'll be surprised, 'cause it's surprising.

Gail

Best Writing Tips I Ever Got, Part Two

Okay, I was GOING to post about a tip I got, an unintentional one from Dan Raspler, that changed EVERYTHING about how I look at story. He didn't mean it as a tip, it was sheer exasperation.

It's awesome. Trust me.

We'll get to that.

Instead, I'm going to talk about something else, something that's probably more vital. If I had to convey ONE idea to new writers, this would be it. I'm not wise, I'm not the smartest person on Earth, and I can't seem to waterski properly. But this much I know is true.

Okay, just like all of you, I started comics when I was young, and I would sometimes become frustrated with elements of a story. A character might have their dignity taken away, or behave in a way that I felt lessened them. These are characters I love, how DARE they behave in ways less perfect than I envisioned for them?

Naturally, I immediately blamed the writer. Again, how DARE they ruin this character? It's obvious that they hate Scuba-man (or whoever) AND their audience (me) and why was I still giving them money, anyway?

Later, years later sometimes, it would turn out that oftentimes, I couldn't even REMEMBER most stories I'd read featuring these beloved characters, but, again, oftentimes, I could remember quite well the ones that made me mad, or upset, or distressed. In hindsight, these were some of my favorite stories.

I got a lightning bolt to the head one day, while reading an interview with the brilliant musician, Laurie Anderson. I'm just typing here with no thought of order, so bear with me, and see if it knocks you on your ass like it did me.

First, a sense memory experiment. Think of the most expensive perfume or cologne you've ever smelled. You may not have loved it, but you can smell the wealth, the complexity. You know someone put it together with care and thought.

Now think of the cheapest, Wal-mart-iest crap fragrance of any kind...that crazy ass sickly sweet lavender bath shit your grandma uses, or those nightmarish lilac perfumes they ought to sell at gas stations.

Why does one grab your attention, make you snap your head up, and why is the one that's pure sweet, and imitating a fragrance that's one of nature's most beautiful, almost unbearable?

Here's why. Because, at the center of the expensive perfume, underneath the 'good' scents, there's a bad scent, intentionally placed. A smell that if that was all you got in the bottle, would likely make you throw up. There's a deliberate element in there designed to slap you right across the goddamn chops, and before you can be appalled, the 'good' mix of scents takes root.

On the other hand, all Wal-Mart thinks you want in your bath ball is an overpowering floral smell. And it turns out, we don't really want that.

There's a lot of science in scent technology, obviously, and it goes beyond me, but one thought is, in nature, it's the bad smell that warns you, that grabs your attention, or perhaps, if you're lucky, makes you want to mate, you dirty bastard. That scent is the one that attacks your animal brain in a way endless bouquets of gardenias never will.

Laurie, never the easiest or most pandering musician, applies that theory to her music, thus:

" "A few years ago, Brian began collecting little perfume bottles, just because he liked them. Then he began mixing the scents, making these incredible combinations. Now occasionally he goes to a big factory to do it. So when we did our last record, rather than sitting around afterwards talking about how we mix that, or who played bass, he took us all to a perfume factory, where we made a perfume. The secret of a really good perfume, Brian taught us, is that at its very core is something very, very stinky - civet - because the purpose of the nose is danger, to alert you. After that happens, then you can put on the pleasant smells. But first - wake up! So that's one of the things we've paid attention to in making this record, that at its core is something that's repellent, because those are the things that interest me."

I read that and felt like I'd been shot in the face. Of fucking COURSE. Of COURSE you have to have that element, that note, that scent, that makes the reader say...holy CRAP, what is THAT?

As a writer, I can assure you, that reaction is a thousand times better than someone saying, "well, that was nice!"

There's an old sales joke about the difference between a pig and a chicken in a ham and egg breakfast. The chicken is involved, but the pig is COMMITTED.

Same with writing. How many stories have you read, where in the end, you felt that the writer was pandering to you, giving you exactly what the message boarders say they want, giving you the empty calories of, "Here, this is what you asked for. I've written it just as requested."

Does anyone really want that? Lavender foaming bath balls, stinking so bad you have to leave the house, that's what that is.

I'm a writer. It's my job to lie and cheat and deceive you. To trick you, to upset you, to make you feel bad at times, to make you dislike the characters we both care about so much. Anyone can give you an X-men issue full of 22 pages of fastball specials and Wolverine killing robots. It takes a writer to have Wolverine do something stupid or awful, and let you feel a little bit of that, and still (hopefully) bring you back.

This is my number one complaint about/piece of advice for fan-ficcers. Of the few pieces I have read, there was often quite a lot of talent there, but just as often, the story was all about providing that dream crossover, that hoped-for battle between two beloved characters--in short, they were event stories, written to scratch an itch, certainly, but with little concern to the bigger issues that make a story more than a fun fight scene or superpowered orgy...the things that make a story something that engages the mind and emotions and heart.

A perfect example is Marc Andreyko's Manhunter. This book hasn't sold in the numbers it deserves, but the people who DO read the book (including just about every pro I know) love it DEEPLY. They love it with ten times the white hot fury that a whole raft of better selling books engender. And why? Because Marc is a WRITER, and Kate, the Manhunter, is flawed to pieces, makes stupid mistakes at least once an issue, and is vastly more real than any number of caped stiffs in the Top Twenty. And that makes his stuff more interesting than a great many fairy-laden webcomics, superhero trappings or not.

It can't all be flowers. I often hear would-be writers pitching their dream DC or Marvel project, and I can't get away from the cloying scent of lilacs in abundance. Yes, we want our heroes to triumph, but if there isn't also the possibility, of failure, of temptation, then I submit this question to you--what in god's name is the point? If you truly love your readers, you will do them the very great favor of poking them with an ice pick, just a little, when they reach down to smell your roses.

I can't tell you how many times, at the beginning of a story that is deliberately set up to make the reader think CONCEPT A, I get letters saying, "Hey! You did CONCEPT A! You've ruined this book!" Then, when the story shows that CONCEPT A is in fact PLOT TWIST B, and not CONCEPT A at all, well, let's just say I live for that shit.

Readers are smart...they know who has come through for them in the past, and who left them hanging. Even if I don't care for a Grant Morrison first issue at all (pretty rare occurance, to be frank, as I love Grant), his history with me says that he's likely screwing with me, messing deliberately with my expectations, putting the smell of the wolf urine in the middle of the lovely garden of floral scents. The thing is, you have to keep that promise with readers. If you go dark where there previously was light, you have to make it work, you have to be truthful. That's the difference between stories you damn well know are mandated because of a corporate crossover, and those that are tended by a gardner who cares.

This is why I don't usually lose my noodle if CreamSodaGirl has a story arc that seems wildly out of character. Because, in the end, most of the best stories I've ever read made me unhappy or uncomfortable at some point. You can do formula stories, full of fanservice (I have a different definition for this word than most...to me, it's not about boobies), but in the end, I think you've likely cheated your readers out of their hard-earned money, in which case, shame on you.

By all means, when you write your stories, pick some flowers. Pick the prettiest, the most aromatic, if you like. But keep in mind, you might want to carefully place a wasp's nest just in the shadows.

Hey, this is very BEING THERE!

Let me finish with the same warning. I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I just showed up in this chair one day and started typing until I found sentences I like. My advice to you is that you never, and I mean EVER, take my advice. Go, write, be, have lunch, dawdle, write some more, write, write, write some more, and ignore the crazy Oregon redhead.

But you might give some small thought to putting a rabid rat in your next birthday bouquet.

Gail

Was I Bill Jemas' Ghost Writer?

I might've been, a little bit.

Gail

Discarded Futurama Script

I was in love with Futurama when I wrote this, and the book was being written by a guy who wrote for the show and was doing a great job on the comic, so it was a bit of a longshot. But I had a story idea I thought was funny. The problem was, I scrunched a 22 page idea into this short, short script, and it ended up never getting used. I still think it's pretty funny, but it should have been a full script.

MONOKICKLIOSIS

REVISED

By Gail Simone

PANEL ONE: This is a large panel, of a huge restaurant floating in space on a big round platform. It’s obviously busy, as many ships are docked to the huge dome that encases it.

The restaurant has a mammoth Neon sign, with a robot version of Chef Boy-Ar-Dee in neon:

THE OLIVE GALAXY

Authentic Pre-Armageddon Italian Cuisine

and faux Italian accouterments. The Planet Express Ship is docked where we can see it, and our beloved crew is getting out. (If space provides, it should be parked at a handicapped docking port). This includes Fry, Farnsworth, Leela, Amy, Zoidberg, Bender and Hermes. Everyone is happy, except Fry, who is holding his back as if injured, and Bender, pointing his cigar at Fry angrily. Space providing, we might see a few other patrons entering or leaving, like:

1) A family of two headed mutants, pushing a hovering baby carriage, where the baby has two lollipops.

2) Two robots holding hands, obviously in love, in a tux and prom dress.

3) Anthropomorphized human/dog versions of Lady and the Tramp, both still chewing the same piece of spaghetti. Like, fur covered humans with dog faces and Lady and the Tramp coloring.

LEELA: Having a good time on your birthday so far, Fry?

FRY: Well, all except for that ROBOT MASSAGE. I think my SPINE is slightly dislocated!

BENDER: HEY! I spent TWO WEEKS learning SHIATSU for that massage!

AMY: I heard this place was really busy. Good thing you made reservations in ADVANCE, Hermes!

CREDITS AND TITLE:

MONOKICKLIOSIS

PANEL TWO:

The gang inside the foyer of the restaurant. A snooty robot who is quietly ignoring Hermes is behind the little greeting podium, yelling at a flabbergasted Hermes. The robot is labeled “Snoot-Bot 3000”. The podium has a small sign saying:

NOW SERVING NUMBER:

18 to the fourth power

(NOTE: Please don’t write out the words...I didn’t know how to do a little fourth power sign!)

Hermes, getting his angry bureaucrat groove on, as the Snoot-Bot points to a room full of cryo-chambers, several of which have people in them already. A sign above the entrance says, WAITING AREA. One of the cryo-tubes that is occupied might say, “Smith, Party of two.”

HERMES: But we’re hungry NOW, mon! What are we s’posed to do until a table open up, I ask you?

SNOOT-BOT: Well, you COULD write a sonnet or paint a lovely landscape...

SNOOT-BOT: Or you could use our complimentary cryo-tubes. I’m sure it’s not any of MY concern.

PANEL THREE: The crew, sitting around a table with a candle in a glass in the middle. A violin-playing robot minstrel hovers nearby. Everyone has a child’s birthday hat on his or her head. Leela is talking to a waitress and holding a menu. Note, we must see a pair of small salt and pepper shakers, metallic and futuristic.

CAPTION: MUCH, MUCH, MUCH LATER...

LEELA: Now, this ’spaghetti’ dish...it doesn’t have any OREGANO in it, right? I get UNPREDICTABLE and sometimes DANGEROUS reactions from oregano.

BENDER: I’ll have the beer pasta, the beer breadsticks, the beer salad with beer dressing on the side, and to drink...uh......hmmm... coolant.

FRY: Wow, party hats and crayons! This is just like when I almost graduated from High School!

PAGE TWO:

PANEL ONE: Leela, choking, and holding her throat. Farnsworth is skeptically drawing on his activities placemat as the rest of the gang looks concerned.

CAPTION: Soon...

LEELA: ack...hukk...>choke!<

FRY: Leela!

AMY: She‘s choking!

ZOIDBERG: Someone call a doctor who isn’t in the middle of a nice meal!

FARNSWORTH: I must admit, this maze IS challenging...so many, many twists and turns!

PANEL TWO: Leela, on the ground, still holding her throat. Zoidberg is kneeling by her, running a small hand-held instrument over her.

FRY: Help her, Doctor Zoidberg!

ZOIDBERG: According to this medical scanner, she’s already DEAD!

BENDER: HA! Serves her right for not being a ROBOT!

AMY: Um, Doctor, that’s a salt shaker.

PANEL THREE: Zoidberg, salting his arm and licking it with those drippy mouth things, as Fry tries to help Leela sit up. Leela is talking to the smiling and clueless waitress. Visually, for the next bunch of panels, Leela has little swirly spots and designs around her head to indicate that she’s not right, mentally.

ZOIDBERG: Yummmmy! Salted shellfish! >shllluurrpp<

LEELA: Waitress, are you CERTAIN they don’t use oregano in the food here?

WAITRESS: Oh, no. We use only OREGAN-OH’S! brand spice replacement products. They’re synthesized to be 1000% more potent!

LEELA: Uh-oh.

PANEL FOUR: The crew, getting off the PLANET EXPRESS ship back at their base, Leela and Fry in front. NOTE: They still have their party hats on. Leela still has the “dizzy spots” around her head.

CAPTION: Later, back at home...

FRY: Uh...Leela, I don’t mean to pry, but...

FRY: Why did you kick that waitress in the head?

LEELA: What are you TALKING about, Fry?

PANEL FIVE: Leela kicking Fry in the head. He makes a stunned face as he gets a good head-kicking, because of the pain caused by the kicking, which is to his head. Hermes is agape. Bender looks suddenly amused an interested.

SOUND FX: paf!

LEELA: I NEVER kicked any waitress in the head!

FRY: Ooof!

HERMES: Leela-girl! Whatcha gonna do a thing like kickin’ Fry in the head-bone for?

PANEL SIX: Leela kicking Hermes in the head.

SOUND FX: Wak!

LEELA: I didn’t kick Fry! I don’t know what you’re TALKING about.

HERMES: OW! Dang it all, woman!

ZOIDBERG: She’s HITTING everyone with that sorry excuse for a FLIPPER!
PAGE THREE:

PANEL ONE: Leela kicks Zoidberg in the head while Bender holds his gut and laughs. Leela has her arms crossed and is looking away. We want to convey that she has no knowledge of what her foot is doing.

SOUND FX: Smak!

LEELA: Oh, you guys are just trying to tease me. I’m not kicking ANYONE.

BENDER: Oh, man, this is rich. She doesn’t even KNOW she’s killing you meatbags! hahaha!

PANEL TWO: As Fry and Hermes struggle to rise to their feet, Zoidberg is laid out cold. Farnsworth is scratching his chin, party hat still on. Leela is kicking Bender in the head, repeatedly.

SOUND FX: klang! Klong! krang!

BENDER: Aaaaaaaah! Quit jerkin’ my circuits!

FARNSWORTH: Fascinating! Apparently, her severe intolerance to that particular SPICE has caused her unique cellular structure to react VIOLENTLY without her brain’s consent!

FRY: Yeah, AND she’s kicking us all in the head!

PANEL THREE: Farnsworth pointing at Leela, while Fry looks nervous, rubbing the goosebump on his head.

FARNSWORTH: Fry, go distract LEELA while I come up with an ANTIDOTE!

FRY: But...but...her foot! My head! Remember?

FARNSWORTH: I need Bender to set the TRAP. Go, boy, GO!

PANEL FOUR: Farnsworth and Bender walking away. Bender is rubbing his dented metal skull.

Fry and Leela are OFF-PANEL here.

FRY: Leela, would you just...

SOUND FX: WAP!

FRY: OW! Now STOP i...

SOUND FX: BAP!

FRY: OWW!

BENDER: He’s BONED.

FARNSWORTH: Oh my, yes.

PANEL FIVE: Leela has just kicked Fry, whose face is black and blue, and who has a dopey grin on his face, as he clearly has no idea where he is anymore. BENDER pokes his head around the corner. IMPORTANT NOTE: Bender has a claw trap device on the side of his head. It’s held on with metal straps around Bender’s head. We see the metal straps, but not the claw yet, as he’s hiding it from Leela. Remember she still has the dizzy spots.

FRY: Heh. You’ve kicked me so much, I don’t even feel it any more.

LEELA: Oh, I have NOT. Quit LYING, Fry!

BENDER: Ohhh, LEELA! Could you come here for a minute?

PANEL SIX: Leela is in an almost manga-esque panel, as she leaps through the air with a spinning back-kick towards Bender’s head. Bender is smirking.

LEELA: I’m getting pretty ANGRY about all this TEASING about all this supposed KICKING I‘m supposedly supposed to be doing...!

PAGE FOUR:

PANEL ONE : Close-up of Leela’s foot as it’s caught in the claw trap on Bender’s head.

LEELA: HUH?

SOUND FX: klick!

PANEL TWO: Leela, standing on one leg, the other caught on Bender’s head claw-trap. We see the backs of the heads of the rest of the gang. Fry is clearly out of it, grinning through his bruises.

BENDER: HA! One MEATBAG in the SIDE POCKET!

FARNSWORTH: She’s trapped! Hold her down so I can inject her with the ANTIDOTE.

FRY: I have noticeable swelling in my brain!

FRY: Happy birthday to me!

PANEL FOUR: Leela’s face as everyone leaps at her.

LEELA: Eeeps!

PANEL FIVE: A big cartoon-like cloud of battle-dust, where we see bits of the characters as they stuggle to hold Leela down. The word balloons come from the dust cloud.

AMY: GET HER!

HERMES: HOLD HER DOWN!

BENDER: BENDER IS GREAT!

PANEL SIX: Leela is in her bed, with the gang standing around her. They all (except Leela and Farnsworth, and Bender of course) have bandages wrapped around their scalps, and Fry has two black eyes. Bender has big dents, but the claw is removed. Fry is whispering into her ear...

CAPTION: THAT EVENING...

LEELA: I’m really sorry about the kicking thing, everyone. I guess I shouldn’t eat Italian food at all!

FARNSWORTH: That’s solid advice for ANYONE, actually, but I’m glad the antidote worked, and you’re totally CURED.

FRY: Hey, Leela, now that you’re not kicking me in the head anymore, how about you and I...

FRY: whisper whisper whisper!

PANEL SIX: Fry, turned away, smiling, not noticing that Leela is about to kick him in the head, her foot inches away from his skull.

FRY: Heh. Yeah, she is so INTO me!

LEELA: (black scrawl)

PUBLIC DISCLAIMER: It’s well-documented that over 80% of Italian restaurant food is now safe for human consumption--enjoy some today!

Finito!

You Need A Pet

...and it needs to be a greyhound.

I'd been seeing them for years outside Wal-marts and pet stores. Little doggy fenced-in-areas run by dreadfully serious people, talking about rescuing these greyhounds; little concentration camp victims by the look of them (even the healthiest greys are painfully thin). Apparently they don't get treated well by their trainers during their first four or five years, when they can be competitive racers. So sad, but not interested, thank you.

Then, on my husband's birthday (he LOVES dogs) we walked yet again by another of these little impromptu dog selling stands, and this one big goofy guy named BUD grabbed his attention. My husband stopped to pet the dog (because that's just good karma) and Bud instantly loved him, and wow. The lady in charge of the operation, a very funny woman from England, gave a bit of the shpiel, and kept telling Scott to take the dog for a walk, which she rightly knew would hook him completely, so Scott said no.

He came and told me about the dog, but he knew I wouldn't go for it. The dog we have (a sheltie) is great, but very very standoffish with other dogs, and we didn't think he'd take it well. Add in that it rains a lot here so walking a dog isn't always possible, and it seemed very unlikely. Oddly, I don't know why, I insisted on at least SEEING the dog (white and brindle, with eyes that melt your soul!), when Scott had the common sense to try to avoid seeing him again.

In the end, I was the one who took Bud for a walk. Greyhounds are massively powerful runners, they can go from zero to 45 mph in a couple seconds, but Bud was so happy to go for a walk, and when I reached down to look at him, he gave me this huge lick on the face. TOTAL LOVE.

We talked with the lady a little bit. Turns out you can't just take the dog--they have to come to your house and see how he'd live. And she didn't want to talk much about the racing, for good reason we'd find out later.

Anyway, long story short, we waited the week and then did the little home visit, and both Bud and the lady cried when she left. But Bud, who we renamed 'Scuro (short for Chiaroscuro), quickly found the bed we'd bought him, and played with the toys. And surprisingly, our other dog, Static (named after the comics character), didn't get too upset. Nervous maybe, but not angry.

Over the next couple days, Scuro absolutely made himself at home. And he's become such a part of the family already. He adores attention, loves to cuddle (if you lay on the floor he spoons right up, it's hilarious), loves to go for walks...he's just a huge bundle of love. Greyhounds sleep most of the day and night...you'll never have a lazier dog, but when they run, holy crap they're fast!

We did a little bit of research on racers, and...ugh, it's bad. Many many of the dogs are simply shot in the head once they are no longer competitive. They're fed the worst food imaginable, what's called 4d meat, that comes from, I kid you not, diseased and infected animals. It's so bad, they can't even use it in regular dog food. They're not taken care of at all except to train as racers part of the day, and they spend up to 23 hours a day in small metal crates with thin cardboard or carpet to lay on. They frequently get injured during races and are not cared for. They often get sick or die, and are simply replaced. There's more, but you get the idea.

How does a dog come through a puppyhood like that and still be such a wonderful, happy, loving dog? I don't know, but they do. I've never talked with a greyhound owner who didn't absolutely adore his/her dog. It's an interesting thing, but when these dogs DO get rescued, and go to a nice home, they go through a little bit of the puppyhood they missed out on. You can see puppy behavior, and it takes them a few days to learn house manners, but they do learn FAST, and I cannot tell you how rewarding it is to have such a beautiful, loving animal in your home.

If you're thinking it might be hard having a traumatized animal in your house, let me allay that fear. That's just not how it is. These dogs are grateful, happy, non-cringing dogs. They fricking ADORE you and let you know all day long. They love milk-bones, walks, playing in the yard, toys, and just laying at your feet. I'd have to say, Scuro is one of the most loving, fun, joyful dogs I've ever met. The ONLY evidence we have that he had bad times is that he seems to have a lot of bad dreams, but we put a hand on his head or belly and he calms instantly. Other than that, he's simply a big hilarious goobe. He lays on his back with all four long legs in the air and his tongue out one side of his mouth, and he's impossible not to love.

All I'm saying is, think about it. There's probably a greyhound rescue op near you already. You'll be doing a good thing, yes, but you'll be repaid a million times over. You will LOVE this dog.

Just saying.

Gail

The Best Advice Ever About Writing, Period, Part One

First in a series of odd little scraps that shouldn't have had the impact they did. And yet, I wouldn't trade them for all the writing seminars and scholarly manuals on the subect that have ever existed. These are bits that stuck with me, or that hit me like a hammer in the brain.

When I started writing, it was mostly as a columnist, a little parody thing on the comics industry. I didn't take it very seriously, as I felt it was a pretty meaningless and tawdry endeavor. In fact, I honestly felt that it'd be just a snide little column I'd be sick of immediately (and I was already losing enthusiasm, as I'd picked easy targets and shot at them sort of moronically, I felt).

But this very strange thing happened...people started reading it. Holy SHIT! That had never ocurred to me. And suddenly, I felt this invisible and unwelcome weight of responsibility. Responsibility to myself, and responsibility to the people who bothered reading my stuff. I stress again, I was a hairdresser, just goofing off for whatever reason...because I'd been flattered, because I was curious, I can't say. I'm sure narcissism was in the mix as well. But I never, ever, considered myself a writer, and when people used that word to reference me, my urge was always to say, "No, no, no, you don't mean me, you mean someone who has worked and studied and filled notebooks with unpublished brilliance."

Anyway, the point is, I felt like a skeeve doing fake Wizard interviews and other obvious targets. I wanted to write something funny, but riskier, and I didn't want to write the same shit every week. The responsibility to the readers was to produce something worth their time, I thought, but the responsibility to myself was to make sure I didn't take the easy way out. Silly parody column or not, I wanted to be proud of it.

And that, right there, became my made-up definition for whatever the opposite of the word 'hack' is, that you want to take risks and be proud of your work. Whether it's writing the great American novel or writing porno box covers. You CHOOSE to either be a hack, or that other thing. And you don't ever really stop choosing. One day you make the wrong choice, but tomorrow you go back to having the goal of producing a well-made thing to the best of your talents, however limited or gifted you might be.

Early on, in the process of writing the column (You'll All Be Sorry at comicbookresources.com), I started hearing from editors and creators about doing pro projects, based on my ridiculous work. Dan Raspler was an early supporter (more about him in part two...he gave me the second best piece of advice ever, and I'm sure he didn't even realize it). But there were many, and some pro creators offered me the chance that many comics readers would kill for...the chance to co-write a project with them for a major publisher.

I turned them all down flat, basically. Partly because of stage fright, but also because, again, I felt that writers are different, that I couldn't possibly be one. Where was my writing education? Where were my stacks of unpublished film scripts? Why hadn't I ever been in a writing workshop? I felt, honestly, that my taking a writing job meant one less job for a REAL writer.

A few things started to happen...one, was that people I really idolized started judging my work as actual writing, not merely as silliness. If Grant Morrison, Mark Millar, Lea Hernandez, Garth Ennis, Mark Waid, Tom Peyer, and Joe Quesada write to offer you encouragement unasked for, it's impossible to not at least entertain the notion of going pro. But then Lea Hernandez and Scott Shaw went further.

Scott, bless him, read my stuff and rather than simply talk to me about it, he showed it to Bongo Comics, and he INSISTED I write springboards for them. No one person is more responsible for my changed life than Scott, and he did it out of sheer kindness.

The other is Lea Hernandez. I'd loved her work (her art is joyful like few others), particularly her writing, which I found adult and subtle and full of vitamins. And she asked me to write a comic for her to draw, something we could co-create. Which, okay, that's just nuts. If I'd turned that down, I knew I'd hate myself. To this day, I can't really say in words how amazed I am that Scott and Lea took a shot with me, in an industry where most people want to keep the doors CLOSED.

Anyway, I agreed to both, and was suddenly in a bit of a panic. What the hell did I know about writing stories? My columns, to be gracious, might have shown some style or ingenuity (maybe!) but they weren't real stories, not like the comics I loved.

Weirdly, right around this time, and my memory on this is vague. I was reading an interview with a writer, and he thanked his mentor, and the interviewer asked what he had learned from this mentor. And the writer said, "He taught me to always look for the truth in a scene."

HOLY SHIT AGAIN!

As I say, it was powerful enough to split my cranium, and make me forget both the writer and the mentor. "Always look for the truth in a scene." That's it, that's what separates the Mamets, the Brubakers, the James L. Brooks, etc. from everyone else in their fields. They look for the truth in each scene.

Let me elaborate a little, although I suspect some people may have already had that spark go off that hit me so white-hot at the time.

So much of any multi-character story is about what I call necessary choreography. You have to introduce your characters, move the story along, place events carefully, etc. But what if you do all that, what if you do it brilliantly, and yet, your work is as flat and lifeless as a dead turd?

It's because you forgot the truth. The best writers can find more truth in an animated film about dancing cats from Mars than a hack can find writing about his own life. Is the truth of the scene allegorical? Let's take the Lord of the Rings films. There's humanity in them, greed, lust, faithfulness. That's a kind of truth. Hobbits don't exist, but they're nonetheless true.

Watership Down is a perfect example. It's about bunnies, and the behavior they exhibit doesn't exist in nature. And yet I defy anyone to avoid worrying about the rabbits at the book's climax. That's truth.

If you write a scene, and two people are talking, and they're advancing the plot, and the reader feels nothing, you have to ask yourself...is this real? Is this life? Because nearly every human conversation is so dense with context and meaning...every bit of real life interaction, if you take it as a snapshot, is a story with a million beginnings and no endings whatsoever. WHY are the characters having this conversation? How do they relate to each other? What do they think of each other? How much is being left unspoken? But most importantly, what is it that they need to convey, and what is said about them in the manner they convey it?

Back to the choreography. In my work, and I'm betting this is the same for most, getting a character from place a to place b, to engage character b in situation a, is like an endless goddamned nightmare of choices, 99.9% of which will be wrong. They'll be false. "Hey, this guy left his keys in his car! Let's go!" is false, it's a cheat. Even the least sophisticated reader or viewer knows that you're breaking your end of the writer/reader contract. And yet, the story is almost never getting a character from place a to place b. It has to be done, but it's rarely compelling. You can MAKE it so, and great writers often do, but just as many handily cut all the bullshit right out, as a courtesy to readers, so that they're not forced to slog through seeing our action hero take the goddamn bus.

The point is, find the truth of the scene, even if that truth only makes sense to you. Craft is important, vitally important, and nothing to be ashamed of. But if you haven't, in the end, got some truth in the script...why did you bother writing it? Let someone else write Steven Segal's movies. Let someone else write the next shitty sitcom. You have work to do.

Who knows, this might not have been what the mentor's words to his writer friend meant at all...but if I'd known what he really meant, odds are my head wouldn't have popped off. This is why people are justifiably suspicious of 'high concept' one-line pitches. Because the truth, and the devil, and God, are all in the little decisions.

Find the truth in the scene. Go back, read a favorite book, or comic, with that thought in mind, and I can almost guarantee you that you'll see exactly what I mean. Now read a piece of crap, and I'll bet you can see they ignored this simple credo.

I do want to add one final thought. Writing your own truth is a wonderful thing. Writing ABOUT truth is usually unbearably awful, and if you preach in your writing, you probably deserve whatever beatings you receive.

That's it, it may mean nothing to you, but it changed the way I look at writing. People ask me about writing all the time...my feeling is that they're waiting for someone to give them THEIR writing mantra. I can't do that, no one can. I can, at best, let you share my own.

And it's okay because I stole it in the first place.

Part Two to come soon, all about why having a plot where the UN building is threatened makes you an ass.

I Heard A Rumor

...that the Bush administration is going to sell New York to H.Y.D.R.A.

I don't know if it's true. Seems like poor judgment.

Gail

I Got The Flu

It's disgusting to think that these fluids flying out of me would normally just be inside, hanging around, making friends with other, less repulsive fluids.

Gail

Scrippled

VAMPIRELLA/WITCHBLADE/THE MAGDALENA

CONVERGENCE

Note To All Concerned:

Let’s think of this as a sexy late night horror/action movie...just a fun, off-beat little story with that sort of Creature Feature sensibility and tone, and a bad heavy metal soundtrack. These characters are serious in their own books...let’s let them loosen up a bit here, I think.

Also, I know it’s technically THE Magdalena but for clarity’s sake, in the script notes alone, I’m dropping the article, if that’s all right.

Joyce, panel arrangements are just suggestions, please feel free to ignore or improve, as needed.

LETTERER’S NOTE: Please note that all Farrin’s dialogue balloons should have a thick back border to indicated that he’s creepity.

PAGE ONE: Four tiered panels, with the second and fourth panels split into three pieces each, each showing one of our heroines.

PANEL ONE: Thin establishing shot, from high above the convergence of three dirt roads in rural (EXTREMELY rural) Mississippi. The three roads connect to form a small triangle of land in the middle, about half the size of a city block. In the triangle is Farrin’s sideshow (described on pages 2-3). If possible, we might see one tiny person on each road, walking towards the convergence. These are our womenfolk, as they walk, each alone, towards the place they’ve been called to by Prince Farrin. It’s night, and it’s windy (although it may be difficult to show the wind here).

FARRIN (tailless, off-panel): So, I’m sitting on the steps of my

humble concern, as I am wont to do, remembering past

joys and sadnesses...

PANEL TWO: Split three ways, each showing the feet of one of our heroines, in full costume, as they come to the end of their journey. Each should be facing the direction they were facing on their particular road to the convergence. The order should be; Patience, Sara, Vampirella. They kick up a bit of dust, perhaps, as they walk.

FARRIN (tailless, off-panel): ...and suddenly, I says to myself, I says,

“Self, you know what this celebration needs?”

FARRIN (tailless, off-panel): And I answers, “New blood.”

PANEL THREE: An old, battered wooden sign, with a smiling clown’s face painted on it. The clown’s eyes are just x’s. The paint is faded and the wood is rough and uneven, posted on a single, large wooden stake in the ground. Handcuffed to the stake is a dessicated corpse, face up, and he’s been drained of blood. The sign says, YOU MUST BE THIS DEAD TO ENTER!

FARRIN (tailless, off-panel): Then I thought, why not invite

some real A-LIST types...?

FARRIN (tailless, off-panel): I’ll be honest, my position in the social

hierarchy is NOT what it should be. And so, I invite the three

of YOU.

PANEL FOUR: Similar to panel two, but now we show their faces; Patience and Sara look angry, Vampi looks bemused.

4a. (Magdalena) FARRIN: The Crusader.

4b. (Witchblade) FARRIN: The Weapon.

4c (Vampi) FARRIN: And the Traitor.

FARRIN: Or as I collectively like to call you...
PAGES 2-3

This is a two-page spread, as moody and creepy as you can make it, Joyce. :)

What we have here is the Emporium in the background, leaves from dead trees blowing in the wind and a bright moon in the sky. Our three girls stand, defiant, in front of the Emporium, facing towards it. In the center, in front of the doors, is a raised podium, where Prince Farrin stands, like a carnival barker, with boater hat and cane, looking every bit a carny showman. He’s got a huge grin and an evil mischief in his eye, as he addresses the women.

Around the grounds in front are more wooden signs, the largest of which says only the title, CONVERGENCE. Then several smaller signs, stuck hastily into the ground, with the creator credits.

The ‘Emporium’ itself is a shabby and ramshackle roadside attraction, the kind that used to be quite popular on long rural roads, and still exist today...however, it’s pretty clear that Prince Farrin isn’t exactly appealing to casual passersby, as the attraction is in serious disrepair. Remember, it’s triangular in shape, and the podium is at one corner, in front of the doors. So we should see two of the three walls. On the right wall, we see:

AMERICA’S GRANDEST TEN-IN-ONE!

Is seeing believing? Thank Your Maker You’re Not On Display!

On the left:

PRINCE FARRIN’S GENUINE ODDITY EMPORIUM

Nature Laughs, Man Weeps!

FARRIN: ...THE LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY STRUMPETS!

PAGE FOUR:

PANEL ONE: Farrin, smiling, twirling his cane (note, he’ll commonly be swinging or playing with his cane, absent-mindedly).

FARRIN: Ladies and...well, other ladies!

FARRIN: Let me introduce you to a roadside attraction so exclusive,

so specified, so SINGULAR in dimension and presentation that

only the most DISCERNING and WORLDLY of guests may

venture inside at all! Why, it’s nothing less than the crown

spectacle of spectacles, and aren’t YOU fortunate to have been

called here?

FARRIN: I ENVY you the miracles you’re about to see!

PANEL TWO: He’s spinning a wheel of tickets on the end of his cane, the unspooling tickets flying wildly.

FARRIN: And, because I invited you, none other than the Lord of the

Lords of Misrule, the Duke of Deformity, Prince

FARRIN hizzown self...

FARRIN: ..Admission for this limited engagement is, that’s right

friends, FREE. That’s zero, zip, nada, and I got the

golden tickets rightchere!

PANEL THREE: Stepped down, he hands a ticket to Patience.

FARRIN (musical notes): “Are you going, to Bartholomew Fair?

Parsley, sage, rosemary and geeks?

Remember me, to the Siamese Twins

They once were, my most popular freaks...”

FARRIN: ...HEALTHY girl, ain’t ya?

PANEL FOUR: He hands a ticket to Sara.

FARRIN: What are you, the chrome variant?

FARRIN: Never mind, I got bolt cutters somewheres.

VAMPI (possibly off-panel): Why’d you bring us HERE, Farrin?

PANEL FIVE: He hands Vampirella her ticket.

FARRIN: Why, I’d think YOU of all people would know...it’s a

TREAT to beat your feet in the Mississippi blood!

VAMPIRELLA: I’ve heard of you -- they call you the Gourmand.

VAMPIRELLA: People like you give undead bloodsucking serial

killers a bad name.

PAGE FIVE:

PANEL ONE: Ferrin, smiling, this view has to be towards the camera, showing him from his stomach up, arms wildly gesticulating.

FARRIN: That’s a grave, cold, cold-grave injustice they do me with

that epithet. See, I really AM of royal linea...

PANEL TWO: Similar pov, but now, Patience’s sword point is protruding from his torso (she’s stabbed him from behind).

FARRIN: Ah.

PANEL THREE: Side view, as his body still faces Vampirella, and his head has twisted back 180 degrees, to face Patience, who still holds the hilt of her sword.

PATIENCE: Unclean creature!

FARRIN: Ma’am, you wound me, you really do. A little.

PANEL FOUR: Witchblade speaks quietly to Vampirella.

WITCHBLADE (whisper): How much trouble are we in here, V?

VAMPIRELLA: Vampire lords get stronger as they age.

VAMPIRELLA: This one’s old enough to remember a time before

language.

WITCHBLADE (whisper): Seems to have the knack of it NOW.

PANEL FIVE: Vampirella, standing and pointing (Joyce, if possible, it might be fun to have her pose her match the classic poster that I think Frazetta did, of Vampi, standing tall, holding out her extended arm with a bat on her wrist, sans bat of course...let me know if that makes no sense).

VAMPIRELLA: You called us and we came, Farrin.

VAMPIRELLA: Let the innocents go.

PANEL SIX: A smiling Farrin, pushing the blade out of his body, painlessly.

FARRIN: Well, it’s true, and a deal is a deal.

FARRIN: On the other hand...
PAGE SIX:

PANEL ONE: Farrin, closer up, crocodile grin.

FARRIN: ...A MEAL is a MEAL.

FARRIN: You want the brats, er, I mean the delightful young

customers?

PANEL TWO: Three children, eyes closed, floating inside a sawdust-floored pit. Their heads are nearly touching, and their bodies are rigid, as they float a few feet above the ground, apparently in some type of trance. We see, in the shadows behind them, red glowing eyes, several pairs, watching.

FARRIN: You’ll have to go inside to get them.

FARRIN: I hope you will...I’ve been planning this amusement for

AGES.

PANEL THREE: Sara, speaking up.

SARA: Is that what this is all about, Farrin? You’re BORED?

FARRIN: Young lady, mind your tone.

FARRIN: Do you eat only vanilla ice cream? Listen only to AM

radio?

PANEL FOUR: Farrin, on a stone wall in old Scotland, wearing a torn cloak, but otherwise not looking much different. He looks contemplative. At his feet is a body, sprawled and dead.

FARRIN: I’ve been bored for more centuries than you have pointy

sharp bits on your swimsuit.

FARRIN: I’d tried everything...supping from body parts as chosen

alphabetically--now that was a dull six months!

PANEL FIVE: Farrin, walking behind a dwarf in an old English village. The dwarf doesn’t see his smile.

FARRIN: Then it came to me that I wasn’t meant to eat the typical

fast food...I was destined for more RARIFIED treats.
PAGE SEVEN:

PANEL ONE: Farrin, sitting in John Merrick’s small but pleasant hospital room, talking earnestly with the Elephant man...

FARRIN: I had the lightest of suppers from General Tom Thumb --

nearly exsanguinated Chang, leaving poor Eng to die of

what the doctors called a flu...

FARRIN: ...I even gave John Merrick his first genuine embrace.

PANEL TWO: Farrin, turns to them.

FARRIN: And now I’m REALLY going to test my palate.

FARRIN: You’re my Hungry Man Dinner, ladies. Come and

kiss the cook.

PANEL THREE: Sara puts her gauntlet on Farrin’s neck.

SARA: I think you’re out of your game, creep.

SARA: I don’t think you can take the three of us at once.

FARRIN: Maybe I don’t NEED to.

PANEL FOUR: Sara and Vampi turn at the sound of a child’s scream.

KID (off-panel): EEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

FARRIN: Those are the children I selected as hostages slash

appetizers. The trance I had them in is wearing off.

FARRIN: It’s okay, really...they’re with FRIENDS of mine.

PANEL FIVE: Vampirella and Sara look at each other meaningly.

PANEL SIX: Sara turns to Patience, who is holding her sword in battle stance.

SARA: He’s got us, Patience. We’ve got to go get those kids.

PAGE EIGHT:

PANEL ONE: Patience, eyes focused tight on Farrin.

PATIENCE: No.

PANEL TWO: Sara, protesting.

SARA: No...? Are you insane? There’s three KIDS in there with

GOD KNOWS WHAT.

PATIENCE: My duty is clear; kill the abomination.

PANEL THREE: Sara turns to run after Vampirella, headed into the Emporium...Patience stays behind to stare at Farrin.

SARA: ...

SARA: If any of those kids die, Patience...

SARA: I’m coming back for you. Believe it.

PANEL FOUR: Farrin, facing a battle-ready Magdalena, whose sword is at the ready.

FARRIN: Well, gabba gabba hey, hey, hey, little lady...you SHORE

you don’t wanna join your li’l exhibitionist friends to

save those young’uns?

PATIENCE: My code is two thousand years old, monster. Protect the

innocent...

PANEL FIVE: She strikes, in a vicious move, slicing Farrin’s arm and a portion of his shoulder off with her sword.

PATIENCE: ...by destroying the CORRUPTED.
PAGE NINE:

This page might work best as a stack of rows...

PANEL ONE: Sara and Vampirella facing opposite directions, protecting the three frightened children between them, in a large round makeshift arena. Around the peripheries, we see the shadows of the vampire oddities...but only the silhouettes, fangs, and eyes (or suitably scary image).

The oddities are (we don’t have to see them all at once, of course):

A set of fraternal female Siamese Twins (we’re counting them as two for our ten-in-one sign out front)

A geek

A midget (Let’s put him in an Admiral’s outfit)

A human skeleton

A fat lady

A bearded lady

A tattooed man

A ‘giant’ (a man about eight feet tall, in a cowboy outfit)

A dog-faced boy (Jo-Jo is the most famous, if you need reference)

SARA: Stay behind us, kids...it’ll be all right.

VAMPIRELLA: I count ten, Sara. Be ready.

VAMPIRES (tailless): We accept you.

VAMPIRES (tailless): One of us.

VAMPIRES (tailless): Parched. I’m PARCHED.

PANEL TWO: Sara, turning to talk to the children, forcing a smile. The kids are sniveling and crying, one is still in her pajamas.

SARA: I’m a police officer, guys...you know we help kids, right?

So listen very closely.

SARA: I want you all to close your eyes very tightly.

PANEL THREE: Vampirella, in close on her hands, as she removes the gold Bat design from the pubic naughty area. Turns out it’s a weapon, a sharp thin slice of metal.

VAMPIRELLA: Sara, I’m going to need your full attention on the

problem at hand...

PANEL FOUR: Vampirella, cocking her hand back, with the weapon, as the vampires charge at the circle.

VAMPIRELLA: ...Or I’m afraid it won’t make much difference what

they see in the next few moments.

VAMPIRES (tailless): WE ACCEPT YOU!

VAMPIRES (tailless): ONE OF US!
PAGE TEN:

PANEL ONE: Side view of the vampires attacking en masse, as the dog-faced boy is knocked backwards by Vampi’s bat-weapon, which is most inconveniently lodged in his skull. The rest are unfazed, snarling and snapping.

VAMPIRES (tailless): ONE OF US!

PANEL TWO: The carnage, as the vampires attack...Sara has formed the Witchblade into a trident shape on the end of her arm and is skewering the tattooed man, as Vampirella, in full fury with teeth bared, is fighting the giant.

VAMPIRES (tailless): Accept you.

VAMPIRES (tailless): ACCEPT.

PANEL THREE: The three children, wide-eyed in terror, as a slinky shadow (of the geek) falls over them...one spindly, filthy clawed hand approaching them as they sit in the dust. The oldest boy, perhaps ten, is trying to protect the other two...the youngest, in pajamas, has her leg out, as if to kick.

PANEL FOUR: Similar, but closer in on the youngest girls leg, as it’s grabbed by the geek’s hand, and we see his face, with the few remaining teeth all filed sharp.

GIRL: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

PANEL FIVE: Patience, turning to hear the girl...

GIRL (off-panel): EEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

FARRIN: When the TIMER goes off like that...that means the

ENTREE is done.

FARRIN: Still gonna stay and slice ol’ Farrin deli-style, sweetie?
PAGE TEN:

PANEL ONE: Sara, using the witchblade with one arm, and firing her cop-issue automatic with the other, as Vampirella lifts the snarling Geek off the ground. It’s a battle of nightmares.

VAMPIRELLA: Save three bullets, Sara. Just in case.

SARA: What? But...

PANEL TWO: Sara looks at the terrified kids.

SARA: Oh.

PANEL THREE: Sara is knocked off her feet.

SARA: Uhgh.

PANEL FOUR: The Siamese twins are on her, smiling, holding her down as she struggles.

TWIN ONE: She wants to kill you slow...

TWIN TWO: She wants to kill you fast...

TWIN ONE: We NEVER agree anymore!

PANEL FIVE: A flashing blade...

PAGE ELEVEN:

PANEL ONE: Patience appears, sword in one hand, helping Sara up with the other. Note that (let’s do this tastefully) there’s a dead twin on each side of Sara, as Patience has severed their connective tissue. We don’t need to see that, just that there’s one dead one on each side.

SARA: You came back.

PATIENCE: ...

PATIENCE: Stand and ready the Digitablum, Sara Pezzini.

PANEL TWO: The girls, back to back, all three of them...on the ground we see the bodies of the twins, the giant, the Geek, and the tattooed man. The rest are circling our heroes.

PATIENCE: There are innocents to protect.

PANEL THREE: Back outside, as an irritated Farrin is holding his severed arm, as if trying to reattach it.

FARRIN: I suppose I could NAIL it back on...

FARRIN: The things I go through to get a novel dining experience, I

swear.

PANEL FOUR: Farrin turns, apprehensively, to see the three women emerge from the entrance, proudly, but wearily. Vampirella is in the middle, clearly in charge at this point.

FARRIN: Uh...

FARRIN: Should you oughtta be, you know, tied down and subdued

by now?

PANEL FIVE: Side view, our three heroines. All are determined, but Vampirella is smiling.

VAMPIRELLA: Did you bring what I requested, Magdalena?

PATIENCE: It has been twice-blessed.

VAMPIRELLA: And you’re a strong shot, Sara?

SARA: A little better than good enough, I’d say.
PAGE TWELVE:

Some of these panels can be small, or insert panels. We just want to convey the sequence of events as quickly and snappily as possible.

PANEL ONE: Vampirella, tossing what looks like a wineskin into the air, at Farrin.

PANEL TWO: Sara, taking aim, intent...three shots fired.

FX: BLAM BLAM BLAM

PANEL THREE: The wine skin, just over and in front of Farrin’s face, as it’s shot through with three bullets, spewing clear liquid towards him.

FARRIN: Well, shoot.

PANEL FOUR: The rain of holy water as it splashes his face, and he clutches at his melting skin with his one good hand as steam rises off of his face.

FARRIN: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

PANEL FIVE: Farrin, bent over, on his knees, skin melting and burning, face on the ground, as Vampirella places her boot on the back of his head, forcing him down.

VAMPIRELLA: Since you enjoy fine dining so much, I thought

we’d marinate you awhile in HOLY WATER, Farrin.

VAMPIRELLA: But to be honest...

PANEL SIX: Vampi’s smiling face in close. We don’t see it, but the sound effect tells us she’s just stomped her foot down, hard.

FX (boot crunching skull): KRACCK

VAMPIRELLA: I find I’ve lost my APPETITE.
PAGE THIRTEEN:

This page is two smaller panels at the top, and one larger one on the bottom.

PANEL ONE: Sara, dropping her armor and talking to the kids...while

Vampirella, not looking behind her, somehow realizes that Patience still has her sword up.

SARA: Just a bad dream, kids. You’ll be home soon, I promise.

VAMPIRELLA: Patience, I know you don’t like me, or what I am.

VAMPIRELLA: Are we going to have a problem here?

PANEL TWO: Patience putting away her sword.

PATIENCE: I suppose not.

PATIENCE: But this is twice in one night I’ve betrayed my training.

PANEL THREE: The three walk off, the kids huddling close to the now non-armored Sara, in the moonlight and wind. We see the lower half of Farrin’s body, except he’s become completely fleshless, just a skeleton. One of his shoes is off and his feet are at an awkward angle. We see in the bottom right corner...a wooden sign. THANK YOU, COME AGAIN!

VAMPIRELLA: I wouldn’t worry about it too much.

VAMPIRELLA: I hear the church has got this whole

FORGIVENESS thing down to a SCIENCE.

Where Am I? Where Am I?

I am in deadline hell. Back soon, when I can see daylight again.

Gail

Why Do A Creator Blog?

Because I don't like creator blogs and this one is worse than most.

Enjoy!

Gail

What The Hell IS This?

It's nothing. Honestly.

I've gone on record saying that I'm not crazy about most creator blogs. So I wanted to make the stupidest one I possibly could, just for fun. I'm not linking it anywhere intentionally, and if no one ever finds it, that's probably for the best.

Top Ten Invisible Words

10)

9)

8)

7)

6)

5)

4)

3)

2)

1)


Thank you.

Gail

Deleted Scene From Villains United #5

Here's a scene which the editor wisely made me delete. I was awful about it, but in retrospect, though it says some interesting things, I think he's right that it's too static for that point in the story. I'M SORRY, STEVE!

PAGE FOUR:

Full page panel, the Six, in formal civilian clothes (tuxes and gowns), exiting an off-Broadway theater. Catman and Ragdoll wear theirs fantastically (Ragdoll still has on his mask and wig), Deadshot is yanking at his collar in disgust, Cheshire wears a Chinese silken gown, and Scandal wears a stunning formal gown. Ragdoll has one arm on Parademon’s shoulder (his tux fits him poorly, by the way), who is overcome with the emotion of the musical. It’s night, and a bit windy, so hair and gowns are blowing with the wind a bit.

They’re walking out of a theater that’s just shown the musical, ‘CATS,’ which we want to hint at, but not convey blatantly. So perhaps, a bit of the poster or marquee, but not the full thing. Some other theater goers come out behind them, including a heavy-set woman wearing a leopard-skin stole around her shoulders.

DEADSHOT: Well, THAT was a complete DUMPLOAD.

TITLE AND CREDITS (Dale, it might be fun to put the credits on newspapers blowing by, and the theater posters, maybe?)

VICTIMS OF AGGRESSION

Gail Simone: Writer

Dale Eaglesham: Penciller

Wade VonGrawbadger: Inker

Jared K. Fletcher: Letterer

Sno-Cone: Colorist

Harvey Richards: Asst. Editor

Stephen Wacker: Editor

PAGE FIVE:

PANEL ONE: The ParaDemon, forlorn and sad, as a calm RagDoll tries to console him.

PARADEMON: But...but it was so SAD when the disgusting old hag cat is making that hideous noise about her happier past!

PARADEMON: Will she EVER be happy AGAIN, I ask you all?

RAGDOLL: there, there, little ParaDemon.

RAGDOLL: i was sad, too, but mainly for myself, having to sit

through it all.

PANEL TWO: Cheshire, hangs on Catman’s shoulder, as they walk.

CHESHIRE: Did the daddy-to-be enjoy the show?

CATMAN: Don’t say that--it’s making me sick to my stomach.

RAGDOLL (off panel): an affliction we share, Catman. I think

it was the lyrics.

PANEL THREE: Deadshot, lighting up a cigarette, his tie and collar undone.

DEADSHOT: All I can say is, them felines are lucky I came

unarmed.

DEADSHOT: One clip cleans an alley, I always say.
PANEL FOUR: Catman, looking puzzled for a second...as an outraged ParaDemon screams towards Deadshot, right behind him (catman).

CATMAN: WHAT did you just say, Lawton?

PARADEMON: YOU!

PARADEMON: Don’t shoot the KITTIES!

PARADEMON: THE POOR, DANCING KITTIES!

CATMAN: Repeat what you just said.

PANEL FIVE: Lawton turns, stone-faced, cigarette dangling.

LAWTON: What?

LAWTON: It was a JOKE, Blake.

PANEL SIX: Blake, close up, squinting a little bit.

BLAKE: Okay.

BLAKE: Sorry.

LAWTON (off-panel): Forget it.

PAGE SIX:

PANEL ONE: The group stands, as Scandal takes her communicator inconspicuously from her handbag as Deadshot watches her, a bit contemptuously.

CATMAN: Come on, we can beat the traffic...

SCANDAL: Just checking in with Mockingbird. Won’t be a

moment.

DEADSHOT: Lady, you take to the leash better than any

dog I know.

PANEL TWO: Scandal’s eyes, flashing with anger. ParaDemon and RagDoll are behind her, not paying attention at all.

SCANDAL: You don’t KNOW me, Deadshot. Let’s keep it that

way.

PARADEMON: I’ll eat his LIVER if he shoots the KITTIES.

RAGDOLL: yes, yes, we’ll all eat his liver if he shoots the kitties.

PANEL THREE: Catman turns to the woman with the fur, who just reeks of privilege...

CATMAN: Pardon me, Madam...might I ask if that stole is real?

WOMAN: What a RIDICULOUS question.

WOMAN: Of COURSE it’s re...

PANEL FOUR: Catman smashes the woman in the face with his fist, to Cheshire’s delight.

FX (punch): WHAAMM

PANEL FIVE: Catman, dragging a grinning Cheshire behind him (by the hand). Cheshire’s openly laughing at the woman lying on the sidewalk, unconscious as a grim-faced Catman walks away. ParaDemon, suddenly cheerful, is in the background.

CATMAN: Fur is murder.

CATMAN: Let’s go.

PARADEMON: Let’s see it AGAIN!

PAGE SEVEN:

PANEL ONE: They walk into a parking garage, again, it’s night. There’s a large black van, that’s where they’re headed. They’re still in their formal outfits, obviously.

CATMAN: You SURE the van’s clean of bugs, Scandal?

SCANDAL: I swept it myself, Catman.

SCANDAL: I guarantee--neither MOCKINGBIRD nor the SOCIETY can hear us.

PANEL TWO: Catman following Cheshire into the van, by the side door. Deadshot grabs Scandal not-quite-gently-enough by the arm, before she can enter.

CATMAN: Good. We have some new BUSINESS to cover.

DEADSHOT: Listen...uh, Scandal.

DEADSHOT: What I said back there--

DEADSHOT: That wasn’t cool. Sorry.

PANEL THREE: Deadshot, looking at her sincerely, but with intent, still holding her arm.

DEADSHOT: I need to SEE you tonight.

SCANDAL: Deadshot...FLOYD.

SCANDAL: I can’t...

DEADSHOT: PLEASE.

DEADSHOT: All right, I said it.

PANEL FOUR: RagDoll is in the driver’s seat, ParaDemon riding shotgun, with Catman and Cheshire in the middle seats, and Deadshot and Scandal behind them.

PARADEMON: I feel a lust in my blood for CHICKEN NUGGETS.

RAGDOLL: as I evacuated during the ‘show,’ I can’t see the harm.

CATMAN: All right, people. We’ve been avoiding the subject.

CATMAN: Knowledge is power. It’s also, occasionally, a hand grenade with the PIN pulled.

PANEL FIVE: Catman’s face, every bit the jungle lord, very serious.

CATMAN: The Society intends to mindwipe every superhero on

Earth.

CATMAN: The question is--

CATMAN: --what do we DO with that little scrap of intelligence?

If Ever I See You, Again

So, here's what happened. I threw a little tea party, nothing special, just a couple hundred of my closest friends. Kurt Busiek brought Krispy Kremes, and the entire writing staff of Vertigo brought heroin by the dumpster. We were using it to dust the lillies by end of day.

Mark Waid read aloud from a book of sonnets he'd written, all from the point of view of Flash villains. Many of us were too polite to mention that he'd forgotten his pants.

It was a bit of a shock to learn that Garth Ennis cheats at both croquet and Russian Roullette, and it was only his poor aim that prevented Robert Kirkman's untimely demise. A bit of a disappointment, as I'd been curious to see if he'd rise from the dead with a steadily increasing sales arc.

We were all pretty excited when Brian Bendis showed up, but it turned out that he'd come in error, thinking it was a Monster Truck Rally. A quick thinking Dan Slott pretended to be Truckenstein and that seemed to placate the confused and disoriented Bendis long enough for us to toss him in a sack and hang him from a pole. Later, shots were fired. Bendis is no one to mess with.

Tom Peyer came dressed as a Republican, but I think it was on accident, because when he finally looked at his shoes and his 'No Flip Floppers' lapel button, he spontaneously exploded, showering us all with rusty needles and used condoms, which the Image guys really seemed to enjoy.

There were trysts and liasons, of course, but I hate to talk behind people's back.

It seems to distract their rhythm.

Gail

Welcome To My Nowhere

Nothing to see, nothing to see, nothing to feel, no matter what you want.

Gail