All My Bags Are Packed, I'm Ready to Go

I'm leaving on a redeye tonight for a quick business trip to New York City. I can't begin to tell you how much I'm looking forward to the East Coast winter.

Item One on the agenda is a presentation that Editor Charlie, literary agent Kate Lee and I will be giving for the Bookbinders' Guild of New York, which has a monthly meeting on topics of interest to its publishing industry members (not all of whom, I gather, are directly involved with the physical binding of books). Tuesday's topic is "Which Came First: The Book or the Blog?" Editor Charlie and I will talk about how Mom's Cancer happened and, I think, some of the special issues involved in publishing graphic novels. Right now, he and I are struggling mightily to figure out why the PowerPoint slides I sent him aren't working. It's very possible my talk will be illustrated with shadow puppets.

Items Two through Seventeen consist of some other business, and with luck I'll get a bit of personal time on Wednesday to complete a little pilgrimage. We'll see if my schedule and the weather cooperate.

Pictures to come, I'm sure. I like New York.
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The Catbayashi Maru

So I've been in a Star Trek frame of mind the past couple of days anyway, and then 10 minutes ago my cartooning pal Mike Lynch sends me this:

You'll either get it or you won't. If you don't, that's OK--we can still be friends. But if you do, we can be good friends.

People write "LOL" all the time even when they don't mean it (in fact, that's an official "Lolcat" above), but I actually laughed out loud when I saw that. Thanks, Mike. Your debt to me is repaid; that was worth 100 quatloos.

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Review: Grammy Awards v. Iron Chef America

The Grammy Awards and Iron Chef America were on at the same time last night. We flipped back and forth.

Lady Gaga and Elton John open the Grammys singing in some sort of industrial hellscape from which both emerged covered in soot. My wife Karen thought they looked ridiculous. I said I thought that was the point. They sounded a'ight, dawg. B+.

Alton Brown intros that tonight's Iron Chef battle is coming from Kitchen Stadium #3 floating somewhere in the Maldives and announces that the Chairman's yacht has just docked. I like it when Iron Chef nods to its own ridiculous mythos. A.

Stephen Colbert kicks off the Grammys' first award by inducting his teenage daughter into the insincerely earnest (or earnestly insincere) comedy business. Jokes touch on the iPad, and Dad not being cool. She seems like a nice kid and it's funny instead of cringeworthy. A.

Today's challenger is chef Michael Smith, author of many cookbooks and star of Food Network Canada. There's a Food Network Canada? Smith looks like a big fella, towering over the Chairman (who could still kill him in two seconds if he wanted), and gets into the histrionic spirit of Kitchen Stadium by announcing his challenge of Iron Chef Bobby Flay with the same passion Patton brought to battling Rommel. A.

Green Day performs "21 Guns" with the Broadway cast of the upcoming play "American Idiot." I like Green Day and am a sucker for big choruses that raise goosebumps. A highlight of the Grammys for me. A.

The secret ingredient: Avocado! Karen groans--avocado's a gimme for the southwestern-style Flay. Do they even have avocados in Canada? I don't like avocado or guacamole at all, making me something of a heretic here in California. I find it flavorless and phlegmy. I keep trying it, hoping that someday I'll finally get what everyone else raves about. No luck so far. Points off for both throwing Flay a softball and using an ingredient I wouldn't enjoy. C.


Taylor Swift wins for Best Country Album. She sings country? For confusing me, that award earns a C.

Tonight I learned that the entire California avocado industry is descended from a single Haas avocado tree. I did not know that. When Mom and my sisters moved to Hollywood, their neighbor had a giant avocado tree whose branches hung over into their yard. It was a beautiful tree that produced year-round, but Mom was afraid that one of those plummeting shotputs would kill her dog Hero. All they did was make him fat; Hero loved to eat avocados. For teaching me something I didn't know and reviving a happy memory, A.

Pink sings "Glitter in the Air" rotating from a cloth sling dangling from the ceiling while spraying water on everyone below like a lawn sprinkler. Karen imagined all the enraged audience members getting their stylin' tuxes and spangly gowns soaking wet. I liked it, and not just for the single-ply gauze bandage Pink was wearing. At the very least, you've gotta admire her work ethic, plus points for potentially annoying spoiled rich people. A-.


Chef Smith pulls out a slab of Canadian bacon, maple syrup, moose loin, a six-pack of Molsons, and a box of Tim Hortons donuts, and politely gets to work. Nah, just kidding. For setting back international relations 50 years, B+ for me.

Black-Eyed Peas perform "Imma Be" and the ubiquitous "I Got a Feeling." That was . . . energetic. The legion of back-up dancers costumed in balloon-animal burkas and silver stereo speakers really made me miss grunge. And I didn't even like grunge. B-.

Tonight's Iron Chef judges are Donatella Arpaia and Anya Fernald, who have something to do with food, and actor Antonio Sabato Jr., who doesn't. That's OK. One of the charms of the original Japanese Iron Chef was the old-bat judge whose occupation was always listed as "fortune teller." I miss the old Iron Chef. B. (When Jeffrey Steingarten is judging, it's an automatic A.)

Stephen Colbert wins a Grammy for Best Comedy Album. He asks his daughter in the audience if she thinks he's cool now. She gives him a very sweet, teary-eyed nod that tugged at my Daddy heartstrings. Oh, would that I could ever make my daughters that proud of me. A.

Bobby Flay breaks out some chipotle and ancho chiles. Really thinking outside the box tonight, Bobby. C.

Several old and some dead people win Grammy lifetime achievement awards. One dude wins a Grammy Award for helping produce Grammy Award shows, which seems pretty incestuous to me (speaking of nodding to your own ridiculous mythos). It strikes me, not for the first or last time, how little people in the same line of work can have in common. For example, Katy Perry and Alice Cooper, or Placido Domingo and Mos Def, or Andrea Bocelli and Mary J. Blige, to name three actual pairings from last night. C for inappropriate combos and over-self-congratulation + A for weirdness = B average.

Chef Smith's trying some interesting, playful things. Fried avocado balls, avocado pearls nestled in raw oysters. No idea how any of it would taste and I still don't like avocados, but you can see a creative culinary mind at work. B+.

Taylor Swift sings with Stevie Nicks, first Stevie's "Rhiannon" and then Taylor's "You Belong With Me." The performance was a revelation--that revelation being that Taylor looked and sounded like a thin, flat, callow, boring, insubstantial wisp next to Stevie's rich, deep, seasoned, compelling bleat. "Rhiannon" is also a much better song than Ms. Swift's ode to being the head cheerleader in love with the team captain. Taylor seems like a very nice young woman, but the contrast was striking and not in her favor. C for Swift + A for Nicks = B average.

Bobby Flay chunks up a big beef shoulder into 2-inch cubes. Karen says, "That meat looks awfully fatty." I predict that he's going to put it into a pressure cooker to render out the fat and get a good braise on it. Seconds later, Flay tosses it into a pressure cooker. For making me look smart, an A.

Ah, the Michael Jackson tribute, in 3-D. Karen and I pull out our red-blue anaglyphic specs. The 3-D effect is pretty good, although I'm disappointed there's no footage of Jackson himself. That would've been fun (even a clip from Captain Eo could've been repurposed). Good performances, though again some memory-jolting bits of classic MJ songs would've been welcome. Jackson's son Prince Michael and daughter Paris speak at the end, and my how they've grown! Seems like just yesterday they were being dangled out of windows. Prince is a poised young man whose affect could have been Stepford-creepy if he hadn't made a couple of endearing mistakes reading the teleprompter. Paris seems sweet. And ain't genetics funny? B.

Chef Michael Smith takes a live blue softshell crab, coats it with some seasoned flour, drops it into a fryer, and lays it atop a sandwich. I'm West Coast--I don't know softshell crab, it's all Dungeness around here. Can you do that? Fry 'em up and eat 'em without cleaning or shelling them? Are they good? That just seems totally bizarre to me. A if edible, C if not.


The Grammys offer a nice tribute to Les Paul, whom I'm a big admirer of. I really liked that Jeff Beck and Imelda May went on to perform Paul's "How High the Moon." Great artists, great music, another highlight of the evening for me. A.

For one course, Chef Smith offers the judges three guacamoles prepared differently. When plating, he simply leaves the guac in the three food processor bowls in which they were made and fills them to the top with three varieties of chips. It's either a very gutsy move or a very lazy one. I like it. Five full points for plating design from me = A.

Rappers Lil Wayne, Eminem, and Drake get together for a song backed by the drummer from Blink 182, who's really wailing away on his kit. Whenever I see rappers on these award shows backed by bands or orchestras, I imagine that there's some kid in there who picked up an instrument at age 8, practiced every day, joined his or her small-town junior symphony, spent four hard years mastering their skills at Julliard, studied overseas, entered brutal competitions, scraped hard to land every gig they could get, and is now earning a couple hundred bucks playing backup for a multimillionaire whose musical talent consists of rhythmically reciting bad poetry. D for the bleepin' rappers + B for the drummer = C.

Judging is underway. Smith may be in trouble. The judges don't seem taken with his avocado-white chocolate mousse. C.

Taylor Swift's "Fearless" wins the Grammy for Album of the Year. I'm nonplussed, but good for her. B-.

Two champions met tonight in Battle Avocado here in Kitchen Stadium. The judges have spoken. And the winner is . . . Iron Chef Flay. B-. (If Smith had won, it'd be a B+ because Flay just seemed to coast tonight.)

Final grades: Iron Chef America = B. Grammy Awards = B+.

Miniature Fakery

There's a neat new TV commercial for Allstate Insurance that gives me a good excuse to repurpose a blog post I wrote more than three years ago. Nobody's been reading my blog that long, right? Here's the ad:



Nicely done! (I don't know why the audio blinks out at 20 seconds, but that's not important.) The technique is called "tilt-shift," and it's a way of tricking the eye to perceive real-life objects as if they were miniature models. The primary visual cue is focus, or depth of field. Think of it like this: if you look at a bunch of stuff on your desk, objects that are 2, 3 and 4 feet away from you are at different focal lengths. If you focus on one, the others are blurry. On the other hand, if you look at a bunch of stuff down the block, objects that are 1002, 1003, and 1004 feet away from you are all at virtually the same focal length and appear equally sharp.

So what you do is take a photo in which everything is at about the same focal length--overhead shots of large vistas work best--and progressively blur the bottom and top (that is, the nearest and farthest distances in the photo) to simulate being out of focus. I fake it in Photoshop, but you can also use a specialized camera lens to shoot tilt-shift photos in real time. It helps sell the illusion if you jack up the contrast until everything has a saturated, plastic sheen. The Allstate commercial goes further by making the action jerky, like stop-motion animation.

Here are some before-and-after photos I did back in October 2006 when I tried the technique. Some work better than others. I haven't played with it since, but would like to. Sometimes the results are pretty startling.

The swimming pool at the Disneyland Hotel. This one is helped by the fact that Disney builds things like pirate ships that already look like toys anyway.

Hydroelectric turbines at Hoover Dam. This one was greatly enhanced by boosting the colors' intensity to a candy-colored glow.

An ampitheater in Athens. This one was tricky. I kept the entire stone wall in focus while blurring the rest of the top and bottom of the picture. Then I cut out the arched windows to let the blurry background show through. I should've done more with the red-rimmed stage at lower right; in the tilt-shift image, it's hard to tell what and where it's supposed to be.

Here are a couple more. Again, some are better than others.

A rail station near Venice, Italy. I kept the yellow light pole in focus by masking it from the blurring effect, which helps sell the illusion.

Cacti in Tucson, Arizona. The one on the left was probably 20 to 25 feet tall. Again, I masked the two tallest cacti to keep them sharply focused while gradient-blurring the background and foreground.

What I like about the tilt-shift technique is what it reveals about how we perceive, the cues we use to judge relationships and distance, and how amazing the brain is at putting it all together. Also how easily and subtly the brain can be fooled. It's pretty incredible when you think about it.
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That's Cancertainment

Both my blog and original "Mom's Cancer" webcomic site are getting a big boost in hits today due to an article at The Onion's "A.V. Club" titled "That's Cancertainment: 25 Great Songs, Books, Films,
Albums, and TV Shows in Which Cancer Plays a Major Role." Mine is Number 14:

"Using simple language, classically cartoony images, and not a hint of sugarcoating, Brian Fies’ 2006 graphic novel—first published as a webcomic—chronicles his colorful mother’s long struggle with lung cancer. It’s both an involving look at one woman’s battle with disease and a useful guide for what someone undergoing treatment for cancer can expect, both physically and mentally."

Unfortunately, as longtime readers know, while the momscancer.com site is still there, the webcomic isn't. My publisher asked me to take it down when the book was published, on the reasonable assumption that people wouldn't bother paying for a story in print (especially a relatively short story) when they could read it free online. That made sense to me and I was happy to do it.

The good news is that my publisher and I have been talking about putting "Mom's Cancer" back online as a free webcomic. The rationale now is that the book has been out a few years, it's pretty much sold all it's going to sell on its own, and reading the story online might prompt a few folks to seek out the print version. That also makes sense to me and I'm eager to do it. For various good reasons, we haven't followed through yet; if I'd known this article was coming, I would've pushed harder.

My bottom line has always been to get my family's story to as many people as possible, in whatever medium. Seeing "Mom's Cancer" return to its free webcomic roots would make me very happy--even though I still think the print version is well worth $14.95 (or a bargain $10.17 on Amazon right now).
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Mas Tapas

A few more bite-sized morsels:

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My previous post touching on how most author's lose control of their stories the moment they sell them to Hollywood was vividly brought to life last night when my wife and I watched "Confessions of a Shopaholic." Karen Netflixed (look, a 21st-century verb!) it because she'd read and liked the book. Throughout the movie she kept apologizing, "This isn't how the book went."

I can't speak for the book but the movie was a real stinker, asking us to root for a completely unsympathetic heroine who, as far as I was concerned, deserved every bad thing that happened to her and more. I wouldn't want her as a friend, family member or coworker. Her nemesis was a debt collector who hounded her throughout the film, whom she avoided in supposedly cute and charming ways and had her revenge upon in the end. I was rooting for the collector.

Anyway, just another data point in the battle between art and commerce. I just wonder why so many filmmakers buy the rights to good source material and then gut it of everything that made people love it in the first place.

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On the last night of his short run as host of "The Tonight Show," Conan O'Brien said, "All I ask of you, especially young people, is one thing: please don't be cynical. I hate cynicism--it's my least favorite quality and it doesn't lead anywhere. Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard and you're kind, amazing things will happen."

I agree completely and have said similar things in a couple of interviews. It's a perspective that kind of snuck up on me; I might have even called myself a cynic when I was younger. But like Conan, I find it the personality trait I like least. Cynicism is easy and lazy. While cynics pose as courageous iconoclasts, sincerity is much braver, riskier, and more constructive. No one ever accomplished something great if they didn't think it was worth doing, and I guarantee they were surrounded by a hundred snide, sarcastic cynics eager to explain how it wasn't worth the effort and they were doomed to fail. Tearing down is easy; creating is hard.

Watch me tie everything together: although I didn't read the book Confessions of a Shopaholic, I'll bet it was written by a sincere author and made into a movie by cynical filmmakers. How 'bout that?

Note that cynicism isn't skepticism. I'm deeply skeptical, especially in a scientific double-blind-study kind of way. But I like to think I've grown increasingly uncynical, and learned to recognize and value sincerity in the work of others. It's a work in progress.

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I bought and read a new old book yesterday, America's Great Comic-Strip Artists by Richard Marschall. Although it was published in 1989 I found it in an antique store, which I thought was odd. In any case, it's a neat collection of biographies and critical analyses of 16 great cartoonists dating back to the late 1800s, including several that are on my personal Top Twenty List including McCay, Herriman, Sterrett, Raymond, Caniff, Kelly and Schulz. It's well illustrated and very informative, puncturing some myths I'd heard repeated often enough to believe and telling me much I didn't know. Highly recommended if you can find it. Try your local antique store (?).
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Like He Needs MY Help

Opening April 2, it's "Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Wrath of Khan." Something like that . . .

Back in October, while I sat eating most of a pizza that Jeff Kinney paid for, he showed me some iPhone photos he'd taken on the set of this movie. He was thrilled with the cast and how well the filmmakers had translated his characters and world from simple line art to live action.

Thanks to his series' enormous success and his own business acumen (Jeff is a sharp cookie), he had a lot more to do with the movie than most writers whose work is optioned. Generally, I understand that the last time most filmmakers care what the original author thinks is when they buy the rights to his or her story. But Jeff demanded and got quite a bit of creative control, which gives me some faith that the film will capture the tone and charm of his books. I hope so, and that it's a big hit for him. I'm not being at all insincere when I say that seeing a guy like Jeff enjoy success like this is almost as good as having it myself.

Almost.
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I Just Don't Get It

The list of things I just don't get grows ever longer. Sometimes it's my fault: I haven't kept up, something slipped past me, I should have been paying attention. Sometimes it's by design: the moment a middle-aged middle-class square like me gets rap music, it has by definition lost its reason to exist. I like that about it. But sometimes . . . sometimes I'm pretty sure the world has simply gone mad.

Like last weekend, when I saw one of these:

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A woman walking her dog in a stroller. Now, this wasn't the first time I'd seen it, but it was the first time I'd really noticed and thought, "That's nuts!"

Sure, some dogs are old or infirm, and being wheeled around is their only way to experience the outdoors. Great. That doesn't account for the many manufacturers and vendors of dog strollers that seem to have sprung up overnight, nor the many apparently healthy, vigorous dogs I see in them.

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I mean . . . they're dogs! I've never known a dog yet that didn't love to walk! Sniffing every pole and bush, snapping alert to every bird and squirrel, checking the hydrant message board to see what their old buddy Bowser's been up to (and rolling in) lately. A walk around the block is a day at Disneyland for most dogs. Not to mention the value of exercise, or of wearing down their nails so they don't get overgrown. It seems cruel to deny it to them.

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My wife Karen pointed out that every dog she's ever seen in a stroller looks happy enough. I guess. But your dogs aren't your children--they're a different species, with different needs. I find it both funny and pitiable, and suspect a person pushing a dog stroller is saying a lot more about their own needs than their dog's.

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(If I've described any friends or readers of this blog, I'm sure you have excellent reasons and are the exception to the rule. Maybe you can explain it to me.)

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Dog strollers: I just don't get it.

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Tapas

Just a few odds and ends, none of which offers more than a bite-sized morsel:

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Over the weekend I read The Geography of Bliss by Eric Weiner, who roamed the world to find the happiest people and figure out what made them that way. One of my daughters recommended it and I admit I was wary, afraid it'd be a doe-eyed New Age polemic about the evils of Western Civilization, finding peace within, blah blah.

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Instead, I found Weiner to be a skeptical, observant, witty, and slightly crabby guide who doesn't pretend to do real research but delivers genuine insights nonetheless. He's an engaging travel writer who reminded me of Calvin Trillin, one of my favorites, and I was especially captivated by his chilling account of the former Soviet republic of Moldova, home of the unhappiest people on the planet. It was easy to see why. Thought-provoking and recommended. I should know to trust my girls.

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I'm lining up a few exciting speaking engagements for 2010 that I'll write about as they get nearer and firmer. The first will be at the Bookbinders' Guild meeting in New York City on Tuesday, February 9. Here's how dumb I am: my first thought upon getting the invitation was, "I don't know anything about bookbinding!" But the Guild is in fact composed of high-powered big-time professionals in book publishing, manufacturing, and sales, and I'll be there (I gather) mostly to talk about how Mom's Cancer evolved from web content to book. Editor Charlie will be on the panel with me, so I expect that to be fun. Unfortunately, I don't think it's open to the public. But I'll blog all about it here!

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Speaking of Mom's Cancer, I just received a draft of an article titled "Graphic Medicine: Comics as a New Tool in Medical Education and Patient Care," which will be published in the British Medical Journal in February. The paper, by Michael Green and Kimberly Myers at Penn State College of Medicine, looks at Mom's Cancer and Marissa Acocella Marchetto's Cancer Vixen as "novel and creative ways to learn and teach about illness." Thousands of physicians are going to read this paper, which also ties into another speaking engagement that looks like it's going to happen in the summer.

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How cool is that? Wish Mom could've seen it.

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Building Pages

Another in a haphazard and probably tedious series of posts describing what I'm thinking about when working on a graphic novel. Lately I've been giving a lot of thought to building pages, because that's what I've been doing for what I hope will be my third book.

By "building pages" I mean laying down the nuts-and-bolts infrastructure of a story, from large to small. On the largest scale, chapters begin on right odd-numbered pages and end on left even-numbered pages (so that the next chapter can begin on a right odd-numbered page). That means every chapter should have an even number of pages. Unless you're, like, a total rebel.

In comics, Space = Time. The length and information density of a passage governs the pace at which the reader takes it in. A page with a lot of words and panels reads slower than a wordless single-panel splash page. In part of my new story, the action advances each day of the week: something happens on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etc. To help convey that regular "sunrise-sunset" passage of time, I'm trying to make each day's episode cover the same number of pages and carry about the same amount of information. I want this part to read like a metronome. Then when I break the pattern, the reader will sense that something has changed.

The English-speaking eye reads a comic page from left to right, top to bottom. Action, and most importantly word balloons, should flow gracefully to guide the reader across and down the page. I do appreciate clever formal flourishes in which weird panel layouts, stylized lettering and so forth convey meaning--I did some in both Mom's Cancer and WHTTWOT--but for me those tricks are only worthwhile if they enhance the story and don't call attention to themselves. If a reader can't follow the action or steps back to think, "Interesting gimmick!" that's bad.

In addition to left-right up-down, you've got the two-page spread to think about: how the left and right pages work together as a unified, composed whole. Then there's the fact that when readers turn the page, their eyes naturally dart ahead to the bottom-right corner of the two-page spread before they start reading at the top left. They can't help it! So if you've got any surprises or big reveals, don't put them on an odd-numbered page! In fact, if I can I like to build some suspense toward the bottom-right to encourage the reader to turn the page and find out what happens next. If I were doing a comics version of that horror movie scene where a startling noise turns out to be an innocent cat, I'd put the startling noise on the bottom-right of one spread and the cat on the top-left of the next.

As a whole, a story usually needs a beginning, middle and end (or three acts), with movement, conflict and purpose. In addition, each chapter should have its own beginning, middle and end, and each scene within a chapter its own beginning, middle and end. When possible I further try to structure each page to also have its own little beginning, middle and end, building the book like a nested series of Russian matryoshka dolls. The flick of the reader's eyelid from the bottom of one page to the top of the next makes for a nice subliminal pause or transition in the action.

Writing.

It occurs to me these might sound like very mechanical and formulaic rules. They aren't. First, they're more guidelines than rules (cf. Capt. Jack Sparrow), and second I'm not entirely diligent about applying them. The story always comes first, and sometimes telling the story right requires bending or breaking the rules. But I do believe it strengthens a story to use them when you can, and to know what you're doing when you can't. Your goal is to communicate with readers; the better you understand how they take in information, the more successfully you'll do that.

EDITED TO ADD: I forgot my standard disclaimer: This isn't the only way or the right way. It's just my way. Take what works for you and leave the rest.

I found this image of Kirk and Spock "kokeshi" while I was googling matryoshka dolls, and couldn't pass it up. I'll apologize for stealing the picture by providing a link to their supplier; just click on the image above.

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I finished the first draft of the script for Book Three today. It came out to 150 pages even. I'll read it over a few times, send it off to Editor Charlie, and we'll see how it goes.

I Kicked the Football and Did Not Get a Rock

My Cartoonist-in-Residence gig at the Charles M. Schulz Museum and Research Center turned out to be a pretty extraordinary afternoon, exceeding my every expectation. We got more people, sold more books (nearly sold out, in fact), and got a warmer reception than I'd anticipated. It was exhilarating and exhausting. My wife Karen took some great pictures, so instead of writing about it I thought I'd do a photo essay:

Since I was due to start at 1 p.m., Karen and I arrived an hour early to have lunch at the Warm Puppy Cafe in the ice arena across from the museum, where I found a familiar face looking back at me from a sign.

A different sign in the museum lobby, this one highlighting Mom's Cancer. I mostly included this picture to show those of you far from Northern California how cool this lobby is. The whole place is first class.

The museum had my entire literary output (all two books of it) for sale in the lobby. I think visitors just about cleaned them out; I know I signed a bunch.

The point of being a "cartoonist in residence" is to show a cartoonist actually working. To that end, I brought in my drawing board, paper, ink, brush, pens, templates, rag, etc., and drew stuff for people while we talked. On the corner is the model spaceship I built from a staircase post, golf tee, CO2 cartridges, and miscellaneous hardware while working on WHTTWOT. The pink sticky note tells visitors which pages of the book they can find the spaceship on. I also brought along my Eisner Award, because if I don't brag about me, who will? Some people really enjoyed seeing it and spinning the globe.

This angled countertop runs along one wall of the Education Room, and I filled it with original artwork from both Mom's Cancer and WHTTWOT, again with the idea of giving visitors a sense of how drawings turn into books. Sticky notes tell them where to find the art in the book, and let me show how, for example, the cover of WHTTWOT was composed of five separate drawings that I integrated in Photoshop. My little pennant from the 1939 World's Fair and a model car I used are sitting at the top of the counter.

This was pretty much my view for two-plus hours. While I worked the drawing board, Karen did a heroic job taking visitors through the original art on the counter. Also, on the flatscreen TV on the wall behind me, I looped a PowerPoint presentation that showed how several drawings went from sketches to pencils to inks to published art. It's all about the process.

Friend of the Blog Mike "Sligo" Harkins, who knew me in a past life when we both wrote for the same local magazine. It was really great to reconnect, I felt bad we didn't have more time.

This photo gives a good overview of how my stuff was laid out, with the art at left and my drawing table at right. By the way, did I mention that Mrs. Charles Schulz stopped by at the end of my residency? I didn't? Don't know how I overlooked that. Seriously, I'd never met Jeannie but had always heard how kind and gracious she is. I can confirm that. I introduced her to my work, and we ended up talking for almost an hour. She's my new best friend now.

Jeannie Schulz and museum Education Director Jessica Ruskin, who arranged everything. We all called each other early in the morning to coordinate our navy blue outfits. You'll notice I made sure that Mrs. Schulz left with copies of both my books, because I am not stupid.

I really met the most extraordinary people today. Everyone who came to see me and reads this post, thanks so much! I was especially taken with several kids who reminded me a lot of myself around 12 to 17, just trying to absorb as much as I could about the art and craft of cartooning. There were a couple of folks I'll never forget, for all the right reasons. It was also great to see some personal friends turn out and lend their support. Thanks to Jessica, Mrs. Schulz and the museum staff for making me so welcome. Very much appreciated! Call again anytime.

The Education Room has this big round window so you can see into it from the hallway. I've got my head down drawing at the right.
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The Bestish of 2009

I've gradually stopped citing book reviews here on my blog, instead using my WHTTWOT Facebook Fan Page to point them out when I find them. Someday I'll write a blog post about how my perspective on reviews has evolved over time to where I've pretty much resolved not to pay them much mind or respond to them, good or bad. Basically, I needed to grow a thicker skin.

But WHTTWOT did get nice mentions on two critics' year-end "Best of 2009" lists that I didn't want to pass unnoticed. Many terrific graphic novels and comics were published last year, and just to be considered in their company is a nice achievement and honor.

On Comic Book Resource's "Robot 6" blog, Brigid Alverson called WHTTWOT one of her ten favorite books of 2009: "This is a flawed masterpiece, but a masterpiece nonetheless. Fies looks at changing attitudes toward science through the eyes of a boy and his father as they live through World War II, the Cold War, and the space age, and he intersperses this narrative with a fictional comic reflecting each era. A bit talky but interesting and beautifully produced."

My book also earned an Honorable Mention on a 2009 Top Ten list put together by Marc Sobel of Comic Book Galaxy's "Trouble With Comics" column. He wrote: "I've seen a few negative or lukewarm reviews of this book, which I think are pretty unfair. The story is a little light, I'll admit, but Fies is a cartoonist with tremendous range. I love the way he varies his style in this book to reflect the maturity of his lead character, and his use of digital tools, from embedded photos to digital coloring and effects, is impressive. There's also a sweetness to this book that I found refreshing. So many graphic novels these days focus on human tragedy and violence. It was a pleasant change of pace to read about a boy who loved and idealized his father, even if the end result was a little sappy. Not quite a top 10 book, but far better than the criticism it’s received."

There's no need for well-meaning friends to race to my defense in the comments, protesting the "flawed" or "talky" or "sappy" criticisms. They're fair--heck, I'll even cop to them. In the big picture, at the end of a year overflowing with great books by very talented people, these critics thought enough of mine to include it on their lists. I appreciate that a lot.
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Graphic Noveling in Three Acts

From my very first post in July 2005, one of my main reasons for blogging has been to share and document how a graphic novel gets made. A few people enjoy learning about the process, and it makes a handy diary for me to look back at as well. In that spirit, I thought I'd start writing a bit more about what I hope will be my third book--let's call it Mystery Project X--while revealing absolutely nothing about the story itself. Because I'm funny that way.

The main thing to keep in mind is that my way isn't the only way or right way; it's just mine. It actually just occurred to me that I wrote Mom's Cancer, Whatever Happened to the World of Tomorrow, and Mystery Project X in three very different ways, so that someone who's stuck with me from the start (all six of you) would see three different models in action.

Mom's Cancer was a memoir of actual events done in approximately real time, although delayed several weeks while I wrote, drew, and most importantly edited. I did try to craft a story with a beginning, middle and end (even though I didn't know at the time what the end would be), but it was largely structured by real life. WHTTWOT grew from early ideas that mutated into something completely unrecognizable from their origins. Inspiration came in spontaneous bits and clumps: Pop and Buddy, the old comic books, the timeless "Carousel of Progress" tour of the decades. Even now, I can't look back and explain how I got from A to B, but I think it worked and am happy with the result.

My approach to Mystery Project X has been more conventional and structured. Figured I might as well give it a shot. Unlike my first two books it's straight fiction, and the first things I worked on were character and story. Not plot! My friend Otis Frampton distinguishes plot from story like this: The plot of "Star Wars" is, "Darth Vader captures Princess Leia, but the droids R2-D2 and C3PO escape with the Death Star plans to the planet Tatooine, where they're bought by Luke Skywalker who etc. etc. etc. " The story of "Star Wars" is, "A young farmboy who yearns for adventure goes on a heroic quest aided by an exiled mentor, a princess on a mission, and a fortune-seeking rogue." Story is subtext: who wants what and why. Plot tells you how they succeed or fail.

So I've got three characters. I don't remember how I got them, but each wants something that conflicts with what the others want. I know who will succeed and fail. A fair start. I'm imagining and sketching scenes, things I picture them doing. I've got three or four really cool images stuck in my head, especially one that encapsulates the whole tale for me. I feel like if I keep that image in mind, my story will stay on track. I start to mold a plot around the story: How do they meet, what happens next, what happens after that, how do they all wind up at the end?

Since it's a work of fiction, I set out to apply the fundamental three-act dramatic structure, which goes back to the Greeks. You can think of the three acts as simply the beginning, middle, and end. Or the set-up, conflict, and resolution. Or the thesis, antithesis, and synthesis. Act One sets up the situation and conflicts, and ends with the hero going into action. In Act Two the situation plays out, characters clash, and the hero's problems mount. In Act Three, the hero figures out how to resolve the situation and wins (or, in a tragedy, loses).

Again using "Star Wars" as an example, Act One is everything leading up to the moment Luke sees his home destroyed and decides to go with Obi Wan. Everything's set up, we understand the stakes and rules, the players are in place (although, interestingly, we haven't met Han Solo yet), the game is afoot. Act Two is all the action that leads up to Luke, Leia and Han escaping from Vader and getting safely to the rebels. Act Three is when our heroes use what they learned in Act Two to attack the Death Star and win.

To help me map out my story and plot, I wrote each bit (or scene or beat) on a sticky note and put them on a poster board divided into three acts. In the past I've done the same thing with index cards spread all over the floor; works just as well. This immediately helped me see holes or spots that needed work. For example, I discovered during this process that the hero of my story wasn't who I thought it was, leading me to go back and rejigger everything accordingly. I added minor characters to provide information or tension, and rewrote my ending. It's a really good exercise, and since the story's just sticky notes you can shuffle them any way you want or throw out whole sections without fretting that it needs to be perfect.

Once I was happy with that, I transcribed the sticky notes into an outline, filling in plot details as I went. That 16-page outline, along with five pages of finished art showing how the characters and their world look, became the proposal that I sent to Editor Charlie in November. With his informal (i.e., "nothing in writing yet") interest and encouragement, I'm now working to turn the outline into a full script broken into pages, panels, captions and dialog. This also offers many opportunities for discovery and revision. The characters are finding their voices, plot holes are being unearthed and resolved, clues needed to solve mysteries on Page 100 are being planted on Page 5. Yesterday I wrote Page 89; I currently expect the book to come out to about 140 pages. I hope to have a good first draft done within a couple of weeks, send that to Charlie, and see what happens. One way or another I mean to do this book, even if I have to photocopy it myself and pass out copies on street corners.

So that's where I'm at and how I got here. I don't know if writing and drawing Mystery Project X will be a drama, comedy, tragedy or farce for me--I always hold out the possibility that everything could go completely to Hell at any moment, and I kind of feel like I'm going out on a potentially embarrassing limb here in case it does. But from time to time, with your indulgence, I'll let you know how it's going.
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Schulz Cartoonist-in-Residence Q&A

If you're in the neighborhood of the Charles M. Schulz Museum and Research Center in Santa Rosa, Calif., next Saturday, January 9, drop by and say "Hi." I'll be their Cartoonist in Residence between 1 and 3 p.m.

I was disappointed to learn that despite the "in residence" part of the job description I don't actually get to sleep over for the night, nor rifle through the archives to pick out a few Schulz doodles that would look great over my mantel. Instead, I'll be sitting in the museum's neat little classroom upstairs, drawing and talking with anyone who pokes their heads in the door. I'm planning to show off some original art from Mom's Cancer and WHTTWOT, and the museum should have both books on hand to buy and sign. I'm expecting a very relaxed, low-key event. If nobody shows, I may pop some corn and use the room's AV system to watch the "Star Trek" DVD I got for Christmas. My only question: If I don't actually get to live in the museum, why did I have to pay a security deposit?

Anyway, in advance of my residency, the museum people sent me a list of questions that they'll use to prepare signs and such. I answered them this morning, and thought they'd make a fine dual-purpose blog post. Regular readers have already seen a lot of this stuff (especially my wife's joke about new talent), but every post may be someone's first. Here's what I wrote:

1. Tell us about your cartooning. Where can we find your work?

What I call my semi-professional cartooning career began in 2004 when I created the webcomic Mom's Cancer to tell the true story of my family's experience with my mother's diagnosis and treatment for cancer. The webcomic got some notice and won the 2005 Eisner Award for Best Digital Comic, the first year that award was given.

Mom's Cancer was published in hardcover by Harry N. Abrams in 2006. I followed that with a graphic novel titled Whatever Happened to the World of Tomorrow?, published by Abrams in 2009. That book is about the period of American history between the 1939 World's Fair and the end of the Apollo program, when people thought the future might actually be better than the past, and science and technology could help make it so. In addition to the Eisner Award, I won the Lulu Blooker Prize for the best comic that originated as Web content, the 2007 German Youth Literature Prize for the German edition of Mom's Cancer, and a 2007 Harvey Award for Best New Talent. My wife Karen says I look like the same old talent to her. Both my books are available from online booksellers and all quality bookstores.

2. When did you start drawing/cartooning?

Although I didn't get any notice for it until I was in my forties, like most people in this line of work I've been doing it as long as I can remember. I can't not do it.

In my late teens and early twenties I tried to find work in cartoons and comic books. Like most aspirants in most creative fields, I failed. I went on to do other things for which people would actually pay me, but always tried to maintain and improve my drawing skills, occasionally sending my work out into the world. I submitted comic strip ideas to newspaper syndicates and pencilling samples to comic book publishers, and got good feedback but no bites. For a few years after college I worked as a reporter for a small daily newspaper, where I published quite a bit of art and learned a lot about professional graphics--photostatting, color separations, etc. I illustrated a light bulb catalog once. When I got the notion to do Mom's Cancer as a comic, I was ready.

3. Where did you get your art training?

I'm largely self-taught in cartooning, although I took as much art as I could in both high school and college. My high school art teacher was very supportive, and I had some excellent university instructors. The best art class I ever took was Life Drawing, which broke a lot of bad habits that cartoonists tend to accumulate. Since college, my "training" has pretty much been buying "How To" books and experimenting with different media on my own.

4. What comics did you read as a kid?

I read all kinds of comics, both newspaper and comic books, and absorbed them all. Superman, Batman, Dick Tracy, Peanuts, Harvey Comics, Marvel Comics. I have a complete run of Marvel's "Avengers" series, which I began collecting when I was about 12.

I mentally split comics into two categories: those I simply discovered and enjoyed haphazardly as I grew up, and those I deliberately sought out later as I tried to learn about the history and craft of comics. A few, such as "Peanuts," fall into both categories: I loved them as a casual reader and then appreciated them as artistically and culturally important examples of the artform. My tastes are pretty mainstream. I missed the boat on underground and independent comix, which I only learned to appreciate much later, and have no feel at all for manga, which shames me in the eyes of my children. These are shortcomings I hope to overcome.

5. Who are your main influences today?

That's almost impossible to say. There are many people whose work I've admired and studied, including some who have nothing to do with comics. For example, I love the prose of E.B. White, and try to keep his clean, economical elegance in mind when I write.

The long, long list of comics creators whose work I'd say influenced mine would begin with Charles Schulz, Walt Kelly, Gus Arriola, Cliff Sterrett, Winsor McCay, John Buscema, Neal Adams, Jack Kirby, Julius Schwartz, Stan Lee, Curt Swan, Milton Caniff, George Herriman, Alex Raymond, Charles Addams, Jules Feiffer, and continue for another hundred pages.

You'll notice they're all "old school" creators who got to me when I was young. There are many contemporary writers and artists doing work I like, and many I try to learn from, but I wouldn't consider them influences in the sense that they affect my approach or style.

6. What is your day job? How do you balance your art and your day job?

I'm a self-employed science writer, which is a nifty way to combine my education and experience, and still give me time to cartoon. I majored in Physics in college, and worked at different times as a newspaper reporter, freelance journalist and environmental chemist, so a job that lets me stay home and write about science is just about perfect for me. My schedule is flexible enough that I can usually fit in cartooning, although never as much as I want. Despite my very fortunate circumstances, it's still a hard balance. My luckiest stroke of all is having a wife with a regular paycheck and good benefits, which allows me the flexibility to be self-employed in the first place.

7. How much time do you devote to drawing each week?

It varies a lot depending on where I am with a project. Sometimes months might go by with no drawing at all, while at other times I might have to draw 20 hours a day for two weeks. The writing and drawing parts of cartooning are really almost the same thing for me, which I think is a very important aspect of the job that people overlook.

Cartooning is primarily writing. It's storytelling. The prettiest pictures in the world are empty if they have no meaning. For example, I'm now writing the first draft of what I hope will be my third graphic novel and I've barely drawn a jot in weeks, but I still consider it cartooning. A cartoonist has to be able to do everything a writer does plus draw.

But the real answer to the question is that I never stop drawing. I go through reams of scrap paper and sticky notes every week, filled with sketches and doodles. Drawing is what my brain does when it's on idle.

8. What are you working on now?

I'm about halfway through the first draft of what I hope will be my third graphic novel. My editor at Abrams is very encouraging and says he's interested, but if they don't take it I'll find some outlet for it. It'll be straight fiction, which is a departure for me; Mom's Cancer was a memoir and Whatever Happened to the World of Tomorrow? had a lot of historical nonfiction in it. It's a great story I'm very excited about. And that's all I'm saying about that!
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Another Year-End Thanksgiving

Although I celebrate the traditional U.S. Thanksgiving in November, here in Blogworld I take the opportunity of New Year's Eve to express gratitude for the people and events that made the past year good.

Top of the list are my wife Karen, my daughters Laura and Robin, and my larger family of sisters, dad, aunt, in-laws, cousins, and nephews. Everyone managed to stay pretty healthy and happy this year, which I don't take for granted.

Thanks to friends and fellow travelers in the comics world, including Mike Lynch, Otis Frampton, Jeff Kinney, Paul Giambarba, Stephan Pastis, Richard Pini, Neil Kleid, MK Czerwiec, Sarah Leavitt, and many others whom I may have met only briefly (including Nick Meglin, John Shableski, Carol Tyler, and Paul Dini) but were invariably kind. Others whose blogs provide regular entertainment and education. Also, my online communities at ToonTalk, rec.arts.comics.strips, and the Wisenheimer for their camaraderie and complaints.

Thanks to readers and especially commenters on this here blog, because it's nice to hear more than an echo when shouting out into the void. Especially my regulars Mike Peterson, Sherwood Harrington, Ronniecat, Marion Deeds, Jennifer (Namowal), Mike (Sligo), Mary Ellen (Xtreme English), Ronnie Peterson, assorted persistent lurkers (I see you there!), and others. Also, people who've supported my new 2009 efforts on Facebook, especially Jim O'Kane and Nancy Gleason (thanks for all the photos!), and everyone who signed up as a friend or fan. It's been especially great to hear from old friends.

Big thanks, affection and respect for the people at Abrams ComicArts who made me a second-time author in 2009, including boss Michael Jacobs, publisher Steve Tager, publicist Amy Franklin, designer Neil Egan, and especially my friend and editor Charlie Kochman, whose wedding to the wonderful Rachel I was honored to attend. Still don't know what took him so long. If we don't work together again in 2010, it won't be my fault.

Thanks to the owners of Four-Eyed Frog Books in Gualala, Judy Weinberg and everyone at the Toledo Museum of Art, and the organizers of the Miami Book Fair International, who gave me opportunities to speak and maybe sell a few books. Likewise to the journalists who thought I'd make a good interview subject and spread the word through print, radio and web, hope I didn't disappoint. Also to the people who reviewed WHTTWOT; although I'm naturally more thankful for those who loved it than those who didn't, I don't think giving my book a bad review necessarily makes you a bad person. But it does increase the odds.

People who bought and read WHTTWOT, especially those who took the time to tell me I captured the story of their lives. One thing I've learned from both my books is that making that intimate, mysterious, one-on-one connection with a reader is the best reward of all. The second-best reward is money.

People who continue to discover Mom's Cancer and tell others about it. That book has an enduring impact that sometimes surprises me, and is unimaginably gratifying.

My real-life friends who suggest dates, invite me to parties, drop me e-mails, and otherwise make sure I have a life despite all evidence to the contrary. Jonas, I owe you lunch.

I'm thankful for our cat Marbles, whose loss is a fresh wound of absence keenly felt.

Everyone I forgot: it's not you, it's me. I'm getting older. Thank you all.
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Good Good Kitty

Back in July, I wrote about our poor sick kitty Marbles, who'd been diagnosed with thyroid trouble and kidney failure. She was acutely ill, and our immediate concern was keeping her alive while her main human, my daughter Robin, was away for six weeks of archeology field school. We did. With daily medication and subcutaneous fluid injections, she survived until Robin returned and then another five months besides, until this morning.

Marbles was our "beta" cat. Her sister Rose is our "alpha," the boss of the pride (while Amber the Simple Cat is our "lower-case omega" cat). However, Rose subcontracted home security to Marbles, who performed her duties diligently. No bird, squirrel, dog or cat could pass by a window without drawing her laser gaze, no visitor could cross our home's threshold without first passing her inspection. Some visitors didn't; although she never took a bite or scratch out of anyone, there were a couple of people she just didn't care for who came to fear her hiss. Marbles's affection was selective and precious. I felt honored to earn almost as much of it as my girls did.

Some people get silly about their pets. I never confused my pets for my children, nor forgot that taking on a dog or cat means knowingly taking on heartbreak 10 or 15 years down the road. We are nevertheless heartbroken. Marbles fought for life last summer while Robin was away, and continued to fight after my daughters returned to college in the fall. The girls said so many "final farewells" to Marbles it seemed she might never call their bluff. In the end she waited until we were all together, and even until after Christmas, more than fulfilling the bargain I made with her in July that if she survived the month she could play it any way she wanted. I can't help but believe that Marbles died doing what she did best: looking out for her family.

Master of intimidation.

Dunk Us All in Bowls of Barley

Above is this year's drawing for our family Christmas card, featuring, as it has for 21 straight years, my twin girls. The cards make a real neat family history all strung together on a knotted ribbon across our living room wall.

Below is a bit of poetic whimsy that's been a ritual on my blog each Christmas Eve since waaay back in 2005. Every beloved tradition starts small. My best wishes to you, thanks for reading my stuff.

Deck us all with Boston Charlie,
Walla Walla, Wash., an' Kalamazoo!
Nora's freezin' on the trolley,
Swaller dollar cauliflower alley-garoo!
Don't we know archaic barrel,
Lullaby Lilla boy, Louisville Lou?
Trolley Molly don't love Harold,
Boola boola Pensacoola hullabaloo!

Bark us all bow-wows of folly,
Polly wolly cracker n' too-da-loo!
Hunky Dory's pop is lolly
gaggin' on the wagon,
Willy, folly go through!
Donkey Bonny brays a carol,
Antelope Cantaloup, 'lope with you!
Chollie's collie barks at Barrow,
Harum scarum five alarum bung-a-loo!

--Walt Kelly

Buster Keaton's "One Week"

Now this might be worth 22 minutes of your time: a clever, witty, silent two-reeler made by Buster Keaton in 1920 (he was about 25 at the time) titled "One Week," courtesy of Mark Evanier. Of all the silent film comedians, Keaton is by far my favorite and the one whose work holds up best today, I think. Keaton's masterpiece "The General" (1927) is one of my Top Five favorite films ever, and "Sherlock Jr." is brilliant as well.



A few things that I think make "One Week" great:

As with all Keaton films, special effects are minimal and most stunts are performed by the stars. What you see is what happened: the cars, the house, the trains are all real. I think that gives the viewing experience an authenticity, immediacy, and tension that no computer-generated effects can match. They literally couldn't make 'em like this today.

The young married couple played by Keaton and Sybil Seely is very sweet and feels completely modern to me. I buy their relationship; they're in this mess together. Seely is particularly charming: smart, vivacious, sexy, and an equal partner to Keaton's hapless groom.

The unlucky newlyweds' build-it-yourself home.

Speaking of sexy, there's a famous scene at about the 13-minute mark that is one of the wittiest, most audacious moments of filmmaking ever. Seely is scrubbing up in the bathtub when she drops her soap on the floor. Her dilemma is evident: how will she pick up the soap without exposing herself to the audience? Keaton's solution: an unknown hand (it's not the groom's, he's on the roof at the time) enters the frame to cover the lens while Seely grabs the soap and settles back into the tub. Then, to complete the fourth-wall breaking, she looks directly at the camera and gives us a flirty little giggle. The joke's on us, but we're in on it as well. It's very "meta."

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Seely flashing us a saucy smile after retrieving her soap.

In addition, the cartoonist in me loves the bizarre parallel world right out of the classic Warner Bros. cartoons (which wouldn't be around for 20 or 30 more years, remember)--a world where a car jack can lift a house so it can roll on barrels, one burly man can hoist a piano onto his shoulder, and nobody gets killed leaping through second-story doors into thin air.

In 2008, "One Week" was added to the Library of Congress's National Film Registry, marking it as a "culturally, historically or aesthetically significant work to be preserved for all time." I agree. I know silent films aren't everyone's cup of tea, but if you're not one of those people I think this one's a treasure and worth a look.

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Working Hard for the Hypothetical Money

Time for another of my now-traditional "too busy to post" posts, which is actually season-appropriate now:

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The ol' blog's a little less active than I'd like because I'm working on big project deadlines for my real job, trying to write a first draft of a new graphic novel for my pretend job (more later!), plus enjoying the general Christmas hubbub and fol-de-rol.

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My girls are recovering very well from their wisdom teeth extractions on Monday--much better than any of us expected, I'd say. They're diligent patients and have been rewarded with surprisingly bearable pain, swelling, and down time. We think we can probably finance grad school by selling their unused Vicodin on the black market, although it might also make a swell stocking stuffer. Depends on how my shopping goes the next few days.

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Poor Poor Babies

Our daughters got home from college for Christmas break late last night. Early this morning we rousted them both out of bed to get their wisdom teeth pulled. Four teeth each, eight teeth total. Karen's on her way to the oral surgeon with one girl now, I'll be leaving with the second in about an hour. If I'm not around much the next couple of days, it's because I'm applying ice packs and preparing soft foods.

Even when your children are old enough to understand and voluntarily go along with the plan, you'd still rather take pain yourself than inflict it on them. But on the plus side, since that's not possible, it means more hard crunchy snacks for me. Woohoo!

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UPDATE: Everybody's fine.

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When Worlds Collide

Added to the long list of Things I Did Not Know:

George Lucas asked David Lynch to direct "Return of the Jedi." It's very difficult, but mind-meltingly fun, to imagine how that movie might have turned out.


The only thing I know about "Return of the Jedi" that most people don't is that I went to college with a super-nice girl who played an Ewok. She was a little person and we worked the same student job together--I drove double-decker buses and she was one of the conductors in the back who got passengers on and off, signaled stops, punched transfers, etc. During summer vacations she went off and made movies (and has continued to, building a very successful career in film and TV). You know that scene where two Ewoks get blasted and one crawls over to its dead mate? She was the Ewok who lived. I'd mention her name but I'm afraid she'd Google herself, read this post, and tell y'all she has no idea who I am, which would completely ruin one of my few "brush with greatness" stories.

I worked my way through college driving these authentic old London double-deckers for a university transit system. Very unusual clutches. Drivers sit in a little cab in the front (right side, naturally) while conductors stand on the platform in the back. One of the best jobs I ever had.

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The Art of Paul Giambarba

Is this guy cool, or what?

I wrote about my buddy Paul Giambarba in early November (scroll way down or click here). Paul is a writer/artist/designer/illustrator who, among many other accomplishments, designed the packaging, branding, and "feel" that helped make Polaroid cameras a big hit in the '50s and '60s. He was contacted by a team trying to revive Polaroid film after the company recently stopped making it, and on December 18 will be the star of a special event at the International Center of Photography in New York City (details on Paul's blog).

Check it out. The special "Paul Giambarba Edition" will comprise 15 kinds of original Polaroid film, carefully preserved and redesigned by Paul for the occasion, plus a special-edition camera kit designed by Paul. It's both a celebration of Polaroid's contribution to photography, culture and design, and a terrific recognition for Paul. If I lived 3000 miles closer I'd be there. If you're in the New York area and that sounds intriguing, stop by to see Paul between 5 and 7:30 p.m., and tell him I sent you.

The Art of Charlie Kochman

There's a nice profile/interview with Editor Charlie at the Shelf Awareness website that I think gives some insight into my publisher's approach to comics. Publishing houses have different sensibilities--you can look at a book and think, "Oh, that's a Pantheon book" or "that's a Fantagraphics book"--and I can similarly spot Abrams books without quite being able to articulate what they have in common. I mean, aside from "stuff Charlie thinks is cool." Or maybe that's it exactly.

Charlie was kind enough to mention me in two contexts. First, along with Jeff Kinney, as an example of someone crossing over from webcomics. Second, as a contrast to the subject of the 2010 Abrams book The Art of Jaime Hernandez: The Secrets of Life and Death:

Kochman differentiates Hernandez's work, for instance, from that of Brian Fies. "As much as I love Brian Fies, he's not ready for a book about his art; he hasn't been around long enough. Jaime has been."

Quite right. As much as I love Charlie, if he ever suggests doing an Art of book on me, no matter how long I've been around, our relationship is over. What a horrifying idea; what an awful thing to do to a friend. Never gonna happen. (I can delete this post later, right?) Now Kinney, on the other hand . . .

It's a good article. Check it out if that kind of "inside baseball" thing interests you.

Hard Sell

You know what would be an excellent Christmas* gift for the science nut/space fan/history buff/pop culture maven/comic book collector/nostalgic baby boomer/geek/nerd/evil genius/dashing hero/super-cool person in your life?

My book.

I'm just sayin'.




* Also appropriate for Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Boxing Day, Al Hijra, Ashura, Las Posadas, the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, Santa Lucia Day, Oatmeal Muffin Day (Dec. 19), or National Chocolate-Covered Anything Day (Dec. 16) (latter two only valid if book is accompanied by an oatmeal muffin or covered in chocolate, respectively).

ComicArts Book Club Q&A

WHTTWOT was the topic of discussion at last Thursday's meeting of the Abrams ComicArts Book Club, hosted by my publisher Abrams and Bergen Street Comics. If I could've dropped into Ozzie's Coffee Shop in Brooklyn for the evening I would've, but the best I could do from a continent away was agree to answer any questions that came up. The organizers said they had a good turnout. I think a book club dedicated to graphic novels is a great idea, and I wish them much good luck.

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Here are their fine questions and my questionable answers:

Q. Mom’s Cancer is very different from Whatever Happened to the World of Tomorrow. How did you transition from a personal narrative about a mother/son relationship to a fictional father/son tale? Are parts of Whatever Happened similar to your experiences growing up?

BF: The recognition and modest success of Mom’s Cancer opened doors to the possibility of building a writing/cartooning career I’ve wanted my whole life. So: What next? I’d done a book about my family and had no interest in a sequel or anything else autobiographical. I think everyone has one good story to tell about their lives but almost no one has two. I’m not that interesting, and neither are you. I told my story.

Here’s my philosophy of trying to make a living at creative pursuits: no matter how good you are or how hard you work, there’ll always be a million people who draw and write (or sculpt or paint or sing or play piano) better than you. The only thing you really have to offer is your own unique perspective, that little island of things you care passionately about that only you can stand on. I'm pretty sure that's true.

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So just talking with my editor Charlie Kochman, trying to answer the “What next?” question, I decided that my island was the central theme of WHTTWOT: What happened to that can-do optimism I grew up with as a child of the Space Age, the sense that tomorrow could be better than today and science could help make it happen? I still feel that way, but it seems no one else does. I thought I had something to say about that. Beating my island analogy to death, I think once you figure out what your message is, you put it in a bottle, throw it into the waves, and hope enough other people find it and relate to it to make it worth doing.

Bits of the book are drawn from personal memories and experience. There are many nods to my family history, which no one else would get. Although I never saw a rocket launch in person and didn’t have that kind of relationship with my dad, the core of the story—that disappointment that I’m never going to live on the Moon or get my flying car and jetpack, as well as the love of comics and futuristic pop culture—is very much me.

Q. Despite it being a novel, a large portion of the book is composed of historical and scientific facts. Did you ever consider a non-fiction format instead?

BF: No. But the characters of Pop, Buddy, Cap Crater and the Cosmic Kid did emerge surprisingly late in the writing process. I’m not sure, but it’s possible my first proposal to my editor didn’t mention them at all.

Whatever Happened to the World of Tomorrow? attacks the question posed by its title from three different directions: a recap of technological and historical developments from 1939 to 1975; how those developments affected people’s lives; and the important influence pop culture had on shaping the expectations and realization of the future. The non-fiction historical stuff is only one-third of the tale, and I didn’t think was enough to support a book. Pop and Buddy are my window into the lives of people living through those times, and the “Space Age Adventure” comics-within-the-comic speak for the pop culture influences. Each thread covers ground and says things the other two couldn't. If the reader focuses on just one thread, they’re only getting a third of the story.

One reason Pop and Buddy age abnormally slowly is that their relationship mirrors the arc that (I argue) society followed between 1939 to 1975, from optimistic technological utopianism to pessimistic, cynical dystopianism. The reason the characters are in the book at all is that I thought those social changes sounded very much like a father-son relationship evolving from unquestioning worship to snide disillusion. So I wanted to say something about this 36-year period of history by reflecting it in about 10 years of a kid growing up, then bring the three threads together in a speculative, hopeful, sci-fi future at the end.

Having said that, in retrospect I kind of regret that WHTTWOT is called a “graphic novel,” although that’s the generic term for this sort of big comic book, because I think it led some people to expect something it was never intended to be. If you’re expecting an apple but bite into a peach, you might not like it even if it’s a pretty good peach. WHTTWOT has gotten some great reviews, but a couple of reviewers mentioned that they might have appreciated it more as an essay. To which I’d answer, “Who says it isn’t? Why can’t it be a graphic essay?” It poses a question, makes an argument, offers evidence, reaches conclusions. When I build a time machine, I might go back and put “A Graphic Polemic” on the cover. Let ‘em figure that one out.

Q. Who do you see as the ideal audience for the book? Did you intend this for younger readers as well as adults?

BF: It’s certainly written to be accessible to young readers, as was Mom’s Cancer. I’m very proud that Mom’s Cancer won the top award in Germany for children’s non-fiction literature, and that the Texas Library Association recently recommended WHTTWOT for students in grades 6 through 12, even though I didn’t intend either to be a children’s book.

However, I honestly wouldn’t expect a young reader to be interested in WHTTWOT’s subject matter. Maybe a bright 10 year old. As I hinted in a previous answer, I basically wrote it for me, and hoped there were enough people out there like me to justify my publisher’s investment. My goal was to write a book that I would not be able to put down if I saw it in a bookstore. I’m not surprised that the people who seem to be responding most positively are those who grew up through some of the same times and ask themselves the same questions I did. Or, as my wife says, boomer nerds.

Q. The omission of a mother figure stirred up some debate. Why did you make this choice? Did you anticipate strong reactions?

BF: Ah yes, whatever happened to Mom? I didn't anticipate strong reactions or any reactions at all, which was foolish of me because it was the first question my wife asked. I should’ve known.

There was a Mom in an early draft of the book. I drew exactly one panel with her. Mom’s role in the story was basically to provide exposition and ask questions. When I decided that Buddy would narrate the book in captions, Mom suddenly had a lot less to do. As I worked, putting words into the mouths of Pop and Buddy was fun and easy, while thinking of things for Mom to say and do was very hard, and always seemed to detour from the story I wanted to tell. In keeping with my notion that cartooning is about distilling things to their essence, I finally decided that Mom wasn’t essential to the story and cut her. Since my first book was all about a Mom and other strong women, I didn't feel like I particularly owed the universe a Mom in my second book as well.

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The only remaining evidence of Buddy's Mom.
I suspect she would've resembled Officer Mooney.

I really didn’t expect anyone to notice or care, any more than someone watching “The Wizard of Oz” wonders what happened to Dorothy’s parents. I didn’t see any point in having Pop and Buddy explain what happened to Mom because they both already knew, and any exposition about it would’ve been unnaturally forced (“Say, do you remember that time when Mom and I . . . ?”). Mom might be dead, divorced, separated, or otherwise out of Pop’s and Buddy’s lives. My theory is that she’s still around, just upstairs, at work, or out of the house when we happen to look in on her fellas. Buddy has to be living with someone while Pop’s away during World War II. And when Pop and Buddy are building their little construction project in 1955, there are three cots in the basement, not two.

Q. You’ve obviously done a ton of research. What were your best/most interesting/most surprising sources?

BF: Both the beauty and curse of doing a graphic novel is that nothing goes on the page unless you mean to put it there. I took my research very seriously and filled up three thick binders, probably a couple thousand pages in all, with references for everything. If I drew a cola bottle or street light, I wanted it to be right for the time and place. For later decades, I was able to draw on my own family photos and personal memories. A lot of the furniture and such from the 1950s on were things my family had.

I especially loved finding material and learning more about the 1939 World’s Fair. As I mentioned in the Endnotes, I watched hours of public-domain home movies shot at the fair, and bought ephemera like maps, pins, and a little felt pennant that I put to good use. I can’t describe how happy I was to stumble across the actual circuit diagram for the RCA television that debuted at the fair, which I used as a graphic backdrop for the two-page spread on Pages 14 and 15.

In general, I experienced this weird phenomenon in which information and resources emerged exactly when I needed them. For example, just when I started to color the “Space Age Adventure” comic books, a veteran comic book pro posted on his blog a very detailed description of how the old comics were colored that was enormously useful to me. There were the home movies and circuit diagram. World War II propaganda posters. Some of the space photos in later chapters. Whenever I needed something, the universe seemed to drop it in my lap. It was almost eerie.

Since the book came out, I’ve been gratified to hear from a few folks who were first-hand witnesses to events I depicted and told me I got it right. MAD Magazine’s Al Jaffee attended the World’s Fair as a young man getting ready to go to war, and wrote to tell me I made him feel as if he were right there again. Imagine what it means as a cartoonist to have Al Jaffee say you did good.

Thanks for reading my book and engaging it enough to ask thoughtful questions. Much appreciated! I’ll be happy to follow up here, elsewhere, or privately.
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Crossing the Porcelain Rubicon

A line was crossed in my home this week, casting me adrift in an abyss from which, I fear, there is no return.

There was a time, in this civilization of ours, when a man was the master of his technology. He could sharpen his axe, hitch his wagon, fix his plow. Well into the 20th century, he could lift the hood of his car to do a tune-up and fix a carburetor. He could open the back panel of his TV or radio, pull out a tube, and go to the hardware store for a replacement (I remember shops equipped with self-service tube testers as late as the '80s). Many a mechanic or inventor was born tinkering in a garage or on a workbench spattered with silver drops of solder. Today? Everything comes hermetically sealed in black boxes, with dire warnings of electrocution--or worse, a voided warranty--if cracked open. These are sad times for a curious, mechanically minded person. You simply can't tell anymore how something works just by looking at it and fiddling around.

Which is to say, I no longer understand my toilet.

Because California is inconveniently a desert with chronic drought that people keep moving to anyway, our local water agency is running an incentive program to replace everyone's old water-guzzling toilets with modern low-flow models. Free! When we made the call, we didn't realize the offer was really a Trojan Horse meant to sneak the water cops through the door so they could also install low-flow aerators and showerheads on every outlet. So be it. They left us the old fixtures, and The Man will take away my right to a long, hot, gut-punching shower when he can pry my cold, dead body out of the stall.

The anxiety of installing a low-flow toilet comes from wondering if it'll take care of everything it's supposed to, if you know what I mean. The plumber reassured me with statistics about volumes and pressures versus how many grams of matter (if you still know what I mean) that people of different sexes, sizes, and dietary habits are apt to produce (yeah, I'm pretty sure you know what I mean). This guy really knew his poo, and I felt reassured that we were in the hands of a master, even if I didn't actually want to touch his hands.

Anyway, I was a quick convert. These toilets are amazing! With a light tap on the handle, the pressure-assist model we selected roars like a Space Shuttle at launch. WHOOOSH! Curtains flutter in distant rooms. In the backyard, autumn leaves cascade from our trees. Somewhere in Africa, a bull elephant recognizes the low lonesome call of a mate and looks longingly across the ocean. Curious to learn how such marvels were accomplished, I lifted the lid and eagerly gazed into the sacred heart of the porcelain ark.

A black box. Another featureless, seamless, impenetrable case, the mysteries of which a non-professional dare not plumb.

This sad fact renders me almost completely helpless in the face of the everyday technology that surrounds me. I can still confidently tackle minor electrical work--changing switches and installing light fixtures and such--and pound nails and patch holes and glue PVC. But I'm afraid that the humble toilet, whose elegant engineering I understood as previous generations once knew the engine block of a Ford or the coils of an old Philco radio, has evolved beyond my comprehension. The day I have to call a plumber to fix my toilet--and that day will come, my friends--will be the day a tiny piece of the manly pioneering spirit that made this country great withers in humiliation inside me.
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What Immortal Hand or Eye Dare Frame Thy Fearful Symmetry?

I guess I'm the last person on the Internet to see this, and only because my pal Mike Lynch posted it this morning. I can only think of a few regular readers who'll dig it (hi, girls! XO, Dad). But sometimes you've gotta do what you've gotta do.

Have a nice weekend, everyone.