Hello folks.

Sorry for a long time absence, but I've been busy writing and drawing and internetting.

Part of the work to come out of that effort is my spiffy new author based website---

www.billwilliamsfreelance.com

It seemed like a good place to yammer on about writing and post videos of Chris Walken. And muppets. But not together. That would be odd.

And a refurbished version of the Tokyo Pop short story collection wandered out into the wilds of the Kindle Store this week. It is now titled Tokyo Bound so that it will not be confused with the manga publisher. And it now has 30% fewer typos.

No Words, Just Pictures

So, I ran out of writing work and have been doing a lot of inking and coloring. I'm in a mad rush getting some things together for the #SDCC show.

This is the cover to a digital issue of the SideChicks webcomic. I inked and colored it in one day last week. Bask in its glory.

'It' Leads to Disaster

While I'm waiting around for a new comic book project to appear, I'm taking some of Willingham's advice and finishing a novel. I have a few bad writing habits that manifested while writing my first novel that I finished last week. Writing that first mystery was a tough staggering fight and I just made it to the end like a punch drunk boxer looking for that final bell. When I'm working I can get a lot of words down on the page each day, but my bad habits bloom. One of those has to do with the word 'it' which in most cases is a place-holder for a much better term.

So after a few days tending to other projects, I was ready to knock that word out of the manuscript as best I could. I set up a Find/ Replace operation where the computer would find the next instance of the lazy word and I would manually make some sort of change. Then I would move on to the next and so on. Well, I have a trick computer that sometimes throws the cursor around and adds keystrokes. The machine had one of its spells as I was in that find/ replace mode. Then I saved the document. A little poking around in the novel revealed that the computer had replaced the word 'it' with nothing. Thanks to that fluke, 'it' had been removed from the entire document, all seventy thousand words. That disaster tore apart words like wait, white, with, within, security, reality, etc. Those of you who live in Austin may have heard my profanity-charged tirade. Birds scattered. Dogs were silent.

My just-a-quick-polish draft turned into a word-for-word careful examination of the novel. It hurt, but it focused my mind on the manuscript in a unique way. The Milk Run is a better book for it. Still, I hope that never happens again.
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Comic Writing Class

Recently I was asked to compose a short comic book writing tutorial for a group of writers up in Toronto. I thought I'd share it here with you as well.

Bill’s Letter to you Writers

On Writing Comic Book Scripts

When you’re writing a comic book script you need to be able to do two things simultaneously. On one hand you must write an interesting short play, with (one hopes) compelling dialogue and captions, whose purpose is to tell the spoken part of the story. On the other hand you have to also write a personal letter of instruction to only one person: the artist who will illustrate the comic book, using the information in your letter to him to tell the visual part of the story.

It’s simple: all you have to do is perfect the art of being the ultimate high-functioning schizophrenic. Like Jekyll and Hyde, to do comics well, you need to be two completely different types of writers sharing one body. Unlike Jekyll and Hyde though, you need to be able to switch back and forth at will, to do two completely different types of writing.

One writer has to be the artist, the wordsmith, the poet. His work will be read directly by the readers. The other writer isn’t interested in poetry, or a deft turn of phrase, or in making sure a given character is speaking in his own distinct voice. His prose needs to be dry and undecorated. This second writer is a technical writer whose job is to instruct a customer in how to program a DVD player, or assemble a piece of furniture, or disassemble an engine. Clarity and simplicity are his only concerns. “Can the customer understand what I’m asking him to do?” is the only question guiding him. In this case his customer is the artist who’ll draw the story.

Here’s the technical writer at work in a sample bit of script taken from an actual issue of Fables. All it consists of is what the artist has to draw on each page:

Page One (five panels)

Panel One

We open this issue with an establishing shot panel of the Farm, including the “village” area, town square, main set of buildings. The early morning sun is coming up over the horizon.

Panel Two

Same scene, but now we move down into the main square. Beauty and Beast are walking arm in arm across the square, towards the steps to the main house. They are dressed formally, in dark funeral clothes. They look pretty sad, but a quiet “they’ve already done their crying” sadness.

Panel Three

Same scene, but closer now on Beauty and Beast. She looks up at him, still sad, but not crushingly so.

Panel Four

Same scene, but now they are both caught in a flash of light coming in from the side (from off panel). The light is intense enough to bathe them both in brilliant light.

Panel Five

This isn’t really a panel. It’s the space you need to leave at the bottom of the page for this issue’s titles and credits.

Pages Two and Three (one panel)

Panel One

This is a double-page spread. Suddenly now, as Beauty and Beast look on from the far left hand side of the two pages, the town square area fills up with people and animal Fables. They have all just arrived via teleportation from Fly’s new kingdom of Haven. Flycatcher is in the exact center of the arriving mob of Fables. There are the sparkly special light effects around Fly that we’ve seen in the last few issues, just like what used to surround Boy Blue in his witching cloak, when he was in the process of teleporting (as seen in the War and Pieces collection). In this newly arrived mob of Fables we see: Bigby and Snow and their cubs (all in human form); Rose Red and Sinbad; Totenkinder and the other 13th floor sorcerers (including Mr. Grandoirs, the big Russian bear-like fellow, whom we’ve seen a lot of in recent issues, and little Ozma, the little blond girl, who is going to become an important character soon); King Cole and Grimble and Hobbes; and a big group of the Farm animal Fables, including Stinky the Badger. Pinocchio is here, but basically alone – not part of one of the groups of Fables. He’s carrying blue’s trumpet with him. Clara the Raven flies more or less near Rose Red. All of these newly arrived Fables walk away from Fly in the middle, off to their various homes and forests and such. Sinbad is practically holding Rose Red on her feet. She seems overcome with grief. Stinky the Badger is trailing behind Totenkinder and her bunch. All of the characters who wear clothes are dressed for a funeral. David: If you want to include other known Fables here, like Doctor Swineheart, the fat nurse, the Three Crow Brothers and such (or other favorites of yours), feel free to. But I’ve listed the ones who have to be in this scene. Note that Mowgli, Bagheera, or anyone appearing in the recent back-up stories, can’t be here. Note also the order in which the dialogue takes place on these two pages, to help in deciding where on the pages to place the various characters. Okay, one final note: Recently all of the Fabletown Fables have moved back up to the Farm when Fabletown was destroyed (another big secret you have to keep), so, depending on how much room you have in this spread and in the pages to follow, we need to see lots of cars and trucks parked wherever there’s room, and lots of tents and temporary shelters pitched wherever there’s room. Thanks.

Page Four (four panels)

Panel One

Same scene, but now we concentrate on Bigby, Snow and their cubs. They are all subdued. Bigby and Snow walk arm in arm and the cubs trail behind them. They are headed towards the main house, where Beast and Beauty are still sitting.

Panel Two

Same scene, but now we concentrate on the kids, trailing behind Bigby and Snow.

Panel Three

Same scene. We are at the main house, where Sinbad is leading Rose Red through the front doors at the top of the steps. Beast and Beauty are still sitting on the steps, so that Sinbad and Rose Red have to walk around them. Rose Red still looks like she might collapse if Sinbad lets go of her.

Panel Four

Same scene, but now Rose Red and Sinbad are inside the doors, while now Bigby and Snow head up the same front porch steps into the same doors. They also have to walk around Beauty and Beast on the steps. This time Beast shoots Bigby a suspicious stare, which Bigby doesn’t see as they pass by. The kids are still following their parents.

And now here’s the same section of script with the dialogue and other matter added that the first writer is responsible for. Note that the artist needs this information too, because the dialogue gives him important clues to every character’s expression and body language. The artist also needs to see the order in which the dialogue occurs in every panel, so that he can position the characters in those panels accordingly, and leave enough space in the panels to fit the amount of dialogue the first writer has written:

Page One (five panels)

Panel One

We open this issue with an establishing shot panel of the Farm, including the “village” area, town square, main set of buildings. The early morning sun is coming up over the horizon.

Non Narration Cap: The Farm

Voice (from Farm): That was a lovely service.

Panel Two

Same scene, but now we move down into the main square. Beauty and Beast are walking arm in arm across the square, towards the steps to the main house. They are dressed formally, in dark funeral clothes. They look pretty sad, but a quiet “they’ve already done their crying” sadness.

Beast: It was. Flycatcher spoke well. And Pinocchio was on his best behavior. Good service indeed, but a dreary way to spend our anniversary.

Beauty: Oh, is it – ?

Beauty: I guess it is.

Beauty: I forgot.

Panel Three

Same scene, but closer now on Beauty and Beast. She looks up at him, still sad, but not crushingly so.

Beast: Don’t worry. Today of all days you have a good excuse for forgetting. And any sort of celebration would be inappropriate.

Beast: So instead, I guess I should just ask you the traditional, annual question. How about it?

Panel Four

Same scene, but now they are both caught in a flash of light coming in from the side (from off panel). The light is intense enough to bathe them both in brilliant light.

Beast: Care to take one more circle around the sun together?

Beauty: Without question. And I think –

Beauty: – huh? –

Panel Five

This isn’t really a panel. It’s the space you need to leave at the bottom of the page for this issue’s titles and credits.

Title (display lettering): Waiting for the Blues

Subtitle (display lettering): (An Epilogue of Sorts for The Dark Ages)

Credits

Pages Two and Three (one panel)

Panel One

This is a double-page spread. Suddenly now, as Beauty and Beast look on from the far left hand side of the two pages, the town square area fills up with people and animal Fables. They have all just arrived via teleportation from Fly’s new kingdom of Haven. Flycatcher is in the exact center of the arriving mob of Fables. There are the sparkly special light effects around Fly that we’ve seen in the last few issues, just like what used to surround Boy Blue in his witching cloak, when he was in the process of teleporting (as seen in the War and Pieces collection). In this newly arrived mob of Fables we see: Bigby and Snow and their cubs (all in human form); Rose Red and Sinbad; Totenkinder and the other 13th floor sorcerers (including Mr. Grandoirs, the big Russian bear-like fellow, whom we’ve seen a lot of in recent issues, and little Ozma, the little blond girl, who is going to become an important character soon); King Cole and Grimble and Hobbes; and a big group of the Farm animal Fables, including Stinky the Badger. Pinocchio is here, but basically alone – not part of one of the groups of Fables. He’s carrying blue’s trumpet with him. Clara the Raven flies more or less near Rose Red. All of these newly arrived Fables walk away from Fly in the middle, off to their various homes and forests and such. Sinbad is practically holding Rose Red on her feet. She seems overcome with grief. Stinky the Badger is trailing behind Totenkinder and her bunch. All of the characters who wear clothes are dressed for a funeral. David: If you want to include other known Fables here, like Doctor Swineheart, the fat nurse, the Three Crow Brothers and such (or other favorites of yours), feel free to. But I’ve listed the ones who have to be in this scene. Note that Mowgli, Bagheera, or anyone appearing in the recent back-up stories, can’t be here. Note also the order in which the dialogue takes place on these two pages, to help in deciding where on the pages to place the various characters. Okay, one final note: Recently all of the Fabletown Fables have moved back up to the Farm when Fabletown was destroyed (another big secret you have to keep), so, depending on how much room you have in this spread and in the pages to follow, we need to see lots of cars and trucks parked wherever there’s room, and lots of tents and temporary shelters pitched wherever there’s room. Thanks.

Beauty: Oh, it’s Flycatcher again. These should be the last Fables from Haven.

Beast: Quick turnaround this time.

Rose Red: No, Sinbad, I don’t want to talk about us, or about anything. I just want to get back into bed.

Rose Red: And Clara? This time I expect no interruptions. Understand?

Clara: You get your rest, boss. Don’t worry about us. I’ll keep everyone in line.

Stinky (the Badger): So how soon before Boy Blue comes back, Frau Totenkinder?

Stinky: The important ones always come back, right? Isn’t that how it works?

Totenkinder: No, that hasn’t been demonstrated in a conclusive way.

Totenkinder: Certainly not to my satisfaction.

Totenkinder: We haven’t established any measurable pattern.

Page Four (four panels)

Panel One

Same scene, but now we concentrate on Bigby, Snow and their cubs. They are all subdued. Bigby and Snow walk arm in arm and the cubs trail behind them. They are headed towards the main house, where Beast and Beauty are still sitting.

Bigby: We should think about parking the cubs with their grandfather, until we know just how much danger we might be in at the Farm.

Darien: What danger, papa?

Winter: More dangerous than grampa’s castle?

Panel Two

Same scene, but now we concentrate on the kids, trailing behind Bigby and Snow.
Conner: Gram Paw’s castle isn’t dangerous no more, stupid. Not now that our Uncle Monsters are gone.

Ambrose: But is anywhere safe? Uncle Blue got killed dead right here.

Panel Three

Same scene. We are at the main house, where Sinbad is leading Rose Red through the front doors at the top of the steps. Beast and Beauty are still sitting on the steps, so that Sinbad and Rose Red have to walk around them. Rose Red still looks like she might collapse if Sinbad lets go of her.

Rose Red: No, I want to be left alone.

Rose Red: Completely alone.

Panel Four

Same scene, but now Rose Red and Sinbad are inside the doors, while now Bigby and Snow head up the same front porch steps into the same doors. They also have to walk around Beauty and Beast on the steps. This time Beast shoots Bigby a suspicious stare, which Bigby doesn’t see as they pass by. The kids are still following their parents.

Snow: Either your father’s keep, or Haven.

Snow: Somewhere safe.

And that shows the two different writers you need to be in a nutshell. No, you don’t have to write the panel descriptions in italics. I just did that to better show off the two different sides to the work ahead of you. The hardest part of this particular type of storytelling, at least in my humble but long experienced opinion, is being able to switch back and forth between the two writing styles at will. If you can’t do that, you can’t do comic books very well. One technique I have found that helps, is that I will first write out long stretches of dialogue at a time – the entire scene’s worth – before I go back and plug in the page and panel descriptions. I write the story like a play, with dialogue only. That way I am able to live in the artistic writer for as long as possible, before switching over to the technical writer. One problem with doing it that way though is remembering what you wanted to happen in any given panel by the time you get back to describe it.

Many comic book writers do the opposite of my process. Since comic books are considered primarily a visual storytelling medium, they write out all of the “action” – the page and panel descriptions – first, and then, only when the issue is entirely done in the technical writing side, do they switch to the artistic writer, going back to plug in the dialogue. This is a perfectly fair and legitimate way to do it, but since my scripts tend to depend more on what characters say to each other, I prefer dialogue first, action second.

Of course you’ll find your own preferred way to do it and your own best pace on how often to switch back and forth between your two writers.

One last thing. Remember that your two different writers, the artist and the technical writer, are partners. They need to work together to produce the best of all possible stories. The artist better not try to cram in so many lines of dialogue and captions into a single panel, that the technical writer can’t possibly fit them in. Since the technical writer is just a stand-in, at this stage, for whoever will actually be drawing this story, you need to treat him kindly, or some comics illustrator (who’s an actually separate person) will grow to hate you. In the same vein, the technical writer can’t try to have more than one action occurring in a single panel, or too many people in a single panel, or too many panels per page, or that same very real comics illustrator is going to hate him too.

So that’s the lesson. You need to be two different writers in one body. You need to be able to switch back and forth between them at will. And, unlike the original Jekyll and Hyde, both personalities have to be partners – the best of friends in fact – each working to bring out the best in the other.

Thank you.

Bill Willingham

Somewhere in Minnesota

To be or not 'TO BE'...

Over the past few months, I've been writing like a fiend and now have a pair of big projects close to completion. As part of that, I have sent these projects around to get feedback from other writers. One is a script for a pilot and one is a chunk of novel. In that process and in getting back reader notes, I found that I have a bad writing habit that appeared in both jobs. That habit undermines the quality of my work toward the final projects. Here is the killer bullet point from the script notes that sums up the bad habit-

- Don't use any form of "To Be". Everything needs to be active. "Catalina stands," "She answers her chirping cell phone..." that kind of thing, instead of "is standing" and "is answering."

"I was doing the same thing in my novel." Just like that last sentence. Reread it. It needs to be more like... "I wrote the same way in my novel." So now, I'm going back on a polish draft to remove the weasel words and ironing out the passive sentences. That simple change makes a big difference.

Are you guys aware of your bad writing habits? And how much did it sting when they were pointed out?

(Rather than look at my mug, I thought you'd all appreciate a Scott Campbell drawing of Captain Hammer. Enjoy.)
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San Diego

The madness begins anew for me. I've stayed away from San Diego for a number of years, and for various reasons, most of them personal and petty. Now I find that if I want to get anything done in the industry, I have to go. So, cue that Al Pacino impression that they all did back when the Sopranos was good, and let me vent just a little bit.

I'm not telling any tales out of school when I say that Comicon International is now misnomered. It's not about comics. It's about the periphery of comics. It's about popular culture, movies, anime, costumes, and just about everything else, and oh yeah, there are comics there, too. That's the reason why it's so big. If it were just about comics, it would be a navigable experience.

I used to love going to conventions, back when I was sixteen, and then again when I was twenty-one and just trying to get into the business, and again when I was twenty seven, when I was back in the business again, and then something happened when I turned thirty. I got fed up to my eyeballs with conventions. Not all conventions, to be sure. Just the really big ones, where the room was so large, and so full of people that it was impossible to hear yourself think. Where "participating" in the panels and special events meant standing in line all day so that you'd have a chance of actually getting to see something.

For the fans, this may be a great thing, and as spectacle goes, it's one of the few places where you can affirm that comic books and super heroes are indeed an indelible aspect of our culture, for what it's worth. But for professionals (and I'm not just speaking for myself now) it's akin to the Bataan Death March. Long lines, long hours, crowds of people grouped around, and virtually impossible to get anything done on a business level unless you plan for it in advance like a Hogan's Heroes mission. But, the other side of that coin is this: with business tight for everyone now, the only place you can see everyone at once is at San Diego. For many companies, it's the only show they go to. So, for better or worse, it's the one show you can't afford to miss.

Conventions like World Fantasy Convention and ArmadilloCon are more my speed, now. They are smaller, much more personal, and usually centered about the hotel bar, great conversations, and easy access to the people you need to speak with to keep your career on track. This year's World Fantasy Convention is in Columbus, Ohio (one of my favorite cities, I kid you not) and it's going to be a blast. I've just got to survive San Diego, first...

Over the weekend, I went to the monthly get together of a bunch of mystery writers here in Austin. It was nice to chat about writing and what not. The guest speaker was Kaye George who can be found online here.

The topic for the talk was using social media as a writer. Much like being a hired killer ours is a solitary profession. The web provides the means to stay in touch with fans and foes alike. A lot of you all work for good- sized publishers, so they do some marketing work for you. With the competition for eyeballs being what it is, is that enough?

With this in my melon, I wanted to ask the group this question... If you use social media, how do you use it for promotion?

Personally, I hang out on the IDW message boards and yammer with the ANGEL fans. I throw out links on Facebook. And I tweet about interviews like the upcoming one on the Spike mini-series at Buffyfest.

Ex Parte #3 is live!

Once upon a time, I launched a comic series at Lone Star Press about a lawyer that represented super-types. The market yawned and we could not continue publishing the series. There were individual stories that were mostly completed which ended up not ever being published.

I put this one by Bob Hall together from the files on hand and posted it on WOWIO so that fans might be able to read this sweet little story of a hero with a heart of gold.

Ironically for this page, its the first one that I didn't write. But the next one is all me.

Re-Tying my Gordian Knot

Last year I accepted a contract to do a revised, second edition of Blood & Thunder. The project originally took about a year and a half to write, and that included doing a quantity of original research as well as assimilating all of the research previously done. As a writing exercise, it was without a doubt the hardest thing I ever had to write. Biographical writing occupies a completely different head space than fiction writing. You don't have the freedom to dictate the story, or tweak the plot, or even to play with the dialogue. What was said, was said. And what was done, was done.

That's not to say there isn't room for creativity in biographical writing; on the contrary, making the story come alive and "flow" for the modern reader requires a deft, creative touch. But, as you well know, it take a lot of work to make something look easy, and that's exactly what Blood & Thunder was for me. I sweated writing it so that you wouldn't sweat reading it.

Well, now I'm in the process of rewriting the book, adding in discoveries that were made between 2005 and now, and expanding and correcting existing chapters. I thought it would be a piece of cake. Boy, was I wrong.

See, when I write something, especially something like this, I try to create a seamless transition from point to point, like a conversation. I've got it all laid out in A-B-C fashion. Now, I'm trying to shoehorn B.5 between B and C and it's upsetting the flow. I'm rewriting way more than I had anticipated. And I'm scrapping some things that I originally really liked to make points transition better.

But what's really hard is that I'm trying desperately to re-examine my mindset from five years ago and I find it nearly impossible to do so. When I write anything, fiction or essay, real or imagined, as soon as the story leaves my head, I start erasing the data from my mental hard drive to make room for new stuff. More than once, I've re-read a story I wrote several years ago and found myself laughing at some point of dialogue or turn of events that I'd honestly forgotten that I'd written. Either that, or dementia is setting in early. Let's hope it's door number one.

Getting back to the point, I now find myself reading pages from my book and wondering why I wrote something that way, and trying to ascertain if it comes up again later. I remember when I was writing the book the first time that I had points I intentionally made in chapter 3, knowing that when I got to chapter 8, they would come back up again, with new clarity and meaning, and people would think I'm a genius. Now I'm looking at that magic trick, and I don't know how in the hell I pulled it off.

Starting from scratch isn't an option. I've got too many other things on my plate, and besides, the book isn't broken. In automotive speak, I'm simply tricking it out. Turning it into a high-performance roadster. It's just that I've got a set of metric wrenches and all of the nuts and bolts are standard. I'm getting the job done, but there's a lot more trial and error than I anticipated.

Reading with your lips moving

I'm getting ready to do a reading this week, down at the KGB Bar in New York, and Matt Staggs at Suvudu asked me if I had any advice for new writers on how to do these things. Now, I'm an ex-Theatre major, and so maybe I approach these things differently than other folks, but for me, there are two things I keep in mind: (a) the spoken story and the written story are two different things, and (b) you have to treat it like a performance.

It starts with the editing. Here's the bit from the interview on how I edit:

After I finally decide on a scene to read, I begin editing, and try to make it work as much as possible as a standalone piece. I cut out exposition that doesn't matter outside the context of the novel, and then trim other distracting details. I've cut entire characters, added descriptions from earlier in the book, and combined scenes--any hack to make it work.

Then I print out the pages in a big font and practice reading it aloud. I always have to line edit, deleting repeated words, or altering near-rhymes I didn't catch when I wrote the scene. If I've really marked up the page, I'll make the changes in the file and print again. I practice a couple more times. Even after all that, when I start reading it live, I usually realize that there are yet more changes that I should have made. If I'm feeling jazzy and confident I'll make those changes on the fly.

So, is that overkill? Underkill? What do the rest of you Clockworkers do?

A couple of things I didn't mention in the interview, and those related to the performance part of the process. One, I always read standing up. It keeps my energy (literally) up, and I can move around. I don't act out the scene -- not by a long shot -- but I do move my arms, and I do things like pause and look at the audience when the character is pausing and looking at another character.

Also, I deliberately move to address one side of the room, then another. Part of this habit comes from theatre, but mostly it comes from my three years as a high school teacher. I'm a little bit paranoid about boring people, so I like to move in on them. I think this will be harder to do at the KGB, because there's a podium with mikes, and the place is supposed to be crowded. I'll report back.

The second thing I think about is character voices. This is tricky. My first advice to a new writer is, if he's a guy, don't attempt a "woman's" voice, and for a gal, vice-versa. And for God's sake, don't do some ethnic dialect. Your only way to get away with that is Meryl Streep-level accuracy. Anything short of that will be heard as an embarrassing stereotype. The one exception? Pirate. Even Pirate-Americans find their accent funny.

I have to admit, though, that I'll be breaking the dialect rule. See, my book is set in the Smokies, and I am sure as hell going to throw down some southern accent. This is why I have 10,000 cousins all over East Tennessee -- so I can do their voices in this story. (Notice, though, how I deflected critique by claiming insider status? This is the "I can do the voice because I'm from there" defense. This strategy does not work on the internet, though. It's the fastest way to start a Race-Fail flamewar.)

But you can't not do something with your voice. I try to concentrate on emotion and tone. If I get the tone of the character right, whether they're male or female or Moldavian or nosferatu, the audience will usually meet me halfway.

That's the theory, anyway. If you're in NYC this Wednesday, Feb. 17, stop by the KGB Bar and see how it goes down. Oh, and there's this guy named Peter Straub reading too. I hear he's good.

See y'all later.

Born Standing Up

Steve Martin uses this wonderful biography* to chart the development of his stand-up routine. It starts with his first job selling guidebooks at Disneyland and ends with him walking away from that life on the road to make his first movie, The Jerk. He is by turns harsh to the people that never followed through on showbiz promises made and kind to comedy giants such as Johnny Carson and Carl Reiner. His relationship with his Dad and women on the road are a little too intimate for me, but this is a fascinating and well-written book.

The wonderful thing for me was discovering the genesis of his act and seriousness required to make it hum. His stories of failed attempts and stumbles are as entertaining as his impressions of Saturday Night Live alum like John Belushi and Dan Ackroyd. His anecdotes and clever approach to being silly really makes me want to go back and listen to that old vinyl. It almost erases the stench of some of his recent movie projects.

More importantly for those of us who make a living with stories of 'jokes and punching' is the constant analysis of what he was doing and what he learned from that. In the beginning, he carefully considers breaking the old structures to create something new in comedy. There are dozens of entertaining and charming parallels between the writing life and the comedy writing life. This should be a primer for anyone considering a life in entertainment.


* I know the term is autobiography. But he makes the point that he is writing about the man he used to be, so I am using his terminology.

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A Challenge Answered (and a little explanation)

When Bill laid the gauntlet down, I immediately said yes, even though I knew good and well that trying to write like Robert E. Howard is a fool's game. Even to go Howardesque invites scorn and ridicule. Nevertheless, I have spent a great deal of time thinking about what goes into the hopper to make Howard's writing so good. I thought that it would be fun to play with his "clash of cultures" idea that he used to great effect in most of his stories. There was always someone different or apart from the rest in Howard's work. Conan, in his youth, is the outsider, the barbarian, in such stories as "The God in the Bowl," but clearly Working For The Man in "Beyond the Black River" as he battles the savage Picts.

Anyway, for some reason, I keyed in on The Northern Warrior and so that is what pulled the story in this particular direction. It's a mere 1,600 words. But I tried, like REH, to pack as much story into the space as possible. So, give it a read and tell me how I did.

(Side Note to the CWSB Crew: If I win this bet, I'll make it worth your while, as I happen to know Bill makes a hellacious lasagna, for he taught me the recipe. No pressure, here. But seriously: godly lasagna.)


A Challenge Answered


by Mark Finn

Brannon Harak, the northern warrior, kicked the door open. There was murder in his eyes and cold steel in his hand. “Vahid!” he screamed. The muscles of his neck strained against the collar of his ring mail shirt as he cast his gaze about the room. The inner sanctum of the keep was as opulent and decadent as the main hall. Rich silk tapestries dripped down the rough stone walls, and rounded oil lamps hung from chains in the ceiling, swaying gently in the night air. Each guttering flame cast amber light into every corner, while errant shadows played across the ornate, heavy furnishings in the room.

One light burned brighter than any of the lamps, and that was the arrangement of candles at the head of a large stone table. Laying on that table, covered in white linens, was Nissa. Her golden hair spilled down over the lip of the table, and her eyes were closed. Standing over her, still in his riding garb, was Count Vahid. The wrappings from his head were loose, hanging to one side of his dark face. He stared at the Northman with a mixture of disbelief and unconcealed hatred.

“What have you done to her?” Harak thundered, crossing the distance between them in a half dozen massive strides. Before he could reach Vahid or the altar, the Count drew his own curved tulwar and the blades crashed uselessly together over the woman’s still form.

“I? Nothing!” Vahid turned Harak’s broadsword away and swung around the altar. “She caught an arrow from your men as we rode back to my castle.” He slashed at Harak’s head, the sharp steel whirring through the air as Harak jumped back. “I was tending to her wounds when you kicked open the door.”

Harak roared and leapt forward, his blade cleaving great arcs before him. “I’ll not leave her to your foul magic! She lives or dies by Jheran’s whim, not your black deviltry!”

Vahid barely drew his curved fighting knife in time to deflect the rain of steel that sought his hide. He countered and parried with both blades, his lips drawn back in a sneer of contempt. Unable to penetrate Vahid’s defenses, Harak aimed a kick at the Count’s midsection.

But Vahid was adept at close quarters melee, and he caught Harak’s boot on his thigh and turned down and away, sweeping his leg against the giant’s unprotected knee. The maneuver would have shattered the bones of a lesser man, but Harak simply fell down and away with a grunt.

Vahid stood over him, the point of his curved sword inches from his face. “You ignorant savage. Our ways are neither foul nor unclean. You would treat her wound with prayer, while I would use herbs and medicines.”

“Don’t speak to me of civilization, Count,” said Harak. He clutched his knee and grimaced. “You sweep into our village in the dead of night, when we had brokered peace with your city-state not a fortnight ago! Your men set fire to our Great Hall so that you can spirit away the king’s daughter in the confusion. Not even the Jaffiri in the West would stoop to such barbarous tactics!”

“And what was your plan, General Harak? I can hear no nattering diplomats in my courtyard below. Not unless all of your Chieftain’s court ride chargers and swing swords.” He withdrew the point of his sword and walked to the window. “No, indeed, it would appear that my men have yours at a distinct disadvantage right now.”

“Liar!” Harak roared. He staggered to his feet, favoring the leg. Truthfully, the blow hadn’t hurt him at all, but Harak knew what a crafty fighter Vahid was, and knew he could use the theatrics to his advantage. “I brought a squad of my finest men.”

“And yet, they seem unable to kill boiling oil and crossbow bolts,” Vahid said. He smiled. “It would appear that you are to be my guest while I conclude negotiations with your chieftain for sweet Nissa, here.” He bowed slightly, and moved away from the window. “See for yourself, Oh mighty oaf, for I can plainly see that you do not believe me.”

Harak approached the window, wary of Vahid’s blade, but the Count retreated behind the stone table where Nissa lay, allowing Harak to spare a glance down into the courtyard below. What he saw sickened him. He had ridden through the city and into the keep with forty-eight men. Now there were less than a dozen of them, pinned between two portcullis gates. Archers were running up the steps to the ramparts, nocking arrows as they went in their eagerness to rain death down on the intruders. The men had formed a perfect shield wall, circular, but their shields and their will would only last so long. It would be a slaughter.

Harak turned to the count. “Spare my men,” he said. “Spare them and I’ll turn myself over as your hostage.”

Vahid smiled at Harak. “Your word?”

“Aye. My word.” Harak set his broad sword down and backed away from it. “Spare them.”

Vahid strolled back to the window and shouted down in Farese. Harak never bothered to learn the language, but he recognized the shouted reply that drifted back up to the window. He breathed a sigh of relief and clasped his hands behind his back.

Satisfied that his orders were being carried out, Count Vahid turned to face Harak again, and something kicked him in the chest and knocked the wind out of him. He staggered back against the window and saw a small throwing axe embedded in his chest. It had gone through his leather jerkin like paper. He tried to speak but produced only a bloody cough. His eyes were accusing as he slid to the floor.

Harak reclaimed his sword and sheathed it, watching Vahid for any sudden movement. “And what good is your word, that you have broken our peace?” Harak said quietly to the dying man. “We are enemies. Now and ever more. As it has always been, so shall it always be.”

Vahid summoned the will to gasp out, “It is…our way…”

Harak reached down and planted his foot on Vahid’s shoulder and pulled out his axe. A ribbon of blood and air followed its withdrawal and the Vahid was gone in seconds. “We are too different, our people,” Harak said as he turned away, now thinking only of Nissa.

She was still breathing, Harak saw, and he cradled her head as gently as he could in his hands. “Nissa?” he said. “Can you hear me?”

Her eyes fluttered. “Oh, my Love…” she said.

Harak’s heart swelled and jumped in his chest. It was the first time she had ever addressed him in so intimate a fashion. Their exchanges in court had always been notoriously formal.

“It is I, Brannon,” he said. “You are safe, for now. Can you move?”

Nissa’s eyes opened, pale, blue, and questioning. “What…happened? Brannon? I don’t understand…”

“You were kidnapped,” Brannon said shortly as he examined the wound in her side. “Spirited right out of the Great Hall by Count Vahid and his mongrel horde.”

“Where is he?” she cried.

“It’s all right,” he said, smiling, his voice now gentle. “He won’t bother you any more. Well,” he said, standing up, “I think we can wrap your wound up with some of this silk and then get you on a horse…” he turned around to pull one of the tapestries down. Behind him, Nissa had started to sob, but he couldn’t be bothered to deal with that just now. They weren’t out of danger yet.

Something hit Brannon on the back, under his shoulder blade; it felt like a pinched muscle as it made his back spasm. He tried to draw a breath and found in a panic that he couldn’t. There was a second hit, and then a third, and now he knew he was being stabbed. He let out a bellow of rage, sweeping wide around for the assassin that must have climbed in through one of the open windows and found only Nissa, holding a bloody ceremonial fighting dagger. In fact, it was a dagger the King had given her on her last birthday.

“You fool!” she screamed. “You great, lumbering fool!”

Brannon moved to take the knife away from her, but he still couldn’t get his lungs to fill with air and his grab became a lunge that she easily sidestepped. He landed awkwardly on the stone table, his back soaked wet with his own blood. “I saved you…” he said.

“You didn’t save me! I wanted to leave! Vahid and I were in love! The peace accord was part of our plan to wed!” Nissa pointed at Vahid. “He was going to make me a queen! I would have ruled this city-state! Not some collection of shacks and huts. Oh, you stupid fool, you’ve ruined everything.”

Brannon could only watch as Nissa pulled the Count’s cloak and broach off of his body and fasten it around herself. “Maybe I can stay here. I’ve got to find Zelik and the Master at Arms.”

“Nissa,” Brannon gasped. He tried to stand. “I’m…I’m…” He never got the rest of his apology out. She walked out of the room, swearing in Farese. As the dark tunnel slowly closed off his vision, he thought, I didn’t know she could speak that foreign devil’s tongue. He fell, not an arm’s length from the man he killed.

Outside the window, a shrill command was shouted. Arrows twanged in the night air. And all was silent.

Miscellaneous Stuff

I should catch you up on some news and general stuff, much of which has been piling up and some of which doesn't merit individual posts.

Item One: Scattered Werewolves spotted, with chance of howling.

If you glance to your left you will see the gorgeous cover to a Bigby-centric Fables original graphic novel (coming out not soon at all) called Werewolves of the Heartland. Its title is not, as too many comics sites have posted, Werewolves in the Heartland, which sounds more like a weather report to me, rather than the more poetic of the. Small differences can be vital ones.

The cover was painted by the vastly talented Daniel Dos Santos whose website, which is chock full of wonders, you can visit here. The Werewolves piece is a wrap-around cover, so you are only seeing the front half of it here.

So who is that achingly lovely blonde in Bigby's arms? It certainly isn't Snow White. Is it Cinderella or Rapunzel, as many have already guessed, or somebody new entirely? You will of course have to read the book to find out.

Item Two: A small private debate made public.

I had an interesting exchange with Stacia Kane, the author of a number of fantasy books. You can learn more about Miss Kane and her books by visiting here. On her website, or blog (or I forget), she expressed such a strong dislike of first person narrative in general, and a vow never to perpetrate it in one of her novels, in specific, that I had to find out why. As an admirer of the first person story I felt a need to stand up for it and the following mini debate ensued (paraphrased in parts, due to my doddering old man's memory):

Me: First person has one quality I like. With damn few exceptions (such as unreliable narrator) it's loyal to one character in the story. True and dedicated loyalty is so rare in real life that I want to experience it from time to time in fiction. First person almost requires the reader and the point of view character to be allies. Almost. When's the last time you spent so much time with a person you knew you could count on, when the chips were well and truly down? So that's one among the reasons I like first person. It forces you to pick a side.

She: Good point, yes, but I write in a very tight third, single character. I don't jump into other POVs. In actual first person I'm forced to deal with the filter of the POV character -- all those "I felt, I saw, I blah blah blah," -- whereas in third I can almost cut out the middleman. I think it feels more intimate, rather than less. At least the way I do it.

Me: Granted. Very tight third person single character POV is just as good. Your rebuttal to my rebuttal is on target. I yield the point. (And then, following some back and forth nonsense): Take what victory trophy you deem most fit.

She: I win! I win! But you don't want to give me that kind of freedom. You'll end up with my name tattooed on your very attractive ass. (Okay, she didn't actually say "very attractive" there. I may have inadvertently added that part. The original transcript seems to be a bit garbled there.)

Me: How about I write a blog post about our wee debate in which I admit you fairly out-argued me? Will that suffice to prove I am well and truly owned?

And so it went. But, regardless of having to concede a highly narrow point to Stacia Kane, I am grateful to her for forcing me to put into words one of the more compelling reasons I am a fan of first person narrative in fiction. And, with my limited research powers, I can't find that my specific argument has been made before. I have yet to do a prose novel in first person -- at least none that have been finished and published. Now I need to. I've got the bug.

Item Three: The Robert E Howard Day, One-Man Contest.

Look at the post below by Mark Finn. He's always a good writer, but he's seldom better than when writing about Robert E Howard. All three of those points he made are cogent and compelling. I must use the term "tall liar" in a story soon. When Mark makes the claim to be a Robert E Howard scholar, I suspect he might be guilty of understatement. But how often can Mark write about Howard? Why not instead pay tribute to that author we both love by writing a Howardesque story?

From time to time us Tick Tock Men (back when we were all male, so no intention of leaving you out, by using the old, defunct term, Marjorie) would issue writing challenges and contests to each other, often with mixed results. But they were always fun and revealing. So I hereby issue the following writing challenge to Mark Finn alone: You will write a prose short story in the Howard style and post it here. Your opening line is: "Brannon Harak, the northern warrior, kicked the door open. There was murder in his eyes and cold steel in his hands."

Here are the rules:

1) You can fix that opening line(s) a bit, but not much.

2) You must finish and post the story within five days, starting tomorrow, Sunday. And no, I won't accept as an excuse that you didn't see this post in time. You and I share many aspects of the same ego, buddy, so I know you've been checking back here at least daily to see who's commented on your latest post.

3) You are limited to between one and two thousand words, max, but fewer is even better.

The Prize:

A) If you simply finish on time and within the rules, I cook you a victory dinner at the next Clockwork retreat (with the same dinner for the others too, if you deign to allow it).

B) If all other Clockworkers unanimously vote that it is an excellent story, then not only do you get all of the above, but I do the deed, cooking and serving, in full formal mode (ala the Famous formal dinner in which you and Brad cooked and served and you-know-who had to wear the chicken suit), cooking a menu of your decree. No, guys, I'm not the one in a chicken suit, in this scenario. I'm in the fancy pants "Happy to be of service to you, sir, will there be anything else?" part of the famous bet. Ask Mark for details if you must.

And Mark, of course you are allowed to campaign for "excellent" votes from your peers. We are still a silly people at heart.

Happy 104th, Robert E. Howard

104 years ago, the Muses set a thunderbolt down on this planet in a small town in Texas. His name was Robert E. Howard, and he was the greatest pulp fiction writer the world has ever known.

Here at Camp Clockwork we have spent many an hour talking about REH, and even penned a tribute issue of the old Clockwork Storybook web magazine to him. Howard invented the genre of Heroic Fantasy (less charitably called "Sword and Sorcery" by some) with the stories "Red Shadows," featuring Solomon Kane, and "The Shadow Kingdom," featuring King Kull. He wrote several successful series characters in a humorous vein, including my favorite, Sailor Steve Costigan, and the hillbilly man-child Breckenridge Elkins. Of course, he is best known as the creator of Conan the Cimmerian, who has become one of those universally recognized characters in the same camp as Tarzan and Sherlock Holmes.

Undoubtedly, Howard was an inspiration to so many writers, including myself, of course. But what exactly made him such a great writer? I think there are three major components to his "style" of writing, along with a host of other intangibles that vary from character to character, story to story, and series to series. But the three biggies are as follows.

Howard was a poet. His was a lifelong study of poetry, both as a reader and a writer. His mother read poety to him as a child, and he really took to it. He wrote reams, literally, of the stuff, and he wrote so much of it that it's very difficult to even try and sort it into classifications. Regardless, Howard was used to thinking poetically--that is, descriptively and with economy. There are no wasted words in his work. There are only the right words; the words that you key into and create the most vivid pictures in your mind as you read. Howard wrote that way, intuitively, whether he was laying out kingdoms in broad, swift strokes, or relentlessly pounding out a boxing story.

 Howard was a tall liar. That's a Texas thing. The appropriate turn of phrase today is "Master bullshitter." And one of the best definitions of bullshit I ever heard is, "If it ain't true, it ought to be." A tall liar in Howard's day was the porch swing raconteur, the fellow who could walk into the general store and waste five minutes of everyone's time talking about "this old boy from over yonder" and the hi-jinx he got up to the other day. H.P. Lovecraft famously said of Howard that he "believed everything he wrote," and this has been mis-interpreted over the years to mean that Howard was crazy. In fact, he merely invested in his writing the same earnest verisimillitude of authenticy that a veteran tall liar would in his oral recitation. Howard may well have been the first Texas writer to ever write fiction from the precepts of oral tall tales. But it's why, in so many cases, his prose just rings true. Of course the sword would turn on the shield that way. Certainly the horse would throw the man just so. That sense of earnest bullshit is one of the most overlooked traits in Howard's writing.

Howard was trapped. In his personal life, Howard was the primary caregiver to his tubercular mother. His father was a doctor, back in the days when they made house calls, and he frequently traveled for days at a time to be with and tend to patients. Had their unique family situation not been what it was, Howard may well have pursued a more physical career, or at the very least, moved to a larger city to follow his passion. As it was, he was stuck, either by his own hand or others, in a small Texas town, surrounded by a number of people who didn't fully understand the situation in the Howard house. Thus corralled, Howard did the one thing that was available to him: he projected his imagination as far away as he could, moving through time, back into pre-history, and even to other worlds. His fierce imagination gave him the needed building blocks to create some of the most memorable characters in popular fiction and imbue them with the life he himself could never lead.

Howard's personal story is a sad one. But his legacy as a writer of merit and substance continues to this day. The 11th book in Del Rey's line of Robert E. Howard books comes out in February: El Borak and other Desert Adventures.  This character, believe it or not, was one of the early influences on Indiana Jones. No kidding. I love these stories. Heck, I love them all. I still get that twelve year old's rush of discovery when I re-read certain stories he wrote.

If you've got any Howard on your shelf, today is a great day to pull a book down and read something he wrote. You won't regret it.

Happy Birthday, Bob!

Serendipity is the Enemy!

As a mystery and crime writer I like to believe in cause and effect. Beyond the poetry of the prose, there lay the nuts and bolts of story construction. My characters have to figure things out, so I have a series of objects placed in front of them and the correct construction of the right clues will show a solution. It is like being a puzzle-maker, but I use things beside jigsaws and lumber.

I recently hit a wall in a certain plot and had a character just stumble across a thread that would lead to a momentum- changing clue. To me it feels like a cheat. That moment of serendipity stands out like a sore thumb. It's the bathroom with the bad drain in the brand new house. With luck, I will be the only one to notice. Rather than going back and fiddling with it endlessly, I'm working on the next thing. But it is rather irritating to have a coincidence propel a detective story.

Clockwork folk, how often does this kind of thing happen to you?


(Yes, when it gets cold enough, I dress like a manga character.)

Lessons from Westlake

Michael Berry, the science fiction columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, has posted a list of 5 writing lessons he's learned from the work of Donald Westlake (aka Richard Stark). It seemed like a strong list to me, so I figured I'd share them here and see what you folks make of them.

1. Choose a strong title.
   Some of the early Parker novels have titles so terse that they don’t really stick in the memory: “The Score,” “The Outfit,” “The Seventh,” “The Hunter.” I have trouble keeping track of them in my head. But after a 24-year break from writing about Parker, Stark brought him back in “Comeback.” Which was followed by “Backflash.” Followed by “Flashfire,” “Firebreak” and “Breakout.” The titles are down to one word, but they’re evocative and the progression from one to the next is clever without being distracting.
2. Waste no time getting the story started.
   In the early books, the first sentence always started with “When…”
   When the woman screamed, Parker awoke and rolled off the bed. He heard the plop of a silencer behind him as he rolled, and the bullet punched the pillow where his head had been. — “The Outfit”
   When he didn’t get any answer the second time he knocked, Parker kicked the door in. – “The Split”Even without that gimmick, the openings are always active and compelling.

   Parker jumped out of the Ford with a gun in one hand and a packet of explosive in the other. — “Slayground”

   These aren’t books that begin with long ruminations about the weather. There’s action on the very first page.

3. Understand structure.
   Many of the Parker books are organized around a four-part structure. The first two parts are from Parker’s perspective. The third offers multiple viewpoints of a critical plot turn. The final portion wraps things up, again from inside Parker’s head.It’s a particularly effective technique. The third-person limited perspective keeps everything focused and leaves little room for extraneous business. The late-in-the-game breakout from the protagonist’s perspective allows the author to ramp up the suspense by dramatising conflicts that Parker can’t foresee.
4. Don’t be afraid to change your style. Westlake has said that he once grew frustrated with a draft in which Parker kept losing the thing he was trying to steal. Rather than bull his way through a book that wasn’t working, Westlake decided to turn it into a comedy, thereby creating his long-running character John Dortmunder, who first appeared in “The Hot Rock.”
5. If you don’t work to avoid obsolescence, you may wind up having to kill someone to keep working. Although not published with the Stark pen-name, “The Axe” is one of the bleakest novels Westlake has ever written. The tale of a middle-aged middle-manager who strikes back against downsizing by killing off his competitors, “The Ax” is cautionary tale for anyone who has become too complacent about their job security.

Check out the original post on Berry's blog for more.