22-PAGE STRAITJACKET
(this will be of interest to the Comikeros only, posibly not even them...)
The format of the modern-day comic floppy is killing me. Killing me! Twenty-two story pages simply isn’t enough to accommodate the dueling impulses to create a satisfying story (or chunk of story) on the one hand and creating a story that won’t frustrate the modern comic reader on the other.
A lot of comics readers over the last few years have complained about “decompression”. “Why, when I was a kid,” they say, “We could get a darn good story in just sixteen pages for 35 cents…”. I’m not entirely sure that’s true--looking back at those days, I don’t see a lot of darn good stories coming out of the WFH assembly-line. I don’t necessarily see a lot of darn good single issue stories coming from factories these days, either, but there are at least two reasons I can think of for that, one economic and one aesthetic. And both, I think, contribute to a problematic scenario in which comics are being written for one format, the trade paperback, but are being released first in a different one, the traditional comic book floppy.
Limitations often inspire creativity, and there should theoretically be nothing wrong with this situation. Lots of writers have released longer works in serial form. Lee Nordling is fond of discussing the structure of Dashiell Hammett’s novel RED HARVEST, originally released in (I think) four parts in (I believe) Black Mask magazine. Hammett managed to make each portion of the novel a satisfying experience for the reader by creating and resolving storylines in each section while keeping the overarching story moving. Or so Lee claims, I’ve only ever read RED HARVEST in completed form and I was enjoying it too much at the time to analyze it in a responsibly writerly fashion (or, to put it another way, I wanted to keep liking it so I didn’t think too hard about why I liked it in the first place.)
So, in Lee’s version of RED HARVEST there’s at least one model for creating successful serialized fiction, which you’d think could be applied to comic creation. And indeed it was applied to comic creation, at one time--a time when the idea of collections of storylines being made perennially available wasn’t being contemplated by the creators of the work. A time when comics actually were for kids, when the direct market didn’t ensure uninterrupted serial buying patterns, and when certain comic book storytelling tools (thought balloons and omniscient third person narrators, to name two biggies) didn’t carry the stigma they do now.
When at the age of seven or eight I picked up my first issue of Uncanny X-Men, I imagine I didn’t mind the characters identifying themselves by name, frequently by ability, in the first few pages of the issue. I didn’t know who they were, but I quickly realized I liked them. By the time a year or so later, when I was in the habit of breathlessly rushing over to Patton’s Place every Thursday, heart in my throat hoping the next issue was there, Wolverine repeatedly claiming (or thinking to himself) “I’m the best there is at what I do” had begun to grate. I already knew that. I also knew what happened last issue and it started bugging me that characters would think in great detail about stuff they already knew at the beginning of a new comic before getting to the good stuff. (This reaction is not, I suspect, unusual of budding writers--the first notion that sets many down this particular path is, “I could do better than that.”)
The comic book storytelling imperative for the last ten years has been “Show, don’t tell.” Thought balloons have all but vanished, as have omniscient narrators. These days, you might a narrating character or two--or not. The show, don’t tell rule is fine--if one has the space in which to comfortably show everything that needs to be communicated to move a story forward. I could spend five pages having a jewel thief struggling with a moral crisis, reaching for the diamond, pulling back, pacing the room, reaching for it again, pausing, clenching a fist, glaring at the jewel with sweat beginning to bead on the brow…or I could have a single panel in which the thief thinks something like “This is the wrong thing to do. Do I really have what it takes to do it anyway?”
Which is the best way to deal with the problem? From an aesthetic point of view, it seems to me showing is better than telling, IF it’s shown in the context of a finished story; in a floppy format, five pages of someone having an entirely visual crisis of conscience better be pretty darn well-illustrated if it’s going to justify the 3 to 5 bucks a reader’s going to be expected to pay for it. And then there’s the question of whether my publisher wants to pay an artist to draw five pages of thinking that could be presented in one panel (esp. when there’s a big fight coming up that could use those five pages)?
I tried, I really tried, to get DONE TO DEATH’s page count down to 22 pages an issue, but I couldn’t. It came out to 24 pages per. The SW’s coming out the same way, but it’s an entirely different beast, built on the Red Harvest model--each issue has its own conflict and resolution, and getting that all into 22 pages…I just couldn’t do it. Well, I could do it, but I wouldn’t be happy with it, I can’t imagine the artist would be (having to draw twelve panels a page, and all) and, ultimately, I don’t think the reader would be, either.
Giving the reader an enjoyable experience in 22 pages is driving me nuts at the moment. Image has published two excellent titles in the last year, year and a half, that are thoroughly enjoyable reads inside sixteen story pages, FELL and CASANOVA. I know it can be done. I’m not sure I can do it, and I’m pretty sure I can’t do it on the project that’s getting to me at the moment.
FELL and CASANOVA work largely because they were designed, from the get-go, to follow the Red Harvest model (which is also the model for a lot of genre television, BtVS, Bab-5, etc., now that I think of it)--each issue they introduce and resolve a story while the larger narrative moves forward. I’m not sure those books’ writers have an end-point in mind, but that’s OK--as long as the individual issues continue to be worthwhile reads, who cares if there’s an uber-story that will someday be resolved?
But the model for most mainstream comics these days isn’t the Red Harvest/Buffy model--it is, if anything, a big-budget movie model. But it’s a movie that’s being cut up into 22-page chunks for reasons that, if they aren’t completely arbitrary, are certainly not aesthetic. The thought process, as far as I can figure it, is, “A segment of comic fandom are addicted to the floppy and will buy stories chopped up into 22 page segments, so let’s put them out in that format and make some money, and then put them out again once the stories are completed in another form and make some more money.”
Which, potential royalties aside, leaves creators in a bit of a bind, because the requirements of creating a satisfying 22-page reading experience and those of a complete 66, 88, or whatever page story are, in some (or many) ways, at odds with each other. The “Story So Far” page that many (though not enough) floppies are currently using solves at least one problem inherent in collecting serialized stories--no longer do readers of trades need to wade through two to five pages of mind-numbing exposition detailing what happened in the previous 22 pages. But that’s just one problem of many. The 22-page format forces a certain rhythm on the creators, one that might not best suit the story. Cliffhangers of some sort at the end of each 22 pages are, if not required, strongly encouraged; splash pages make some sense for serial storytelling but can be jarring in collected format; if it’s an action book you’re going to be expected to have a few pages of fighting, and so on and so on.
And then there are the requirements--that may be too strong a word, how about preconceptions--of the modern comic audience. An audience that isn’t terribly keen on thought balloons, or omniscient narrators, and even if it was, might not be happy to be told, not shown. An audience that, for reasons I must admit kind of baffle me, doesn’t mind multiple single panel pages, never mind numerous double-page spreads (which look terrible in trade format). In some ways, the modern “mainstream” comic writer has the worst of both worlds--we’re expected to use less text than ever before, and tell a satisfying story using fewer panels than ever before.
Something’s got to give. And as I sit here, waiting for notes on several 22 comic page scripts that have four to six panels on almost every page, that jam in what I’m increasingly of the opinion are an untenable number of plot points each issue into what I hope and pray will still be a satisfying reading experience in both the monthly 22-page and finished 88-page formats, I’m wondering what it’s going to be.
Will the editor give me trouble for overloading my pages with dialogue? For telling too much and showing too little? For not finding a way to tell the story quicker and leave enough space for exciting shoot-em-up action? If the editor is satisfied with the way I’ve tried to solve the myriad storytelling problems presented to me on this project, will the reader be likewise satisfied? Will I?
I just don’t know.
But I do know this: as a reader and a writer, 22 pages is not enough. 24, for some reason, can be.
It’s just two more pages, for pete’s sake. *Give* them to me, you cheap bastards…
Jeff
The format of the modern-day comic floppy is killing me. Killing me! Twenty-two story pages simply isn’t enough to accommodate the dueling impulses to create a satisfying story (or chunk of story) on the one hand and creating a story that won’t frustrate the modern comic reader on the other.
A lot of comics readers over the last few years have complained about “decompression”. “Why, when I was a kid,” they say, “We could get a darn good story in just sixteen pages for 35 cents…”. I’m not entirely sure that’s true--looking back at those days, I don’t see a lot of darn good stories coming out of the WFH assembly-line. I don’t necessarily see a lot of darn good single issue stories coming from factories these days, either, but there are at least two reasons I can think of for that, one economic and one aesthetic. And both, I think, contribute to a problematic scenario in which comics are being written for one format, the trade paperback, but are being released first in a different one, the traditional comic book floppy.
Limitations often inspire creativity, and there should theoretically be nothing wrong with this situation. Lots of writers have released longer works in serial form. Lee Nordling is fond of discussing the structure of Dashiell Hammett’s novel RED HARVEST, originally released in (I think) four parts in (I believe) Black Mask magazine. Hammett managed to make each portion of the novel a satisfying experience for the reader by creating and resolving storylines in each section while keeping the overarching story moving. Or so Lee claims, I’ve only ever read RED HARVEST in completed form and I was enjoying it too much at the time to analyze it in a responsibly writerly fashion (or, to put it another way, I wanted to keep liking it so I didn’t think too hard about why I liked it in the first place.)
So, in Lee’s version of RED HARVEST there’s at least one model for creating successful serialized fiction, which you’d think could be applied to comic creation. And indeed it was applied to comic creation, at one time--a time when the idea of collections of storylines being made perennially available wasn’t being contemplated by the creators of the work. A time when comics actually were for kids, when the direct market didn’t ensure uninterrupted serial buying patterns, and when certain comic book storytelling tools (thought balloons and omniscient third person narrators, to name two biggies) didn’t carry the stigma they do now.
When at the age of seven or eight I picked up my first issue of Uncanny X-Men, I imagine I didn’t mind the characters identifying themselves by name, frequently by ability, in the first few pages of the issue. I didn’t know who they were, but I quickly realized I liked them. By the time a year or so later, when I was in the habit of breathlessly rushing over to Patton’s Place every Thursday, heart in my throat hoping the next issue was there, Wolverine repeatedly claiming (or thinking to himself) “I’m the best there is at what I do” had begun to grate. I already knew that. I also knew what happened last issue and it started bugging me that characters would think in great detail about stuff they already knew at the beginning of a new comic before getting to the good stuff. (This reaction is not, I suspect, unusual of budding writers--the first notion that sets many down this particular path is, “I could do better than that.”)
The comic book storytelling imperative for the last ten years has been “Show, don’t tell.” Thought balloons have all but vanished, as have omniscient narrators. These days, you might a narrating character or two--or not. The show, don’t tell rule is fine--if one has the space in which to comfortably show everything that needs to be communicated to move a story forward. I could spend five pages having a jewel thief struggling with a moral crisis, reaching for the diamond, pulling back, pacing the room, reaching for it again, pausing, clenching a fist, glaring at the jewel with sweat beginning to bead on the brow…or I could have a single panel in which the thief thinks something like “This is the wrong thing to do. Do I really have what it takes to do it anyway?”
Which is the best way to deal with the problem? From an aesthetic point of view, it seems to me showing is better than telling, IF it’s shown in the context of a finished story; in a floppy format, five pages of someone having an entirely visual crisis of conscience better be pretty darn well-illustrated if it’s going to justify the 3 to 5 bucks a reader’s going to be expected to pay for it. And then there’s the question of whether my publisher wants to pay an artist to draw five pages of thinking that could be presented in one panel (esp. when there’s a big fight coming up that could use those five pages)?
I tried, I really tried, to get DONE TO DEATH’s page count down to 22 pages an issue, but I couldn’t. It came out to 24 pages per. The SW’s coming out the same way, but it’s an entirely different beast, built on the Red Harvest model--each issue has its own conflict and resolution, and getting that all into 22 pages…I just couldn’t do it. Well, I could do it, but I wouldn’t be happy with it, I can’t imagine the artist would be (having to draw twelve panels a page, and all) and, ultimately, I don’t think the reader would be, either.
Giving the reader an enjoyable experience in 22 pages is driving me nuts at the moment. Image has published two excellent titles in the last year, year and a half, that are thoroughly enjoyable reads inside sixteen story pages, FELL and CASANOVA. I know it can be done. I’m not sure I can do it, and I’m pretty sure I can’t do it on the project that’s getting to me at the moment.
FELL and CASANOVA work largely because they were designed, from the get-go, to follow the Red Harvest model (which is also the model for a lot of genre television, BtVS, Bab-5, etc., now that I think of it)--each issue they introduce and resolve a story while the larger narrative moves forward. I’m not sure those books’ writers have an end-point in mind, but that’s OK--as long as the individual issues continue to be worthwhile reads, who cares if there’s an uber-story that will someday be resolved?
But the model for most mainstream comics these days isn’t the Red Harvest/Buffy model--it is, if anything, a big-budget movie model. But it’s a movie that’s being cut up into 22-page chunks for reasons that, if they aren’t completely arbitrary, are certainly not aesthetic. The thought process, as far as I can figure it, is, “A segment of comic fandom are addicted to the floppy and will buy stories chopped up into 22 page segments, so let’s put them out in that format and make some money, and then put them out again once the stories are completed in another form and make some more money.”
Which, potential royalties aside, leaves creators in a bit of a bind, because the requirements of creating a satisfying 22-page reading experience and those of a complete 66, 88, or whatever page story are, in some (or many) ways, at odds with each other. The “Story So Far” page that many (though not enough) floppies are currently using solves at least one problem inherent in collecting serialized stories--no longer do readers of trades need to wade through two to five pages of mind-numbing exposition detailing what happened in the previous 22 pages. But that’s just one problem of many. The 22-page format forces a certain rhythm on the creators, one that might not best suit the story. Cliffhangers of some sort at the end of each 22 pages are, if not required, strongly encouraged; splash pages make some sense for serial storytelling but can be jarring in collected format; if it’s an action book you’re going to be expected to have a few pages of fighting, and so on and so on.
And then there are the requirements--that may be too strong a word, how about preconceptions--of the modern comic audience. An audience that isn’t terribly keen on thought balloons, or omniscient narrators, and even if it was, might not be happy to be told, not shown. An audience that, for reasons I must admit kind of baffle me, doesn’t mind multiple single panel pages, never mind numerous double-page spreads (which look terrible in trade format). In some ways, the modern “mainstream” comic writer has the worst of both worlds--we’re expected to use less text than ever before, and tell a satisfying story using fewer panels than ever before.
Something’s got to give. And as I sit here, waiting for notes on several 22 comic page scripts that have four to six panels on almost every page, that jam in what I’m increasingly of the opinion are an untenable number of plot points each issue into what I hope and pray will still be a satisfying reading experience in both the monthly 22-page and finished 88-page formats, I’m wondering what it’s going to be.
Will the editor give me trouble for overloading my pages with dialogue? For telling too much and showing too little? For not finding a way to tell the story quicker and leave enough space for exciting shoot-em-up action? If the editor is satisfied with the way I’ve tried to solve the myriad storytelling problems presented to me on this project, will the reader be likewise satisfied? Will I?
I just don’t know.
But I do know this: as a reader and a writer, 22 pages is not enough. 24, for some reason, can be.
It’s just two more pages, for pete’s sake. *Give* them to me, you cheap bastards…
Jeff