Rules, What Rules: Independent Superhero Comics

In the first post I published on this blog, I bemoaned the reductive nature of writing advice. “If you write like everyone else,” I wrote, “your writing will read like everyone else’s.” While I have gotten away from that theme from time-to-time, I try to return to it every now and then as part of my series: Rules: What Rules? which consists of a series of blogs that deal with common pieces of writing advice, and then present a famous work–by a successful author–which breaks those rules. My aim is not to criticize these authors—I enjoy all of them, that is the point. Rather, I present their works as examples of successfully writing, which might cause you to reexamine the writing “rule” critically. I am not advising you to ignore these rules, rather to take control of your own craft, and consider your choices actively. As always, I believe there is more than one path to success, more than one formula for great writing. Consider these posts synecdochally. The specific rule is not the point; it speaks to a general attitude which is prevalent within the contemporary writing community.

In each blog post in this series, I will give a brief summary of the rule, followed by a case study of a successful author, work, or series that breaks that rule. Finally, I will provide some analysis of the rule and the alternative techniques the featured author makes. Since the posts in this series will not necessarily be consecutive blog entries, I will link each piece to previous entries.

Previously in this series:

Dialogue Tags

Eliminating Adverbs

Avoid Alliteration

The Three Act Structure

The Rule: Don’t Write Independent Superhero Conics

One of the most common pieces of advice given to young comics creators is not to make superhero comics. How can you possibly compete with Marvel and DC, the big two companies who have a virtual monopoly in the genre? Do you really want to go up against the name recognition of those famous characters? Superhero readers know where to find the comics they enjoy, and they’re not coming to small-press row to find them. When I first started attending “Breaking into Comics” type panels at various cons, some piece of this advice was repeated on each panel.

And yet…

Recently, there have been many non-big two superhero comics which have enjoyed commercial and critical success. Titles like The Boys and Invincible have even been picked up for streaming, and Barbalien, a book from Jeff Lemire’s Black Hammer series was listed on NYPL top 100 books (all books released that year, not just comics and graphic novels) of the year list a couple of years back.

Big creators like Alan Moore have written non-big two superhero comics, Todd McFarlane’s Spawn, Mark Millar’s Kickass, and Mike Mignola’s Hell Boy are breakthrough indie comics from the relatively recent past.

Ahoy Comics, one of my favorite widely-available indie publishers (and not just because they’ve published my work) publishes multiple superhero titles, including two which I read regularly, The Wrong Earth, by Tom Pyer and Jamal Igle, and Second Coming, by Mark Russell and Richard Price.

If the major indie’s aren’t afraid of the big two, and are willing to publish superhero comics, shouldn’t all creators, regardless of where they are in their careers, be willing to do so as well? There certainly seems to be a path to success within the genre.

Analysis

I would imagine that the most common response to my point about the success of independent superhero comics which I listed above would be that many–if not all–of these titles are not traditional superhero stories, but rather twists or angles on the superhero genre. Each puts a unique spin on the concept of superheroes, often deconstructing and critiquing the traditional trope, or using the familiar trope to affect a critique of society and address some larger theme. While this is true, it is not really different from any other genre. You wouldn’t not be successful writing a zombie book that was exactly like the Walking Dead or a crime book that was too similar to 1000 bullets, Criminal, or Sin City either. Originality is important, regardless of genre.

To this point, when I walk around small press and artist alley at various comic cons, or visit indie-focused comics Facebook groups, superhero is far from the most common genre. If anything, it’s horror, and based on my experience, it’s not particularly close. We may be getting to the point where, at least in small indie circles, superhero comics stand out, ironically, because of their rarity.

When I posted this idea in one of my comics groups last week, one of the responses was that the most successful independent superhero comics were, by and large, created by big-name creators, like Mark Millar, Jeff Lemire, and Gath Ennis. This is also true, but is it really that different from any other genre? Jeff Lemire has had success writing horror comics, fantasy, and sci-fi as well. Mark Millar has done space adventure, time travel scifi, and slice of life horror. Gath Ennis has written major titles in crime and war comics. If an independent creator were to attempt to sell work in any of these genres, they would be up against name creators regardless.

Moreover, if superhero comics are successful, shouldn’t we be creating in them? Shouldn’t we be practicing to get better at them, so that when we have the opportunity to pitch editors we have the style under our belts. Should we have portfolio pieces which show we can do that kind of work? If the top of the industry is producing superhero books, how can we break into that segment if we do not know how to create them? If we, one day aspire to write or draw for Marvel or DC (recognizing how unlikely that dream is for any creator) shouldn’t we be practicing and publishing with an eye toward that type of work?

Additionally, I believe that there is a marketing angle to writing independent superhero books as well. I have found that when I table at cons, I can find potential customers by observing what they are wearing. If I see a goth, for example, I might call them over to my table to check out Into That Darkness Peering or Love Letters to Poe, the gothic horror titles at my table. Well, superhero fans make up a huge segment of the comics-buying community. “Do you like Spider-Man? perhaps you’d be interested in checking out this book about a teenage…” “Oh, I see you’re wearing a Batman shirt. Let me show you my book about a revenge-seeking…” It seems foolish to ignore the largest segment of the comics fans.

I will end by saying that the prejudice against superhero comics in indie circles is real. There are definitely people who will tune you out if you bring up a super hero concept. Some of these people have power within the industry, and may reject a pitch outright just for being a superhero title.

If, however, one has the opportunity to pitch a company which publishes superhero comics, why would one not do so? And, since many in the independent world self-publish, there are really no restrictions on the types of books one can create.

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Be sure to check out the links page to read some of my published writing, and to follow me on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook.

News and Notes

It’s been a while since I’ve done a news and notes post, so here it goes:

Last week I found out that my application to the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association was accepted. I am now a full member. This is a major milestone in my career, and it is something I’ve been working toward for a long time.

The symbol of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association.

I also received my author copies of the Rio Grande Review, which includes my prose poem The Substance in the Shadow. You can read my piece on the RGR site, but since the online version does not include the accompanying illustration, and since the university is apparently running low on physical copies, I’ve included a photo here.

My prose poem The Substance in the Shadow in the Rio Grande Review

I am putting together my summer appearance schedule, and while I still have to finalize some dates, I can announce that I will be tabling at Geek Out Staten Island on August 12th.

Lastly, I celebrated a birthday this week. ICYMI, here are my thoughts about turning 45.

I am 45 years old today (happy birthday to me). I have decided to put off my midlife crisis, as I intend to live past 90.

— A. A. Rubin (@TheSurrealAri) May 15, 2023

A tweet about birthdays and midlife crises.

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You…And You Only

Verses for a grim dark choir,
A song of crime and of desire:

He sailed across the ocean vast,
In some long forgotten past—
And met a maiden fair and true,
Or so he thought as their love grew—
Till one night is their marriage bed,
She bit his neck and bled him dead—
But entombed he realized,
Their love she had eternalized—

Beneath the pale, pallid moon,
He rose and walked out from his tomb,
And found his love and loved her dear,
More with every passing year—
They scourged the land like spreading fire,
For such was their true heart’s desire:

To create the world anew,
Where no one lived, save them two—

—A. A. Rubin

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What I Learned From…Star Wars

One of the most effective ways for writers to improve their craft is to read intentionally. But, what does reading intentionally really mean? To me, when I read as a writer, I observe the way the other uses craft–either on the macro or the micro level, and see if there are any techniques or strategies I can incorporate into my own writing. I don’t always read like this, as it distracts, to some extent, from my ability to fully immerse myself in a story for pleasure, but, reading (or watching or listening, depending on the medium) for craft not only is an important part of my writing practice, but also has allowed me to get something out of almost anything I read, even if it is something which I would not–or do not–otherwise enjoy. It is especially important for a writer to read broadly and outside of their genre, as casting a wide net exposes one to a wider array or strategies and techniques.

In this series of articles, I will write about one element of craft I learned from a specific writer. Of course, in most cases, I learned more than one technique from each author, but for the purpose of this series of articles, I will focus on just one per post.

As with my Rules What Rules series, I will list previous entries at the top of each post, as while I plan on writing many of these, they, most likely, will not be in consecutive posts.

Previous Entries:

Oscar Wilde

Bob Dylan

WHAT I LEARNED FROM Star Wars: Organic World Building

Happy Star Wars Day! The original Star Wars trilogy stands as the pinnacle of space opera and science fiction storytelling. It is a masterpiece in so many ways, has permeated pop culture like few other genre franchises, and it is, along with The Lord of The Rings, is one of my original fandoms. Today, May the Fourth, is Star Wars Day, a day to celebrate the franchise, and as it is also the day on which I post my blog. As I’ve been doing a “What I Learned From…” series recently, it is the perfect day to write about what I learned from the original Star Wars trilogy. It is difficult to pick only one thing. I could easily have written this article about adapting archetypes (monomyth, Oresteia) or how to write successful banter, but I’ve decided to write about world building, as the original trilogy does a masterful job of worldbuilding organically (unlike the prequel trilogy, but more on that later), providing the viewer with enough context and information to establish the verisimilitude of the secondary, fantasy world, without committing the all-to-common cardinal sin of over-explaining and info-dumping.

Let’s look at a few lines from the first movie, what I knew as Star Wars growing up, and you kids now call A New Hope.

In the opening scene of the movie, C3PO worries that he and R2D2 will be “sent to the spice mines of Kessel, smashed into who knows what…”

gif of the preceding quote

C3PO says this as if it’s a bad thing. We understand that even though we, as visitors to the movie’s secondary world, don’t know what the spice mines of Kessel are, what spice he’s talking about, why droids would get smashed there, etc. Presumably, R2D2 knows, but we do not. And yet, the line doesn’t break the action of that opening scene. C3P0 who is one of the most verbose characters in the movie, does not go into a lengthy explanation of spice trade, Kessel, etc, he just mentions it quickly, the way someone in that world would actually talk. He does, however, plant an important world building seed that’s developed later in the movie.

Later, when Luke and Obi Wan are in Mos Eisley to hire a spaceship to take them off of Tatooine, they encounter Han Solo in the cantina. Solo boasts that his ship “made the Kessel run in less than 12 parsecs.”

Gif: It’s the ship that made the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs.

What is the Kessel run? Why is Solo using a unit of distance rather than time to brag about his ship’s speed? Again, we don’t know. But we recognize the word “Kessel” from a previous scene. Obviously, this is something people in world know about. Shady things seem to go on there, perhaps related to the aforementioned spice. The writers have added another layer of depth to the world building without descending into lengthy, boring expository backstory.

Despite the lack of backstory, the viewer never feels lost in secondary world. It feels strange to us, which it should as we are but visitors there, but it feels real. Why? Because that is how real people talk. The characters speak like real, in-world people, not history professors.

To explore this premise further, let’s look at Princess Leia’s plea for Ben Kenobi’s help. She says, “years ago, you served my father in the clone wars.”

Gif of previous quote

What are the Clone Wars? Again, we don’t know. But as viewers, we understand that it was a major war in world, which took place in the previous generation. There is no time in this hurried plea for help to explain the backstory–and there is no need. We all understand what this means. Let’s move the dialogue int our world. In 1977, when the movie came out, it might have read, “years ago you served my father in Second World War.” No one, in this parallel situation would go into a lengthy history lesson about World War II. That type of backstory would seem out of place and superfluous. In this secondary world setting, the writers trust the viewer to contextualize this unfamiliar detail by using their own parallel, real-world experience. The result is what makes the world sound authentic. It makes the world–and the characters–seem more, rather than less because it simulates the way real people speak.

The worldbuilding strategy is consistent throughout the first trilogy. Take, for example the scene in The Empire Strikes Back where Han and Chewie are trying to fix the Millennium Falcon’s broken hyperdrive. Han says: “Horizontal boosters…! Alluvial dampers…! Well that’s not it. Bring me the hydrospanner!”

Gif: Bring me the hydrospanner!

The audience has no idea what those things are, and yet the dialogue rings true. If a mechanic asks for a socket wrench, he can presume his assistant will know what a socket wrench is without an explanation of how it works or what it’s used for.

Similarly, Vader’s reaction to finding out that Luke had constructed a new lightsaber in Return of the Jedi follows the same world-building strategy.

Gif: I see you have constructed a new lightsaber

Gif: Your skills are complete

The construction of a new lightsaber is, as we can glean from the context of the dialogue, a key milestone in the training of a Jedi, and yet there is no discussion of how one would construct a new lightsaber, what rank this would bestow on Luke, etc. Both Vader and Luke would know this information already and would not need to explain it to each other. All the audience needs to know is that in constructing a new lightsaber, Luke has reached a new level of Jedi skill, a level which has impressed Vader. Anything beyond that takes the audience out of the story.

When someone says, “let’s take the car to the movies,” they don’t go into a lengthy explanation of the workings of the internal combustion engine. It is, in fact, likely, that most people who drive a car have little idea how an internal combustion engine actually works. They do not go into a long polemic about the fossil fuel or climate change (They might give a throwaway line about gas mileage or a brief, glib comment about the extent to which their hybrid is or isn’t saving the earth, but that’s half a line of dialogue at most). They don’t explain the history of the car from the model T to the present time. So why would we expect characters to do similar things in a science fiction setting? The ship will “make .5 past light speed.”

gif of previous quote

How? it doesn’t matter. In a world where FTL travel is the norm, no one would need further explanation. .5 what? There is no unit of measurement. Well, that’s how people really talk. “She’ll go 0-60 in 6 seconds.” There’s no need to say miles per hour. Everyone understands the context.

Star Wars is often criticized for it’s lack of scientific explanation, especially by fans of a certain other popular sci-fi franchise. Yet, I would argue that this makes it a more authentic, more believable world. As soon as you offer an explanation of technological marvel, you both take your reader/viewer out of the world, and give then something to nitpick and start an argument which you can’t possibly win. Yet, doing the worldbuilding obliquely, allows you to drop in the necessary world building information–and even layer it richly–without breaking the spell of verisimilitude by taking your audience out of your secondary world and giving them a change to question their suspension of disbelief It is both effective and realistic.

Notice, too, that this world-building strategy is affected in normal dialogue throughout the movie. None of the lines quoted above are the most famous, most quoted, most meme-able lines in the movie, yet they serve an important, world-building purpose. By integrating the world-building in this fashion, the writers keep the audience in the fast-paced action and fun. The world-building dialogue is like an invisible force which binds the Star Wars galaxy together.

Many later entries in the Star Wars franchise show the other side of the coin. They get bogged down in exposition and explanation, explaining the spice trade, or the way to construct a lightsaber. They try to flesh out the causes of Clone Wars, and codify the method of Jedi training. The prequel trilogy, which has sometimes been criticized as CSPAN for the Imperial Senate–is especially bad in that regard. It abandons the highly effective world building strategy described above, and loses both the fun and the verisimilitude of the original. The effectiveness of the original strategy can be seen in the contrast.

Enough negativity, though. Today is a day of celebration of all things Star Wars.

As writers–especially writers of speculative fiction–verisimilitude and the willing suspension of disbelief are essential to the success of our enterprise (are we allowed to use that word on star wars day?). We should use the original Star Wars trilogy as a paradigm for effective, organic world building which allows us to create rich, secondary worlds without breaking the spell of action and story.

Happy Star Wars Day. May the fourth be with you!

Remember, the force will be with you, always.

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What I Learned From…Bob Dylan

One of the most effective ways for writers to improve their craft is to read intentionally. But, what does reading intentionally really mean? To me, when I read as a writer, I observe the way the other uses craft–either on the macro or the micro level, and see if there are any techniques or strategies I can incorporate into my own writing. I don’t always read like this, as it distracts, to some extent, from my ability to fully immerse myself in a story for pleasure, but, reading (or watching or listening, depending on the medium) for craft not only is an important part of my writing practice, but also has allowed me to get something out of almost anything I read, even if it is something which I would not–or do not–otherwise enjoy. It is especially important for a writer to read broadly and outside of their genre, as casting a wide net exposes one to a wider array or strategies and techniques.

In this series of articles, I will write about one element of craft I learned from a specific writer. Of course, in most cases, I learned more than one technique from each author, but for the purpose of this series of articles, I will focus on just one per post.

As with my Rules What Rules series, I will list previous entries at the top of each post, as while I plan on writing many of these, they, most likely, will not be in consecutive posts.

Previous Entries:

Oscar Wilde

WHAT I LEARNED FROM BOB DYLAN: focus on the General Rather than the Specific When Writing Social Criticism

There’s a strong argument to me made that Bob Dylan is the defining poet of his generation. As the only popular singer to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, he has achieved success both in the popular and critical arenas. Dylan came to prominence in the 1960s and was a major voice in the anti-Vietnam war movement. He is, perhaps, best known for his protest songs, which despite being written ostensibly about that war, have lived on long after the war in Vietnam was over, and which continue to inspire change-makers and poets alike years after they were written. While there is much that any poet can learn from Bob Dylan, from his expert characterization, to his use of biblical and literary allusions, to his ability to craft unique and whimsical phrases, it is the enduring legacy of these songs, Dylan’s ability to write evergreen poems about about a specific current event, which I wish to focus on today.

So why do Dylan’s songs still resonate? I would argue that is because he writes about the event of the day generally rather than specifically. Let’s look at Blowin’ in the Wind, which is, perhaps, his most famous protest song.

The song begins with a series of rhetorical questions:

How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, ’n’ how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, ’n’ how many times must the cannonballs fly
Before they’re forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind

The song, which everyone knows as a protest song, does not mention contemporary issues at all at the beginning. The first question is a question of maturity. The second, is a biblical allusion to the Noah story. It is only the third question which addresses war specifically, and even here, it is a general question about war, not a specific question about a specific war. Imagine you were listening to the song for the first time and without context. You might not yet know what the song was about. Yet, if you were attending an anti-Vietnam war rally, you would immediately associate that last question with the (then) current conflict.

Looking back at the verse, the first two questions, which invoke maturity (1) and the bible, which is a source of morality (2), frame the third question which addresses the social issue about which Dylan want his listener to focus. A mature, moral person would recognize the futility of war in general, and the amoral nature of the specific was which was going on at the time Dylan performed the song.

The second verse is structured in the same way as the first, but Dylan varies the types of questions he asks:

How many years can a mountain exist
Before it’s washed to the sea?
Yes, ’n’ how many years can some people exist
Before they’re allowed to be free?
Yes, ’n’ how many times can a man turn his head
Pretending he just doesn’t see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind

The first question in this verse resembles the first question of the first verse. It is a general question. This time, however, he moves to a specific social issue in the second question. The third question, continues on the theme of the second by implicating not just the oppressor, who is called out in question 2, but also the “neutral” observer, who while they don’t oppress others themselves, also don’t challenge the oppressor. Again, a listener in the 1960s would associate the second and third question with a contemporary issue of the day, in this case, the civil rights movement, but, like the first verse, Dylan chooses not to name the issue or those whom he criticizes explicitly.

Even though the structure of this verse is the same as the first, the content moves in a different way. Like the first verse, this one begins with a general question which establishes a context. In this case, the context is time. Oppression has been going on for a long time, both in the general sense and in the specific sense which Dylan implies from his own social context. The second question moves to the specific social criticism, in this case oppression. The movement between the first and second question does not happen until the third question in the first verse. Here, it happens one question sooner. The third question, however, makes a different type of movement. Dylan turns the question directly to his listeners. Even though it’s still stated generally, Dylan’s audience, who, likely, would not consider themselves pro war or oppressors, may recognize that they are not doing enough to fix these social issues. Thus, the third question acts as a call to action.

Let’s look at the third verse:

How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, ’n’ how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, ’n’ how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind

Once again, the verse is structured in the exact same way: three questions and the refrain. But this time, Dylan masterfully connects the themes of the first verse with those in the second. The first question, once again, seems to establish a general thematic context. Though it mimics the first question in the other verses structurally, in this case, it also echoes the last question in the previous verse, which continues the theme of blindness. It is implied, in context, that the blindness is willing. The second question continues the theme, switching from seeing to listening, but with the same implied message.

The third question makes a new kind of move. It masterfully connects the themes of the first verse and the second verse with one simple question. When he sings “too many people have died” does he mean in the war or because of oppression? It does not really matter because the answer is really both. Too many people died in the war. Too many people also died because of their civil rights were abused. Moreover, there were civil rights issues with the Vietnam war as well. All of these issues are connected. The same type of person who does not see–or hear–one will not see or hear the other. This criticism also applies, perhaps most strongly, to those in charge, whose policies and lack of empathy lead to each issue.

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While the song as a whole is a scathing piece of social criticism, it does not refer specifically to any current social issue. There is no mention of a specific war or a specific type of oppression. The listener at the time would have recognized the specific, current events which inspired the song, but, because Dylan did not mention them explicitly, they are relevant to many other similar situations throughout history. Thus, Dylan effectively writes social criticism about the issues of his day while also writing a timeless poem which has lived on long after that specific war ended. (The civil rights issues, unfortunately, are ongoing). His material has an evergreen, timeless quality which transcends the events about which he was writing.

There is a strong temptation to write about those issues which make us most angry, and to write about them specifically, and, there is a value in doing so for sure. But, as Dylan shows, it is often more effective to address theme generally and trust one’s audience to understand the point one is trying to make. Dylan wrote many other songs which fit this paradigm, notably Masters of War and The Times They Are a’ Changin’. While he wrote songs which addressed specific events of his day, the are (with the exception of Hurricane) not among those which are considered his greatest hits. And yet, despite his tendency to write generally, Dylan–and his songs–were very clear about where he stood on the issues of the day.

This lesson can be seen in the work of other writers as well. It is the reason why 1984 is a better novel than Animal Farm, for example, and it is a large part of why Shakespeare’s tragedies are considered his greatest plays.

As writers, we should aspire to write our social criticism is evergreen ways. We all dream of writing work that lasts. While many factors go into whether a piece will resonate beyond its era some in our control and some not, emulating Dylan gives us the best chance at writing social criticism with a lasting legacy. And, Dylan’s example proves that writing generally does not detract from a poem’s effectiveness as social criticism of specific, current issues.

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My Baseball Sonnet, an Opening Day Tradition

It’s become an opening day tradition for me to post my Baseball Sonnet on Opening Day. So, to honor that tradition–and to mark the start of the Major League Baseball Season, here it is:

Baseball Sonnet

That time of year thou mayst in fans behold
That malediction, fever of the spring–
Surrounded by lingering snow and cold,
We dream of pennants and World Series rings.
With pride we root our noble heroes on,
Eating hot dogs, peanuts, and crackerjacks–
And all our worldly troubles fade, are gone,
When that first pitch is thrown and bat doth crack.
But Lo! When April fades to crueler months,
We reach the summer of our discontent–
Like Mighty Casey in the Mudville ninth–
With hearts bereft of joy and merriment.
Yet hope springs eternal for one and all,
When that blue-clad umpire calls out, “Play Ball!”

–A. A. Rubin

If you enjoy baseball and literature, check out the series of Spring Training books which I’ve been posting on Instagram.

Enjoy your opening day, the one day of the year when hope springs eternal.

What I Learned From…Oscar Wilde

One of the most effective ways for writers to improve their craft is to read intentionally. But, what does reading intentionally really mean? To me, when I read as a writer, I observe the way the other uses craft–either on the macro or the micro level, and see if there are any techniques or strategies I can incorporate into my own writing. I don’t always read like this, as it distracts, to some extent, from my ability to fully immerse myself in a story for pleasure, but, reading (or watching or listening, depending on the medium) for craft not only is an important part of my writing practice, but also has allowed me to get something out of almost anything I read, even if it is something which I would not–or do not–otherwise enjoy. It is especially important for a writer to read broadly and outside of their genre, as casting a wide net exposes one to a wider array or strategies and techniques.

In this series of articles, I will write about one element of craft I learned from a specific writer. Of course, in most cases, I learned more than one technique from each author, but for the purpose of this series of articles, I will focus on just one per post.

As with my Rules What Rules series, I will list previous entries at the top of each post, as while I plan on writing many of these, they, most likely, will not be in consecutive posts.

What I learned From Oscar Wilde: How to Write Witty

The defining trait of Wilde’s writing is his wit. While he certainly does other things well (Dorian Gray, for example shows how a great high concept can elevate an otherwise conventional story), if you ask the average reader about Wilde’s writing, the first thing they are likely to mention is his clever wit. For this reason, Wilde is one of the most quoted writers. His short, sentence-long witticisms often appear on posters, t-shirts, stickers, and memes. As a writer who has been accused of wit (see my stories here and here for examples) I am especially interested in dissecting Wilde’s technique.

In general, Wilde’s wit works depends on subverting the reader’s expectations by finding a cliched phrase or idea, then changing the second half of the of phrase in an unexpected or ironic way. It relies on the reader’s prior knowledge of a common phrase or societal convention, and the way the sentence is constructed syntactically to make the ironic turn.

Let’s look at a few examples:

“I have the simplest tastes. I am always satisfied with the best.”

“A gentleman is one who never gives offense unintentionally.”

“A good friend will always stab you in the front.”

“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”

On a syntactical level, Wilde’s sentences set up an expectation in the reader’s mind. When he write, “I have the simplest of tastes,” he sets up the expectation of a second half that espouses frugality; “A Gentleman is one who never gives offense” seems like the kind of advice Polonius would give to Laertes, and one would expect more of the same type of banality; “A good friend will” is beginning of a cliché involving being stabbed in the back, etc.

The second half–or in some cases the end–of each line flips that expectation on its head. “The only way to get rid of temptation….is to yield to it. The end is completely unexpected. It not only subverts the conventional wisdom, but also reveals the emptiness of the common phrase and, therefore, it criticizes a societal norm, in this the repressive Victorian culture of Wilde’s time, as well. The other quotes work by the same principal: A good friend never would stab you in the back, they would stab you in the front! A gentleman never gives offence…saving for when he intends to.

Many famous witticism follow Wilde’s example. Dorothy Parker’s “You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think,” and Yogi Berra’s “Nobody goes there anymore it’s too crowded” are both examples of this technique as well.

To write a witty quip like Wilde, I would start with a well-known cliché. Let’s take (because it’s the first one I thought of as I was writing this) “The grass is always greener on the other side of the yard.” Next I would find a dramatic context in which to use the cliché, preferably one which alludes to the meaning or message which the cliched phrase is trying to teach us.

Off the top of my head:

“Mr. Wilde,” I said, “Mr. Rubin seems to be jealous of your fame and success.”

“That is to be expected,” Wilde replied. “The grass is always greener on my side of the yard.”

Perhaps it’s not perfect, but I think it illustrates the point. The second character–Mr. Wilde–subverts the cliché by changing the second half of the phrase to something witty and unexpected. In an actual story, I’d choose a cliché that matched the dramatic situation, theme, or context of the larger story, but I this example is sufficient to illustrate the point.

I hope that you can use this technique in your own writing, and I encourage you to read widely and with a purpose so that you can continue to build your writers toolbox.

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The Scream

The figure looked around. Something had definitely changed. His world, constant spinning motion for as long as he could remember, had now become still. He sniffed the air suspiciously and noticed that it was dryer as well.  On all sides there were boundaries where, once, there were infinite possibilities. He called out to his creator, Mr. Munch, but the glass was soundproof. He raised his hands to his face, grabbed his cheeks, and screamed silently, forever trapped inside his gilded frame.

–A. A. Rubin

This piece first appeared in the 81 Words Anthology.

Breaking Down a Will Eisner Comics Page

Every year, on the week of his birthday, the comics world celebrates the legacy of Will Eisner. Eisner’s work in the comics field is legendary. From his groundbreaking work in The Spirit newspaper serial (including pioneering the splash title page), to inventing the graphic novel, to his contributions to comics education and analysis through titles like Comics And Sequential Art, to his pioneering of alternate publishing paths, there are few creators who have contributed more to the comics field than Eisner. In honor of Will Eisner Week, I’d like to break down one of my favorite comics pages, which comes from his graphic novel, A Life Force (available in the seminal Contract With God trilogy).

Here is the page:

Page from “A Life Force,” by Will Eisner

You might notice that his is not one of Eisner’s spectacular splash pages, rather it’s a regular storytelling page from the middle of the story, but it’s an incredible bit of visual storytelling where every element serves a purpose.

First, a bit of background: the story is about the human will to live even in the face of the poorest conditions. The human life lived in poverty is compared, through a series of vignettes to that of a cockroach. On this page, our protagonist Jacob, is on the ground, forlorn, in an alley underneath his tenement apartment on the fictional Dropsie Avenue in the Bronx.

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Let’s start with panel 1, which is part of a row of 3/4 of the page-length skinny vertical panels. Despite the length of this panel, the character, Jacob, is drawn small. There is a lot of white space between him and the top of the panel, and there are no word bubbles either, which emphasizes the size of the negative space. The size of the figure relative to the space highlights his smallness and enhances the central conceit of the story, the comparison of the human’s life with that of a bug.

This contrast is further emphasized in panel 2, which is identical in size and shape to the first panel. In this panel, the hand-lettered words call down to him from the sky, high above the alley where the protagonist finds himself. The figure of Jacob is a bit larger than it is in panel 1, though his attitude is slightly changed, as he now gazes up toward the sound of the words (more on this movement later), but the there is less negative space in the panel, both because of the size of the words, which are large for comics dialogue, and because of the lines in the background which extend further up the panel. The words seem to fill the panel, which contrasts it with the emptiness of the one which immediately precedes it.

In addition to being large, the words are unbounded by a speech bubble, further contrasting them with Jacob’s dialogue in the panels immediately preceding and following this one. It is also spoken by an off-panel character (the speaker is not visible in the panel). These physical characteristics of the lettering, along with the repetition of Jacob’s biblical name, give the dialogue a biblical feel and remind the reader of the themes of the search for meaning and humanity’s relationship with the God found throughout the Contract With God trilogy. Since we do not yet know the speaker, we are reminded of God calling down to a prophet. Even when we find out the speaker in the next panel, the idea of God speaking to a human remains in our minds, layered simultaneously with the revelation of the speaker’s true identity. This technique is unique to the sequential story medium (through there are similar techniques in other mediums like the Homeric simile), as it relies both on the distinction between the individual, static panels, and the sequential nature of the story.

In the third panel, the off-panel dialogue is gone, opening up the space of the top half of the panel again. In the bottom half of the panel, the figure of Jacob continues to grow. Not only is he drawn larger, but his pose has changed as well. In panel one, he is hunched over, leaning against a wall, almost lying down. In panel two, he looks upward as he hears the voice. In panel three, he has started to get up. His back is straighter than it is in other panel, and we see his face more clearly as well. This upward movement is further enhanced by the placement of the speech bubble, which identifies the off-panel voice as “Rifka.” His attitude has changed from downcast, to questioning, to at least a neutral pose. This positive shift, along with his growth in size and his rising from his prone position further hints at the divine voice theory. Perhaps there is something god-like in the voice? Perhaps there is revelation? Inspiration? Perhaps there is–or is going to be–a change.

But no. In the final panel of the top row, the dialogue beats Jakob down, both literally and figuratively. It is, in fact, his wife, yelling down from their tenement window at he good-for-nothing husband, exasperated at his antics, and ordering him to come upstairs for supper. The content of the dialogue is enhanced both by the amount of words and by the shape of the panel. The words can hardly fit in the skinny panel, and extend down much further than Rifka’s previous dialogue. The openness of the negative space is gone. The sky is crowded with the words, which beat down on Jakob.

This is also the first panel where both characters speak. Jacob’s words, still bounded by their traditional speech bubble, move upwards over his head, creating a visual conflict with Rifka’s words. From the relative size of the words, it is apparent who is winning. Indeed, despite his agreement to come upstairs for dinner, Eisner draws Jacob a bit smaller, and much more bent over than in the previous panel.

The bottom row of panels is markedly different from the first. There are three distinct actions, but unlike the top row, there are no panel dividers. This gives the sequence a continuous motion where we do not pause as long to consider each image, rather we see the action more continuously.

It is important to note, that though Jacob gets up, he is still bent over, hunched beneath the weight of his problems, bent and nearly broken by his life’s burdens. We never see his face in these panels, and the anonymity of these actions make them synecdochal for the human experience. The bent over poses, the short height of the panels, and the smallness of the door in the final panel recall the metaphor of the cockroach as well, as Jakob seemingly skitters down a narrow passage, back to a hole in the wall.

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In addition to the panel-by-panel storytelling, there page as a whole is constructed brilliantly as well. The four tall, skinny panels on the the top row, recall the Dropsie Avenue tenements. Though there is no establishing shot of the neighborhood on this particular page (that happened earlier in the story), the tall thin shapes resemble high-rise apartments, and the fact that there are four of them squeezed into the top row remind the reader of the crowded, urban setting.

The long length of these panels also pushes down on Jacob, who is hunched beneath their massive weight in the bottom row. This reminds the reader of the environmental factors which contribute to his depression, and further highlight the effects of the setting, which is another key motif which runs through Eisner’s trilogy.

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All-in-all, this page is a masterclass is sequential storytelling, a reminder of the power and possibilities of the comics form, and a strong example of Eisner’s skill both as an artist and writer. I encourage you all to check out or refamiliarize yourself with his work.

I know I will the next time I sit down to write a comics script.

Happy Will Eisner week to you all.

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On Mister Rogers and Creative Play

The 20th anniversary of Fred Rogers death passed earlier this week. Aside from making me (and I’m sure a bunch of other people my age) feel both sad and old, it was, as these anniversaries often are, an opportunity to revisit the incredible influence Mister Rogers and his show had on my generation, and to remind ourselves how relevant and important his message remains today. I read so many tributes to his lessons about kindness, selflessness, self-affirmation, and acceptance of others, all of which are well-deserved. These are lessons which are, if anything, more important today given the current state of society, but one thing I did not see, which I would like to address here, is the way he encouraged us to be creative, to play, to make believe.

Every episode of Mister Rogers Neighborhood included a trip to The Land of Make Believe, a portal-fantasy world accessed by his model trolley, where Rogers’ puppet characters interacted with the human actors to address the theme of that week’s series of episodes. The stories were fantastical, often featuring characters visiting from The Purple Planet or making use of a magical boomerang, and worked to reinforce the lessons Rogers taught in the real-world segments of the show.

The importance of make believe fit with Rogers belief in the importance of play. Rogers said, “Play is often talked about as if it were a relief from serious learning. But for children play is serious learning. Play is really the work of childhood.”

The inclusion of both the real-world and fantasy elements separated Mister Rogers Neighborhood from the other major educational programs of my childhood. Most programs were either entirely fantasy, like Sesame Street, where humans and Muppets existed in the same world, or entirely based on a non-fiction conceit, like Reading Rainbow.

Mister Rogers always emphasized the difference between what was real and what was pretend. It is was important to him that kids knew the difference. For example, he would only let Big Bird guest star in The Land of Make Believe segment because Carol Spinney, the puppeteer who created and performed Big Bird did not want to reveal that Big Bird was pretend on the non-fiction portion of the show. While one can debate Rogers and Spinney’s views on presenting fantasy to children, the dichotomy which Rogers drew between the real and pretend segments of the program reinforced the concept that The Land of Make Believe constituted play time.

Despite this dichotomy, Rogers would often take elements of the make-believe portion of the show into the real-world setting. In one episode, he creates a pet on a stick puppet and sings the same song to it that King Friday sang to his pet on a stick. He would also often engage on other forms of creativity, like drawing with crayons or playing with a toy truck.

As a creative child, I appreciated the emphasis on creativity and play. In a world which seemed to devalue it as I grew older, it was nice to see a respected adult make time for it each day. As an adult I appreciate it even more. The older we get, the less time there seems to be for active play. So much of our time gets taken over by work and responsibility, and play disappears from most of our lives. Adult leisure time consists largely of passive activities, like watching television and movies, listening to music, and reading, which though it requires a more active mental participation, still has a predetermined ending (and path to that ending) created by someone else. Even more nominally creative activities, such as wine and paint nights, often offer a step-by-step processes where the participants all end up with the same painting at the end of the night. Very few adults engage in real, unstructured, creative play.

Art is one way adults can engage in creativity and play. I’ve written about the way my writing functions as play in this space before. Kurt Vonnegut, who is a much greater authority on writing and art than I, also advocates for creativity–real creativity for creativity’s, not commercial success’ sake.

“Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake,” the famous American author wrote. “Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.”

Many adults say they want to be creative, and yet say they do not have time for it. The answer, as is it so often, is to do what Fred Rogers would do: Make time for make believe. Acknowledge its importance, and schedule creative time as part of your day. Yes, the “real” part of your life is important, but so is your creative time.

Make time for make believe.

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