I fear I'm suffering an infection. It's some manner of next-generation plague, as it's passed from me to Nick Locking by the medium of the Internet. I think Dan Griddleoctopus has picked up a larger dose than he dares admit. Alec Meer's caught some. Jim's got it to a degree too. All evidence so far points to only men being susceptible to the disease but it's possible that women may act as carriers.
I'll bring you news on the spread of this possible epedemic as it continues, but have quarintined myself for the safety of the all.
Time for a general comic update thing, methinks, since I've had a number of e-mail contacts today.
Firstly, Jon Nagl, who's the artist for PYGMALION, the eleven-page short I wrote a lonnnng time ago now has a blog, where he keeps people up to date with his variety of artistic endeavours. And - even better - the variety of fine music events he travels off too. Relevantly, he's put up some in-progress pages from PYGMALION. It's a fairly somber character study, with lots of bile, and when it's finished people will wonder why I didn't quit full time work sooner.
Secondly, I've recieved the rough pencils for a project I'm working on with Jamie McKelvie for a magazine. The commission was very much "Go and see if this is possible to do. We'll give you some money if it works or not". Which suits me fine. I'll be taking it to the Editor in question tomorrow and seeing what I make of it.
Thirdly, having finished the second script for Games Workshop over the weekend - my opinion is that it's a considerably better piece than the first, but I'm an arrogant sod who should be ignored on most things - , I found myself plunging back into the actual scripting for PHONOGRAM. It's the most personal of the projects I'm involved with, and probably the most pretentious. It's also incredibly hard to do - it's a comic with music as a theme. Comics do many things extremely well, but sound isn't one of them. It's involving a great degree of thought and cheery theft of better people than I to get even a vague hint of what I'm looking for. What I like about it most is that it has a huge chance of falling on its own dirty fat face.
The trial PHONOGRAM script I wrote and tossed out to a few people to get opinions on whether anyone was interested in this gibberish was memorably critiqued by Charlie Chu as "literally undrawable". Actually, I think he was right. But the general ideas proved interesting enough to take another bite at it, especially because it attacted the attention of an Artist who's beyond perfect for what I want it to do. The plan, for me, is to write the prologue story in its entirity to get a more realistic working model, and do a tight synopsis for the rest and see where it leaves us.
As I said, it's hard. In fact, one of the hardest things I've ever done.
However, the bit I'm going to show isn't the result of any of the heart-ache. It's one of the sections that virtually writes itself - when Clare Falry and David Kohl get talking, you simply can't shut the pair of them up. It's half way through the prologue, when Kohl has just ran to the toilet to be sick.
All of this is completely unpolished, and will probably be tore apart if it ever reaches a finished state. See what you think.
Kohl, somewhat unsteady, heading out of the toilet cubicle. He balances his weight on one hand against the door frame, while using the other to hold his cheap mobile phone against his ear. He’s clearly shaken by what’s just happened, and is flecked in sweat. A little vomit is still dribbling out of the corner of his mouth.
CAPTION: FALRY. CLARE FALRY.
KOHL: C’MON. C’MON. PICK UP.
From behind Kohl, looking at his reflection in the toilet mirror. In it we see Kohl urgently speaking into telephone while simultaneously using his thumb to wipe away the streak of sick.
KOHL: FALRY. I’M IN THE SHIT. CAN…
Kohl holds the phone away from his head, at arms length. He looks at it disbelievingly.
FALRY: THERE NOW. THAT’S IT… YES, THAT’S… FUCK YESSS…
Clare Falry sitting up with her back against the headboard, framed so we see her torso. Bad news: All that effort we’ve made planning her dress sense is entirely out the window, as Clare’s naked. If you want, have something suitably designer, hard-edged and street hanging off the bedpost.
She’s got her mobile phone pressed against the side of her head. She’s mildly perspiring, looking off panel in the direction of her crotch at someone she’s shoo-ing away from her with an elegant gesture of her free hand.
FALRY: KOHL. WHAT DO YOU… OH!
FALRY: EMILY! GET AWAY FROM THAT. STOP DISTRACTING ME.
Falry and Kohl’s heads, both talking into their mobiles. Falry is short temperedly bitchy. There’s little visible clue that she’s even slightly ironic in her choice of words. Kohl, despite himself, is grinning. He’s baiting a friend.
FALRY: ONCE SHE’S THERE, YOU CAN’T GET RID OF HER. YOU’D HAVE HOPED THAT A GIRL WOULD BE ABLE TO LOCATE A CLIT WITHOUT THE VERBAL TOUR, WOULDN’T YOU? USELESS.
KOHL: CHRIST. NOT STILL EXPERIMENTING WITH YOUR SEXUALITY, CLARE.
Clare lying alone on the single bed, having slid down onto the pillows. She looks directly up at us while speaking to Kohl, the annoyance gone. She visibly luxuriates as she falls into character.
FALRY: OH STOP THAT. YOU MAKE ME SOUND LIKE A PETRI DISH. I’M NOT EXPERIMENTING WITH MY SEXUALITY, KOHL. I’M FUCKING.
FALRY: NOW: TELL AUNTIE CLARE WHAT’S WRONG.