Entry #2

First things first: there must be hype.

There is now a preview of The Bride available at http://www.studiounderhill.com/comics.html. Check it out and tell me what you think about the work I've been laboring over for the past month.

Next, an observation. The Bride has been progressing much faster than expected. With any luck, I'll have a printed version available by this time next month. Ironically, this newfound productivity is due in no small part to the fact that I'm depressed as fuck. A friendship of 9+ years has come to a screeching halt lately, and in a futile attempt to not think about it, I've been producing two to three pages a day for the past week. Misery, it helps me focus like a laser, it does.

And let me tell you, the damn radio isn't helping matters; the Psychic DJ has locked on to my telepathic frequency and won't let go, the bastard. I'm sure you've experienced the Psychic DJ phenomenon before. It's synchronicity with a cruel and directed purpose. It's when you're trying to not think of anything, and EVERY DAMN SONG on the radio directly references it. Like when you turn to four different radio stations and they're all playing "Video Killed the Radio Star", which just happens to be the song that was playing when you managed to thoroughly humiliate yourself in front of a laughing audience. Or when you've just been dumped by the love of your life and whenever the depression lifts enough for you to actually turn the radio on, and not only are you subjected to LoveNotes, but they play Sheena Easton's "Hard To Say It's Over" (bringing up the question of why you know the title of ANY Sheena Easton song at all).

Which actually brings me to the point of this particular journal entry.

Harris O'Malley: LORD of the extended intro.

* * * * *

Inspiration is a funny thing; it's mercurial and mysterious. When you seek it out, it frequently slips through your fingers, but pounces on you like a jungle cat when your back is turned. Poets have been inspired by their lover's beauty or the glory of a sunset. Artists have found inspiration in nature, or in architecture or literature.

I found inspiration in having dodgy taste in music.

One of the regular rituals around Caer O'Malley is the Thinning Of The Hoard. Every once in a while, I take a look around my humble abode and make the standard realization that I have more crap than I have shelves. This usually starts by my realizing that I can prove my floor exists only via empirical evidence. After I systematically destroy the tunnel system that my two cats have created in the detritus on the floor, I soon find that the reason most of it was on the floor in the first place was because I have nowhere else to put it. And since most of it is books, CD's or comics, it all gets sorted, thrown into boxes and hauled either to the nearest Half Price Books or CD Exchange.

It was during one of these cleaning sprees that I rediscovered my CD Wall Of Shame.

Most people have a couple CD's that they're embarrassed to admit they ever owned, and more than a few that they'll kill rather than allow that they ever even LISTENED too. I have enough to stun a charging water buffalo. And somehow, in my amazing capacity for denial, I had completely forgotten I still had any of them. So, like any good rubbernecker at an automobile accident, I simply had to browse through the mire and gaze in awestruck wonder at the sheer levels of CRAP to be found.

God help me, I owned a Nelson album.

After I was convinced to put the shotgun down, I pawed through the rest of the collection and found, of all things, an Alan Parson's Project album. Now, I don't remember ever having friends who actually liked Alan Parson's Project, and I know I never heard it on the radio, so I'm not entirely sure how it ever managed to worm it’s way into my collection. But, being the morbidly curious sort, I popped it into my CD player to see if it would spur repressed memories of abuse at the hands of progressive rock-loving Satanist cults.

Most of the album was fairly forgettable, but one song, "Oh Life (There Must Be More)" stood out to me. I found the image the song presented, a woman standing on the beach, water lapping around her feet as she lamented that life was so devoid of anything other than pain and misery, to be strangely compelling. For lack of a better term, it resonated with me… it gave me mad ideas. Thought about it for days. The images kept bubbling up in my mind at odd intervals. There was a story to be mined from this, yes, there was.

In short, inspiration, O'Malley-style. Or obsessive-compulsive disorder, take your pick.

Obviously, when the Muse strikes, there's only one thing to do: grab her by the hair, spank her soundly and yell, "WHO'S YOUR DADDY? WHO'S YOUR GODDAMN DADD...

ahem

That is, write everything down as quickly as possible before you lose it.

One of the great developments of this decade, for my mind, is the PDA and folding keyboard. I love my Palm Pilot madly. Not only do I love carrying around what amounts to a Tricorder in my pants pocket, having the keyboard lets me write anywhere I damn well please, without much of the inconveniences of actually having to lug around a laptop. Since I'm in the process of actually redeveloping having a social life, going out to do my writing gave me a convenient excuse to go and hang around in bars; the fact that it also had the convenient side-effect of bringing curious and occasionally attractive young women over to my table to see what I was doing had nothing to do with it, I swear. The point of this rather rambly side-note is that I was able to get a first draft down in about four day's time. Not bad for one's first serious attempt.

I also learned that one of my creative writing professors in college spoke great wisdom when he looked us all and gave us this truth: "Whenever you get stuck in a story, it's time to kill someone."

Some writers, like Warren Ellis or Larry Young, will tell you that the second draft is when you take the first draft and run the spell-checker over it, then pass it off to the artist. In my case, the second draft for The Bride consisted of my going back, looking at it and muttering "Oh. My." and making mental notes not to have quite so many Shiner Bocks when I'm writing. There was much editing of material, especially some obnoxious naval-gazing voice-overs and a particularly embarrassing and pretentious opening. Of course, I wonder why I bother, since once I moved from script to art, I frequently rewrote parts on the fly. I changed dialogue around so as to not clutter up my art more than is needed, or else I alter panel counts or cut pages to help the pacing. This is perhaps, one of the best parts of writing for yourself: the ability to change things around whenever the need presents itself.

It occurs to me that this is a habit that I'll need to lose if and when I ever start working with another writer; one of the first commandments of being a comic illustrator is Thou Shall Not Fuck With The Script.

Did I mention that, in addition to inspiration, my box of musical sins netted me a pretty penny at CD Exchange?

Thus, justification for having had truly frightening tastes in music when I was young and stupid: One comic, $120 and a very odd look from the counter-jockey. I just thank God that I didn't find that Tara Kemp CD instead...

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