John Martz

Posts tagged “writing”

Every Wednesday I just clear everything, sit down, and trip.
Yes, you’re going to write some sketches that you love and are proud of forever—your golden nuggets. But you’re also going to write some real shit nuggets. You can’t worry about it. As long as you know the difference, you can go back to panning for gold on Monday.
There’s no real backstory, there’s no complicated explanation about why a kid is hanging out with a talking dog, there’s no theoretical limits placed on Finn and Jake’s adventures, apart from a unique set of basic, malleable physics. It just is, and that’s the kind of unrestrained, uncomplicated storytelling that makes it beautiful.

Collin David, by way of Frederator - “Why Adventure Time is the Ultimate Cartoon”

I’ve been thinking about this sort of thing a lot lately. I’m a firm believer in respecting the intelligence of your reader or audience. I also believe that not everything needs a backstory, or an explanation, or to be spelled out and telegraphed home.

I am reminded of an interview with Harold Ramis in which he explained how the studio heads wanted Groundhog Day to include a scene that explained why Bill Murray was trapped in a repeating time loop — a scene that involved a jilted ex-lover and a voodoo curse. I know, right? Obviously, this was ultimately discarded. And not only does the movie not suffer from its omission, it is a stronger and smarter movie because of it.

I recently revisited Superbrothers’ Less Talk, More Rock essay on the language of video games. It’s a thoughtful piece about how to communicate ideas and emotions effectively in games by eliminating the “disruptive talk” — the exposition, the hand-holding, and the noise. I think it’s a solid philosophy for all creative work.

When I first saw The Wizard of Oz it made a writer of me. Many years later, I began to devise the yarn that eventually became Haroun and the Sea of Stories, and felt strongly that if I could strike the right note it should be possible to write the tale in such a way as to make it of interest to adults as well as children: or, to use the phrase beloved by blurbists, to ‘children from seven to seventy’. The world of books has become a severely categorized and demarcated affair, in which children’s fiction is not only a kind of ghetto but one subdivided into writing for a number of different age groups.
Salman Rushdie, The Wizard of Oz
Names and labels don’t matter much. Besides, there are things that cannot be said in words. So if you say them in pictures, are they not things being said? If I draw a hill that looks like a woman, it works differently than if I write ‘there’s a hill that looks like a woman.’
Writing and drawing are thinking. We’re told in school that they are skills but that’s wrong. Drawing is a way of thinking. It’s a way of seeing.
Chris Ware, quoted in The Comics of Chris Ware: Drawing is a Way of Thinking, a book of critical essays on his work.
When a new idea enters the cultural consciousness, it seems as if every cartoonist is there to pounce on it at the same time, but we all think we’re the first one. We all thought of swines getting the human flu and we all thought Lincoln would have Tweeted the Gettysburg Address. Half of my good ideas, it seems, have already been thought of by somebody else, and many of the ideas I think are so fantastic are really just awful ideas that only appear fantastic in the moment because they are mine.
The metaphor is often more understandable than the real thing.
We cartoonists should all be selling shoes. Everybody needs shoes. And there’s no mystery in shoes. You want black? High heel? Here! No one ever looks at the shoe and says, “What is this shoe trying to say? Does it have a unique voice? Is it funny in an ironic way, or is it just clever-funny?” Nobody picks up a shoe and says, “I can make a better shoe than that!

Nick Lowe on style

I’ve been using Huffduffer to bookmark found audio into a custom podcast. Tonight I re-listened to an interview with songwriter Nick Lowe. His thoughts on developing a style—and how affectations eventually meld together into something original—apply to any creative endeavour, cartooning included.

Obviously, like everybody, your first efforts are really just rewrites of your heroes’ songs. It’s basically the same song with a couple of words changed. And you get very keen on somebody. And then you use them up. You sort of rewrite all their stuff, and you move on to somebody else, and do the same to them—rewrite all their stuff. And somebody else comes along, and you do it them.

And then one day, you’ll put a little bit of the first person, whose songs you all rewrote, into your latest fad, and you have a little touch of these two things going on. And then maybe a third element will come in on a song you’re writing. So you’ll have three different influences in there. And then the more you do it … ‘Cause  it’s all been done. It’s all been written. There is nothing new under the sun, especially nowadays. Absolutely nothing. But what IS new is the way you tell it, and eventually, you have so many influences in a song, that it just turns into a new style.

This might be what makes one a cartoonist; not a facility for combining art and language, but an inability to decide which one you’d rather be using.

Conquering writer’s block

I sat down this afternoon to fill in the missing holes of a story for a comic that has been occupying my thoughts for the last six months. It has otherwise been in a perpetual state of nearly-there-but-not-quite. Every time I sat down to piece it into completion, I found myself blocked, often avoiding the thing entirely.

Today I unplugged the Internet. I broke the story down onto post-its, and laid it out visually on my drawing table, rather than continue to stare at the same words on my computer. I could instantly see which holes needed to be filled, which elements were misplaced, and got a birds-eye view at the beats and rhythm of the pages. Two hours later, I had whittled sixty pages of story down to twenty-three, and have every panel accounted for.

Austin Kleon shares this advice from Dan Roam’s The Back of the Napkin, which sums up my afternoon of story-hacking perfectly.
The third step was crucial; it wasn’t until the pieces were arranged on more than a single, linear axis that I saw what needed fixing, what was missing, and what needed to go.

Austin Kleon shares this advice from Dan Roam’s The Back of the Napkin, which sums up my afternoon of story-hacking perfectly.

The third step was crucial; it wasn’t until the pieces were arranged on more than a single, linear axis that I saw what needed fixing, what was missing, and what needed to go.