THE WORD (La Palabra: originally published
in Dentro de la Viñeta – the Spanish journal of comics)
#2 “THE HORROR”
So,
for two years you have been working with an editor to develop a concept, a set
of characters and a scenario which can sustain a monthly comic book series for
what you hope will be an indefinite period of time.
You
have struggled heroically to mine the insane reality that you inhabit and
extract and refine the vague hopes, fears and ideas with which you hope to fuel
your inspiration; to trap them in sentences that demonstrate a strong
commercial potential and a dramatic structure solid enough to convince the
publisher to invest the money necessary to produce your work.
You
know that 90% of what you have written is bullshit; that the solid dramatic
structure is built on the shifting sands of illusion; that the carefully
plotted "initial story-lines" and emotionally engaging
"character motivations" are ultimately phony, and that surely anyone
must see that the marvelous architecture you propose can never be viable in
reality.
But
the suckers believe you. They buy it.
An
artist is employed and makes plans to sustain his family with the earnings your
madness promises to generate. Advance
publicity is embarked upon. The title of
your masterpiece is disseminated amongst the comic community. The work becomes a reality in the minds of
readers and fellow creators before you have even written the first panel
direction and faltering, throat-clearing copy.
The
longer you delay, now, the heavier the terrible weight of expectation presses
over you. You have to begin. You have reach out to that raw, ugly lump of
clay before you, dig in your clumsy, brutish fingers and form it into a
pleasing shape, breathe life into it, animate it, set it walking and talking,
interacting with the world…
But
first you must answer your e-mails, roll cigarettes, brew a gallon of fresh
coffee. And then your desk must be
cleared, the virus-killer updated on your computer, the plants watered, the
office redecorated, the park walked around, the car serviced, most of the money
in your bank account spent to provide the final stimulus of necessity.
A
week later, the clay remains a crude incoherent monster, the carefully titled
word-processor file is still empty and The Horror sets in.
The
idea is unworkable. The plot is a
deranged mess of soggy spaghetti. Maybe
you had talent once, but you are burned out now. The Word that empowered you has fled to
inhabit a finer mind. You are a
fraud. Admit it! Forget pride!
Give up now! Crawl off and die!
But
it was for this moment of despair, experienced so many times before, that you
taped the words of James Joyce below the screen of your computer. You read them now, lighting a cigarette and
taking a deep nicotine breath of resolve:
"Write,
damn you! What the hell else are you
good for!"
You
obey. Your fingers trembling fingers
stalk the keyboard, hunting and pecking, developing confidence, getting a taste
for the flavor of the words and shuffling them into sentences, rolling them
around the tongue.
Unconsciously,
you slip into your story… and it slips into you.
War Baby is burning and
running naked through a napalm curtain.
She is beautiful. Billy Bad News
reaches out for her.
Ten-thousand miles
away, his father's ancient bad-evil heart beats in perfect rhythm with his
own. Ten feet behind him, in the
gun-door of a hovering Huey, Kid Gloves hikes his balls and beckons him,
reptilian, to his execution.
War Baby keeps running,
leaving skin-tatters curling on Billy's hands; rags of virgin parchment too
small to write on, even if there was anything left to say.
Later,
you read back these first sentences and realize that the clay has taken pity on
you, forced itself into rude life and identified itself through speech. Your first character lives and is holding out
his hand, offering to lead you into the endless possibilities of his
story…
What
could be easier? Just throw away your
maps and follow where he, and the other
characters he introduces you to, lead you.
You don't need a plot. You don't
need to be constrained by your foolish promises. The story already exists in its own
reality. You just have to discover it,
travelling hopefully, taking notes as you go.
How
could you have doubted? How could you
have forgotten that The Word is your friend?
Trust it: it will not lead you astray, abandon you alone and struck dumb
in some cul de sac of Babel…
Everything
will be okay, now. Honestly, it will…
©2000
Jamie Delano