PowellsBooks.Blog
Authors, readers, critics, media − and booksellers.

As with other digital books, publishers of comics and graphic novels are itching to know whether — or when — the tipping point will come.

The talk lately on the success of digital books focuses mostly on electronic readers. With the premier of the iPad in April, many folks think we're about to make the transition to purchase more e-books.

I think there are more hurdles to jump. The biggest one is price. Web consumers, who are accustomed to free or drastically reduced prices for content, expect the same of e-books, and more specifically e-comics. A common thought is that a printed book that costs $25 should cost far less digitally because there's no printing involved.

Publishers, on the other hand, note that the cost of printing books is only a part of publishing. There are other costs associated with putting together a book — paying the authors, editors, graphic designers, and promotion, to name a few. Those costs are constant no matter how the book is published, so even e-books cannot be published as cheap as some would expect.

Besides price, prose books and comics differ in another key aspect: delivery of content. In prose, content is delivered in words, so how they are presented is not so critical, as long as it's legible. With comics, the art is part of the content, so how it materializes in the e-format is essential.

Currently, a shortcoming of reading comics digitally is being able to display pages as they would appear in a printed book. In a print comic, you can fully appreciate the art on a full-page palette or in a two-page spread, allowing the reader to take in the panels as individual pieces as well as the page as a whole. In most cases, the traditional square-panels/grid format works best. But experimenting with paneling and layout in e-comics is usually difficult because it often requires the reader to toggle up and down the display, which is less than an ideal way to enjoy a comic.

New e-readers can overcome this problem by displaying full pages and making it easier to move between pages. And some free online comics, such as Act-i-vate Comix and What Things Do, are doing wonderful things with comics online. I especially like how WTD presents its comics using a continuous scroll.

I think with new e-readers, new online comics formats and attractive price points, consumers will take to buying e-comics

When looking for potential participants for the comics anthology Trickster: Native American Tales: A Graphic Collection, not everyone I contacted supported my efforts.

The director of a Native American program at one university — who was not Native American — was especially blunt: "What makes you think you have the right to do such a project?" She followed with a stern warning that I risked professional suicide by doing the project because most Native Americans would likely publicly deplore the book.

She went on to tell me that I ought to contact Joseph Bruchac, a well-known Native American storyteller and author from New York State, who would likely tell me the trouble I would stir.

I thanked her for her opinion and told her that I knew Joseph — in fact, I illustrated the story that he and his son James contributed to the anthology. There was silence. And then, "Oh, you know Joseph? OK, that's great! Well, I guess you've been vetted. We have to be careful about who makes books regarding Native Americans."

Although I understood her concern, I found it rather patronizing that she felt obligated to act as a gatekeeper. I had contacted her to inquire whether she knew of any Native American storytellers who might want to participate in this project, but she'd decided it was her obligation to determine whether she would convey the solicitation.

The storytellers who participated in the book — and others, both Native Americans and non-Native Americans who helped me find the right authors — understood that these types of stories are global. Every culture has trickster-type tales. I'm of European descent, and to say that only Polish people could work on a project related to Polish fairy tales is silly and rather exclusive. If anything, opening and allowing people of other cultures to participate in a project helps open dialogue and appreciation of cultures and promotes global unity.

To make Trickster truly authentic, it was imperative that the stories be written by Native American storytellers. After all, they've told the stories probably hundreds of times and they could instruct the artists about certain aspects of the stories that were critical to understand and convey. But was it critical for me, the editor and coordinator of the project, to be Native American? No, not as long as I did the best job I could to capture the essence of the stories and that the storytellers were happy with the visual interpretation of their tales.

Most of the artists in Trickster are also not of Native American descent. I had hoped to include more Native American artists, but the logistics of the project made it difficult. There were fewer artists willing to participate in the project because of the time commitment involved to render the stories, and there was no upfront payment for the work; everyone, including myself, would receive payments when the book was published — once we found a publisher. It was also hard to find Native American artists who do sequential art — i.e., comics book — so there was a limited pool to tap.

Another issue was that several Native American artists who initially expressed interest had to drop out for various reasons. This wasn't an issue specific to Native Americans; as a rule of thumb, I've found that about one-quarter of participants &dmash; writers and artists — who agree to participate in a comics anthology will drop out (and that's OK and expected).

However, I found the ethnic mix of artists in a way strengthened the book. Again, it conveyed a broad partnership and appreciation of Native American cultures. It wasn't just a Native American book by Native Americans for Native Americans. It's a Native American book by Native Americans and non-Native Americans for everyone. I'm proud to be involved in a project with that

Too often, new writers and comic artists working on their first project become disillusioned and give up when they can’t find a publisher.

If you need inspiration to keep plugging ahead, I have two stories that might help motivate you — the story behind the novel Tinkers, which was recently awarded the Pulitzer Prize, and to a lesser extent (but perhaps more likely to apply more broadly), a new book I edited and contributed to called Trickster: Native American Tales: A Graphic Collection.

Last week, I read an article in Publishers Weekly Book Expo America edition about the story behind Tinkers, a novel about the deathbed memories of a clock repairer. The author, Paul Harding, had tried for years to find a publisher for the book and even sought an agent, to no avail. He tabled his efforts for a while, until an acquaintance who had some work published inquired about Harding’s manuscript during a night out with friends. Harding gave a draft of the book to his friend, who relayed it to his publisher — who passed on it. However, the publisher did recommend sending it to a small independent publisher, Bellevue Literary Press, which did publish the book.

In April, Tinkers received the 2010 Pulitzer for fiction, which prompted the sale of tens of thousands of copies. A few days later, Harding received a fellowship from the Guggenheim Foundation. In addition, Harding now has a two-book deal with Random House (he had signed with the giant publisher late last year, but, hey, you have to roll it into the parade).

The story behind Trickster isn’t as dramatic, but it does show to a lesser extent that persistence pays off.

Initially, Trickster was going to be published by a small independent comics publisher. That publisher folded as the project was about half done, but another potential opportunity opened up. National Geographic was going to launch a new graphic novel line as part of its children’s book division, and the venerable publisher expressed interest in Trickster and another one of my books that had a nature focus.

Then, the economy tanked. And along with it, the publishing world imploded. National Geographic not only nixed the graphic novel line, but it also laid off the children’s book editor who was my contact there. In a truly altruistic response, the editor — even though she'd lost her job — put me in contact with one of her friends who is a well-known literary agent specializing in young adult and children’s books.

The agent agreed to send a PDF of the book to some contacts among the larger publishers. She reported that they liked the book but had two problems: First, they weren’t buying any new projects because they were freaked out about the spiraling economy. Second, they weren’t sure how they would market it.

So that was it. The news wasn’t promising. I had also sent copies of the book to a few independent comics publishers, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t fit it with their catalogs of books. Sure enough, I got a lot of nice compliments on the book, but they passed.

However, I wasn’t quite ready to call it quits. I had two more options: find a small press publisher or a university publisher. I researched which publishers in these two areas would be best to approach. I found Fulcrum Publishing in Golden, Colorado, which specializes in Native American, regionally focused, and quirky books. It seemed like it would be a good fit, so I sent a copy of the book and they indeed were interested. I also found two university press publishers interested in the book.

I opted to go with Fulcrum for a variety of reasons, mainly because of the types of books they published, their distribution, and the wonderful energy they conveyed.

Finding a publisher didn’t happen overnight, and there were plenty of opportunities for me to quit. I’m glad I didn’t, though. It’s been well worth the

My five-year-old son loves to draw, especially anything to do with Star Wars. I enjoy looking at his take on how some of the characters and starships look. The renderings may not be photorealistic or capture every aspect, but they are bold, personal, and thought-provoking.

I often run kids' comics-making workshops at schools and libraries in the greater Washington, D.C., area, and my favorite part of the class is seeing how children tackle making comics. Kids ? especially younger ones ? are aware of comics, but they often aren't aware of the parameters or the traditional structures of making comics.

For example, most comics include square panels, speech bubbles, and read from left to right, top to bottom. That's just the way they've been made historically and the way most people think they should approach creating and reading comics.

But kids in general don't know that or don't care. When they make a comic, they approach it from a personal perspective. Sometimes they'll use circles or triangles instead of squares for panels ? if they use panels at all. Or the dialogue will appear in free-floating text on a page instead of being wedged into a bubble or box. Sometimes the perspective will be completely off, but, strangely, it will work perfectly for the story.

When I look at these renderings, I think of artist Pablo Piscasso's famous quote: "Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up."

I didn't fully appreciate the premise behind that quote until I began to see how children make comics and art. There's a wonderful rawness, openness, and honesty to the way kids approach the world. Somewhere along the line, they are indoctrinated with the idea that standardization is best; in terms of comics: panels are square, dialogue appears in bubbles, and you follow a certain order.

As adults, artists often become aware of such conformity, whether in comics or other art. But even when they try to break free of those rules, it's not the same. Often when artists try to draw with the simplicity or directness of a child, it's to convey some principle or idea. Kids don't draw that way; they draw how they see things directly and typically don't dabble in symbolism. It is what it is.

There's another reason adult artists can't truly capture the essence of drawing like a child: It's impossible to regain innocence once you've lost it. For adults, there's too much water under the bridge to completely let go.

There is one way, though, that you can appreciate the charismatic energy of drawing like a child ? find comics and art made by a child. The next time you find yourself in a school or library that has posted art by children, take a few moments to take a closer look and appreciate it. (And if you can't swing it, I've attached a few recent drawings by my son.)

A few weeks ago, I received an email from a childhood friend. We periodically email each other — two or three times a year — so it wasn’t unusual. But when I opened the email, there was no message, just an ominous link.

I clicked on it and went directly to a brief article and two photos, one of a store front and another of the store’s front door. I zoomed in on a small, hand-written sign posted in the window: “The Bookie’s Final Chapter. Store Closing Sale. 20-50% Off.”

What my friend sent me was essentially an obit announcing the demise of an old friend to both of us. The Bookie, a shop in East Hartford, Conn., that fed our comic book habit—was closing down.

It had been years since I'd last thought about The Bookie. It wasn’t the most organized or well-lit shop — in fact, it wasn’t all that appealing aesthetically, especially by the standards of today’s comic stores. But my friend — who got me into reading and collecting comics books — and I weren’t into appearances; we just wanted to get the latest comics.

Nearly every Friday afternoon, we would take a 45-minute bike ride to the shop. If it looked like it might rain, we sometimes held our trek until the next day. But more often, we would gamble and bring a few plastic bags into which we’d stuff our comics to protect them. We’d follow the same procedure in the winter. (To free our hands to steer, we’d slip the bags under our shirt or jacket — the plastic also protected the books from sweat.)

We’d roll up to the bookstore and usually lock up our bikes on the handrails of the store steps, which didn’t really offer much security because they could be toppled with a half-hearted kick. (Years later, the store moved into a more sturdy building made of brick instead of wood — big, bad wolf, anyone?)

The exterior wasn’t much to talk about, but walking into the store was magical. We’d be hit with an aroma of book paper — mainly newsprint — and then make our way to a table stocked with the new shipment of comics. We’d scan the latest issues to find the series that we followed — Daredevil, X-Men, Thor, Fantastic Four — and try out some new titles — Alien Worlds, Judge Dredd, American Flagg! We’d also pick up any new work from our favorite creators at the time, such as Frank Miller, John Byrne, Allan Moore, and Bill Sienkiewicz.

We’d always put aside a few bucks to pick up comics in the “quarter box” — several long boxes that held second-hand, non-pristine comics that the store sold for 25 cents a piece. I browsed through looking for hidden gems; sometimes I’d find comics with covers by favorite comic artists such as Neal Adams, Bernie Wrightson, or Steve Ditko. My friend would thumb through looking for a complete or near-complete series, picking up the entire line of issue of Devil Dinosaur and Godzilla, to name a few.

As my comics addiction grew, so did my collector’s impulses — buying first issues of a series, buying comics by the hottest artists or the more popular titles, as well as collecting back issues to fill the gaps in my collection.

Eventually, it became a bit much. And as a teen preparing to head off to college, various interests competed for my disposable income — dates, music, and gasoline for weekend excursions to the beach.

My interest in comics began to fade, and by the time I went to college, it had disappeared. It lay dormant for 15 years, until I met my wife, Carol. On our first date, she told me she was reading a graphic novel collection called Sandman. I told her I used to read comics and even drew some self-published comics.

When I got home that night, I went to the basement and dug out a long box of my favorite comics. I thumbed through a bunch of them — The Dark Knight Returns, Watchmen, Ronin. I stopped at Swamp Thing. This was my favorite series at the time I stopped collecting. I sat down and enjoyed the far-out storytelling of Alan Moore and the exquisite art of Stephen Bissette and John Totleben.

I was hooked again.

Nine years later, I’m still making and reading comics, but I’ve focused on independent publishers and only graphic novels, trade collections, and self-published and creator-made mini-comics. It’s interesting how it’s come full circle. And getting that email about The Bookie closing stirred up memories of how it all began. See ya, old