Everything you’ve already been seeing here. Articles and amusements about the comic book and prose publishing industry, and my odd place in it.

What will be in the paid section?

New prose stories, usually in the form of serialized novels. We’ll begin with a chapter-by-chapter serialization of my prose adventure novel, Outrider Book One: The Giant, the Witch, and the Warlord (the title being an intentional wink to another popular C S Lewis adventure.

Novels and stories here will be posted (published?) before they are published and printed elsewhere. Although, from time to time, I may republish old short stories which are (mostly) forgotten, or were never widely seen.

The entire novel, along with its two sequels (called Outrider Books Two and Three) have been completed, so as to avoid any concerns as to whether or not the story will ever languish unfinished. It’s done. They are done (even though I confess I’ve already begun writing Book Four, which will be a stand-alone addition to the legend of the Outrider.

Most chapters and stand-alone stories will be accompanied by some sort of original illustration, drawn by me. The rate at which I produce the illustrations will no-doubt establish the frequency at which the next new chapter gets posted. But I won’t let you hang too long before each new chapter.

What then?

Once one novel has been fully serialized here, then we here at Cool Story Command will have said novel collected and published in book form for a wider readership. At the same time Book Two will begin its serialization here, and so on. This guarantees folks subscribing here will get things first.

But Wait! There’s more…

I’ll post more information soon, and detail a few things I skipped over or truncated in this initial announcement. I’m considering letting Founding Member subscribers have first dibs on original artwork that appears here, or when I next do commissions. Is that something you might like? Let me know. Also do hit me in the comments area with any questions you might have.

Thank you.

Bill

Captain America (speaking to the others): Okay then, when I say “go,” we all go together, except Whizzer. You count to ten and then start running to catch up.

Namor: So the rest of us aren’t left behind, right, once he starts running?

Captain America: Correct.

Human Torch: What about us flying guys? We can fly a lot faster than you can run, Cap. We’d leave you behind too.

Captain America: Noted. Okay, new orders: When I say go, I’ll start running alone, while the rest of you, meaning those who fly, count to five. Then you start flying. In the meantime, Whizzer counts to fifteen before he starts running. At some vital moment, even if it’s only for the briefest of instances, we’ll all be more or less at the same place, charging forward heroically, for the best possible cover.

Whizzer: Assuming the cover artist can draw fast enough.

Captain America: He has a high-speed camera, to take a snap for reference.

Whizzer: “High speed?” Compared to me? Okay, Cap, don’t look at me like that. I won’t run full out. I’ll jog, or maybe even trot. Something like a fast mosey. If he’s really on the ball, the kid will get the shot he needs.

Cliffside Rumination

Yes, like everyone else who shares an interest in the kinds of things we’re interested in, I saw the relatively new trailer for the upcoming Lanterns TV show. While I neither loved nor hated it (my passions for superhero shows having diminished over the past few years), one sequence in the trailer caught my attention enough to consider it worth my time to comment… and maybe even opine.

First, we must back up a few years, to describe what the sensationalists might call the “inciting incident.” During the heyday of DC’s ongoing publication of my Fables comic series, as I often did, I had occasion to visit their offices, when said offices were still located in Manhattan. I was in town to deal with some sort of business involving Fables. As part of our day, Vertigo editors Karen Berger and Shelly Bond were taking me (along with a couple of other Vertigo-related freelancers) out to lunch. As we were headed out the door, a group of DC execs, editors, and maybe a couple of freelancers were just then coming in the door, having gone to lunch (meals out in NYC being the place where real business is often done. Plans are hatched. Schemes are schemed).

In the brief scrum at the door, with folks going out colliding or maneuvering around folks coming in, Geoff Johns, one of the DCU group, recognized me and breathlessly took me aside to quickly explain an epiphany he’d just had. This was years ago, so I paraphrase here (but accurately, I think):

“I finally figured out Hal Jordan,” Geoff said. He was the BIG guy at writing the directing the course of the Green Lantern characters at that time. Also note that this wasn’t a complete “out of the blue” non-sequitur. Knowing Green Lantern was one of my all-time favorites in the DCU while growing up, Geoff and I had enjoyed more than one previous conversation about Hal Jordan and the extended GL gang.

Geoff went on to say, “Not only is he fearless, but he has no hesitation. He’s the kind of guy who’d throw himself off of cliff and then figure out what to do about it on the way down.”

At the time, from context implied by the excited utterance, I assumed Geoff meant Hal Jordan wouldn’t be wearing his power ring at the time. I didn’t have time to ask, because, as I said, we were going out while they were coming in, and I had to catch up to my group, who were hungry while patiently waiting for me. If Hal Jordan had his ring, then throwing himself off of a cliff would involve no jeopardy whatsoever, the ring being the ultimate tool whose top priority was to preserve the wearer’s life. So then, it had to be a case of no ring handy, but he’s still willing to go over the cliff.

In the process of one group coming in, and the other going out, we didn’t get to discuss the details of Geoff’s epiphany. Nor was I able in our short encounter to find a politic way to mention I disagreed with his assessment. It was neither the time nor place.

But the moment stuck with me and I presumed we’d have time later to discuss it more thoroughly. We never did, and seriously, folks, in the grand scheme of things, was it really all that important?

Geoff was driving the big Green Lantern machine back then, and, judging by the overall quality of the books, making many good (and sometimes great) decisions, while I was just a guy on the sidelines who still sort of liked the character(s). By that time Geoff, and the stalwarts with whom he created, had pulled GL out of the dismal dregs of the Emerald Twilight fiasco,1 in which Hal Jordan went totally bonkers and turned evil. Geoff and his gang of talented creators redeemed a great character, for which I remain grateful.

So then, let me be candid that this extended note is not an indictment of Geoff Johns, just because we disagreed on some unimportant aspect of storytelling. It’s not intended that way. Every writer is going to have his own take on a character and story. That’s just the way it is.

Getting back to our subject, now let’s flash forward to today, and the new Lanterns trailer. The more clever among you have already figured out where I’m going.

In the trailer, there’s a scene where a crusty old Hal Jordan, long time veteran of the Green Lantern Corps, is training his apprentice (replacement perhaps?) GL candidate John Stewart. One of the things he does in said training is to send Stewart over a cliff in a speeding car (which Stewart wasn’t driving), to plunge to his death, unless Stewart was able to figure out what to do about it on the way down.

Immediately, on seeing that scene, I wondered if the fanciful incident described so many years ago by Geoff Johns hadn’t made its way to the new show writers, passed down through the misty ages and forgotten generations, until they chose to make use of it in the new TV series.

Ideas are sometimes hardy things, that persist. That’s basically my point, if point I truly have. I warned you it wasn’t anything earthshaking in importance. Just an interesting (to me at least) observation.

On to the Rest

Let’s treat all of the above as preamble; an excuse to publicly ruminate over what I might have said to Geoff in that doorway encounter, if I’d had the opportunity (and the time to be properly diplomatic about it). You may rightly ask, “Okay then, Mr. big talking Willingham, if his take on the character was wrong, what’s your take?”

Since you asked…

At a comic convention in Dallas I once had to opportunity to interview Martin Nodell, who was the original creator of Green Lantern. this was during a comic panel, devoted to me interviewing him.

Durning the interview of course I had to ask him how he came up with the idea for the character. Here, as best I can recall,2 is his answer (once again, many years have passed, and I paraphrase):

“I was a young artist looking for work. A friend told me the folks at National Comics (which later became National/Detective Comics, and then DC Comics) were looking for freelancers, so I got on the train into Manhattan and went up to see them. While I was there they told me all about Superman and Batman, and said you need to come up with your own character and pitch it to us. Then they sent me home. On the train home, I was trying to think of an idea. We were paused on the underground tracks because there was construction. They had the lights on in the tunnel and I could see them working. I could also see the red lights up ahead along the tracks, indicating it wasn’t safe to proceed. After a while, one by one, all of the red lights ahead of us turned green, and we were able to continue safely. That’s when I got my idea for a character. When the green light shines, you’re safe. When bystanders are in trouble but then they look up and see the green light, they know then they’re safe.”

That’s it. The idea was simple and elegant (as the best ideas usually are). When the Green Lantern arrives, you’re saved. That was the absolute foundational stone on which to build all the rest. Over the years to come others made changes and added details. Green Lantern was no longer a single individual, but one of an interplanetary order of paladins, space cops wielding the ultimate power. But the additions and changes didn’t alter the basic foundation: When the Green Lanterns arrive, you’re now safe.

But then, they had to change that too. Due largely to the books being put out by the competition over at Marvel Comics, the age of complicated, hard luck, oft-failing heroes was upon us, and some of those over at DC decided to make adjustments in order to catch up with the new way. Green Lantern was no exception. In fact, it could be argued his character was the one (one of the two, actually) who led the way into converting DC’s roster of characters into grim, hard-traveling heroes,3 just like those other guys over at Marvel.

Green Lantern and Green Arrow teamed up in an ongoing series. Its central idea was, Green Lantern is a fuddy-duddy conservative who’s always wrong, while his frenemy Green Arrow is an angry liberal firebrand, who’s always right. Yes, that’s a simplification, but not by much. In order to make the team-up work, Green Lantern had to lose most of his nearly god-like power, so he couldn’t constantly overshadow his pal who had trick arrows. Seriously, they even had a panel where Green Lantern’s green beam petered out before it could reach whatever it was being shot at in the not-too-distant background. Don’t get me wrong, it was an impressive series simply by virtue of the artist Neal Adams’ amazing pages, but the stories, although dressed in the gritty causes of the day, were terrible.4 More to the point of this article, Green Lantern was forever after no longer a guarantee of safety. He was just another hero wannabe screwup.

Later on, since the Neal Adams/Denny O’Neil run established him as an oft-dithering idiot, subject to occasional tantrums, and with a moribund creative and editorial staff, out of ideas on what to do with yet another of their overpowered heroes, it was almost inevitable they’d turn him evil5, so as to finish the job of breaking the character.

You’re digressing too much. Get back to the thing with the cliff. What’s your problem with it, Willingham?

Easy. It’s reckless.

In his early days, Hal Jordan wasn’t a reckless character. In fact, possessed of a weapon that could potentially destroy worlds, he was anything but. As a test pilot, yes he was brave and willing to risk his life in order to test the latest iteration of some fighter jet (so as to find out its dangers before other pilots have to rely on the machine — see? Even then his main motivation was to make others safe). But, contrary to what the movie and TV thrillers would have you believe, test pilots seem to be a careful bunch. Their risks are calculated. They aren’t Mavericks, playing entirely by their own rules, and taking risks on a whim, they’re Ice Men, cold, careful, and calculating.

Hal Jordan was careful. He wielded a power that put lowly nukes to shame and he wasn’t going to let it corrupt him, or take his responsibility lightly.

That’s the core of the character. That’s what makes him tick. Bailing out of a speeding car, headed for a cliff, in order to put your trainee in sudden maximum jeopardy, with nothing but a, “I hope you figure out something on the way down,” in parting isn’t very heroic in my opinion.

And reckless heroes aren’t interesting, much less inspiring.

Bill Willingham: Ideally? They’re for anyone who wants to read them. No, don’t look at me like that. I’m not trying to be flippant and certainly not dismissive. But I don’t write for any particular audience. I wouldn’t begin to know how one does that, so I don’t even have the tools to judge those who can write to a specific readership. The only standards I’ve ever been able to bring to the table, when deciding what to write, is a muddled mix of what I want to write, and what I think might make an entertaining story. I think the standard explanation of my practice in writing, is the old saw, “Write for yourself,” meaning write with my tastes in mind. And that’s fine and dandy, as far as it goes, but I know damn few people (much less fellow writers) who only have one set of tastes. My concept of what makes a good story varies widely, from one day to the next, only depending on what I’m in the mood for. So I guess I write what I’m in the mood for now, and hope it doesn’t alter wildly before I can bring the story to a close. When I wrote the adventure novel Down the Mysterly River, I had no idea it was a children’s book. I simply wrote the story I felt like writing at the time, perhaps with the spirit of CS Lewis hovering just out of sight ahead of me, to give me a target to aim for. I wanted to write a smart and kind protagonist sharing an adventure with a bunch of talking animals. That’s it. When my agent Ken eventually placed the novel with TOR Books, that’s when I found out it was a children’s (or young readers) book, because they told me it was. I didn’t know that’s what I’d written, but they did. However, anecdotally at least, I’ve had good responses from many an older reader who enjoyed Mysterly, so maybe it’s a children’s book that isn’t only for children. Maybe the Outrider trilogy is a book for fans of sword and sorcery, but not only for them. Maybe there’s calories in there to suit other palates as well.

TM: Won’t that make it hard for those at your new publisher who now have the job of finding an audience for the Outrider books?

BW: Well… sure. Finding a reader and selling a book to him is hard, which is one of the reasons I’m happy to have the Raconteur people take on the responsibility of doing it.

TM: Any particular instructions or helpful ideas to get them started?

BW: Sure. I would advise them to use the Bullwinkle template. I presume you’d seen episodes of the old Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon show?

TM: Of course.

BW: Just like most others of my age, I first watched the show when I was a young tyke and found it hilarious and wonderful. It was exactly the show aimed specifically at a young child’s immature, unformed tastes and understanding. Then, later on, in my adulthood, I had occasion to watch those shows again and discovered something: There was also material in those cartoons specifically aimed at old farts, and their well-formed tastes, understanding, and humor. It was there all along, unknown to the child me (all of that stuff went over my head without me ever suspecting stuff I wasn’t getting), but waiting for the adult me to come along. Did those Bullwinkle cartooning geniuses plan it that way from the beginning, or were they just a creative pack of wild beasts whose main remit was to make things they found interesting and amusing, with the confidence there were enough others like them out there to constitute a viable audience? I have no idea, but it worked. The lesson then is, build stories that cross barriers of age, interests, and genre sensibilities, as long as it conforms to these two rules: A) make it the best story of which you’re capable, and B) don’t write down to those whom you might perceive the readership to be (you’d be surprised how many professional story creators have contempt for their perceived audience — but fortunately for us, they’re all being kept busy making superhero movies just now).

TM: And maybe point C) should be: find ways to get your books in front of potential readers.

BW: Yes, but now that’s a task for the Pros-from-Dover I’ve teamed with. Not only do they have the skills I lack, but their enthusiasm to do that part of the business is inspiring. Of the most important qualities I looked for, in seeking a publisher for these books, enthusiasm might have been the most important. Okay, honesty counted for a lot as well, so call it enthusiasm and honesty. Oh, and dedication. They demonstrated to my satisfaction they’re in this for the long run. They aren’t just a group of people dabbling for a while in book publishing, until something more interesting comes along. They plan to be doing this for years to come — which we’ll read as more years than I likely have left to worry about it. In any case, that’s the list: enthusiasm, honesty, and long range dedication.

TM: I’m curious about the name Outrider. How did you come up with it?

BW: Serially. The first time I used the name Outrider was in collaboration with the late, great comics writer Peter B Gillis. We co-created the character to feature as a backup for 1First Comic’s flagship comic series called Warp. In that case, circa 1981 or 821, at the very beginning of my comics drawing career, the Outrider was an adventurer in outer space. That character appeared in a few backups, but nothing more.

BW: I thought there was more that could have been done, specifically with such a compelling name for an action-adventure character, so I tucked the name away. The next time I used the name was in 1998 for a villain character in the comic series Pantheon, which I created and wrote for Bill Williams’2 comics company Lone Star Press. Good enough, for a second use of the name, but it still wasn’t enough to be worth the name. So I tucked it away for a second time.

BW: Third time’s a charm. Now, at last, I feel I have a character with enough gravitas and longevity to really do right by Outrider. I predict this one will have some staying power?

TM: Staying power beyond the first three books? I guess this is my nosey way of asking, does the character survive the trilogy?

BW: No comment.

TM: Robert E Howard wrote 21 Conan stories. Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote 24 Tarzan novels, not to mention his appearances in other novels in ERB’s extended fictional universe.

BW: Noted.

TM: I’m just saying, if you expect the Outrider to have Conan-level staying power, or Tarzan level… well, it seems the low twenties is the minimum number of stories to have a reasonably good chance to earn a lasting place in the pop-culture zeitgeist.

BW: So I’ll still be writing Outrider stories in my nineties? You’re being so very helpful.

TM: Since we should think about wrapping this up, is there anything else you’d like to say to whoever manages to find this article?

BW: Yes, please. I’d like to ask everyone who reads this interview to consider picking up and reading the three Outrider books when they come out, beginning early next year. No doubt you’ve heard that all three books are completed, and in the process of being prepared for publication. This is true. There’s no chance you’ll have to wait for years, for the story to come to completion. But more importantly, I believe it’s a good adventure story, perhaps even a great one, that won’t waste your valuable investments of time and money. I invite you to consider it, when the books come out. And if you decide it’s not your cup of tea3, then thank you anyway, for reading this far.

Terrible Mayhew: I was just about to tell you, you have tzatziki sauce spilled on your shirt. And you were just about to tell me all about Raconteur Press and what made you choose them to publish your series.

BW: Right. Well, first of all, let’s back up a bit. At the height of the comic book series Fables’ popularity I had received several invitations from many well-known publishers to write novels for them (which I automatically translated ‘for us’ to mean, ‘you write and we’ll publish’). I’d not really done prose work by then, at least not work meant for publication.1 I couldn’t attempt to exploit those offers just then for two reasons. First, I was intimidated to attempt writing a full novel for a major book publisher. Second, I simply didn’t have the time at the time. Writing Fables took up most of my creative energy, because I tried every issue to spend it all. I felt Fables deserved every erg of creative sweat I was able to manufacture, leaving it all on the table, as the saying goes. My standard response was to hand the offers over to my agent (I had an agent at the time), saying something along the lines of, “Ken, I’m interested in this offer, but not yet. See what the deal might be for some day in the not-too-distant future.” Long story short: I put off any serious effort towards writing novels until Fables came to a close. But by then all those major publishers had moved on. The moment it ended Fables, it seemed, was yesterday’s news, and so was I. No longer represented by an agent by the end of Fables,2 I tried knocking on those big publisher doors, and calling them on the phone, to let them know I was ready to begin, but the enthusiastic offers of previous years had all expired. May I digress a bit here?

TM: By all means.

BW: Most of those publishers wouldn’t deal with a writer directly. It was, and remains, their policy to only deal through an agent (even if they’d shown interest and in some cases even tendered offers before), so there was no joy to be found there. Those few of the so-called major publishers who were reluctantly willing to accept unagented submissions had truly draconian submission methods. I’m sure they did it to cut down on the number of manuscripts to hit their slush files, hoping to get the stack down to a manageable level, but their way of discouraging submissions (while still allowing them) were dismissive, arrogant, and just downright mean. It’s as if every publisher selected their most martinet editor to craft their submissions guidelines, with universal variations on, “If you don’t submit your manuscript in exactly the way we say, we’ll dispose of it unread, after first rendering it down into wet pulp and feeding that mush to our basement goblins. Then, once they shit it out, we ship that manure to our punishment farm, where all of our enslaved surviving former editors (who were told they were bound for a lovely senior retirement village) are forced to stomp, stomp, stomp, that brown substance into mud bricks destined for one of our building subsidiaries. And yes, if those hapless thralls don’t work hard enough, our overseers punish them by ordering them to, “make bricks without straw.” So don’t you dare try submitting anything without jumping gleefully and humbly through every hoop we can think of constructing as an impediment to your hopes and dreams.”

TM: Ouch. You’re a man with opinions.

BW: I may have exaggerated a touch, but the fact remains, they immediately come across as elite, arrogant, and unpleasant. The submission process often being any given writer’s first exposure to the publisher, why would any writer ever want to work with such people?

TM: They do need to winnow down the herd of submissions though.

BW: Granted. I remember a span of a year or two when DC Comics announced they would no longer accept comic series ideas from anyone outside the company. Talking about the new policy once with Paul Levitz, who was (I believe) Editor in Chief at the time, he explained the decision this way: “If it’s not quite an act of desperation, it’s close. It’s our way to cut the vast number of submissions down to a trickle of only those who won’t take no for an answer. And what continues to come in, despite our adamant ‘don’t do it’ is still more than we can handle.” So yes, I can see the need to trim down the aegean stables amount of unsolicited stuff that comes over the transom, but here’s the rub: You can find a way to be kinder about it. You pretend to be a professional publishing house, whose editors purportedly are highly skilled in recognition and cultivation of the best writing available. With that premise, you’d think one of them could write a better way of communicating a more reasonable set of instructions. You’d think they could be kinder.

TM: Unless they don’t want to be kind.

BW: Exactly. My experience at an uncountable number of conventions, encountering a vast array of editors, representing any number of publishing houses, has led me to one inescapable conclusion: The average editor3 all too quickly reveals himself to be a smug, superior being (often dumb as a bag of hammers, but that’s a whole ‘nother problem); whose superiority most often is a badly-worn costume to mask an inferiority complex deep and wide, in which one could float an invasion armada. They can’t risk anyone finding out how scared and fragile they really are. Therefore they’re mean because that’s what they choose to be.

TM: I suspect we’re circling in on what made you choose Raconteur.

BW: We are. Strap in for just a bit longer and we’ll get there.

BW: Undaunted by the closed doors at the many publishing houses, I wrote prose novels and published them myself, under my Mount Pelion imprint.

TM: “Mount Pelion, where heroes are born?” While scouring your messy writing desk for loose change, I saw the line on one of your add mock-ups.

BW: Yes, that’s the one. I was content to do it myself, with the understanding I’m a terrible salesman and marketer. And any sort of self-promotion usually only embarrasses me, so there wasn’t ever going to be much success along the line of getting my novels into the hands of readers. Let me digress again to note most of us in the creative fields tend to dismiss those who’re proficient at self-promotion as little more than sleazy carnival barkers (and some are exactly that bad, but not all, by any means). Done judiciously, and with a modicum of humility and humor, never taking yourself too seriously, it’s a skill set worth having. I wish I had more of a knack for doing it. If you’re going to self-publish, you’re the company. You’re it. No one else is going to do it for you.

TM: So you muddled along and…

BW: Out of the blue someone at a toy and merchandising company, wanting to get deeper than they’d done so far into actual publishing, offered me the chance to write a novel, or a series of novels, based on a character they owned. The character was a blank slate, only a set of cool images, so I could more or less write what I wanted, as long as it was done well. Long story short, I took more than a year off of my working life, wrote the three novels and turned them in. The head honcho of this company claimed to love them and accepted them for publication. We moved along to the contract stage of the process. Unfortunately, their contract was one I could never sign. We tried negotiating, but after several back and forth sessions, it was clear they weren’t going to back away from too many key conditions that I considered unfair (and which the entire publishing world would agree were unfair, were I to make their proposed contracts public).

TM: Hampered by an NDA?

BW: No, I’m hampered by courtesy. I learned never again to sign an NDA many years ago. No matter how one tries to dress it up, an NDA is ever only a tool of abuse, used by villains to enable cheating and other outrages against fair-minded partners.

TM: Care to name names?

BW: No, but only because they aren’t villains, deserving of public rebuke. New publishers often fall prey to overly ambitious lawyers, who attempt to grab everything for their client at the expense of the other party, whom they don’t represent and for whom they have no obligations. I believe this impasse was a case of that. They’re a most excellent manufacturing company and I wish them well. I hope, if they continue in publishing, they’ll eventually learn how to offer a fair deal.

TM: So that deal fell through. How were you able to take the three novels back? Was there a dispute over ownership?

BW: No, because I owned everything I wrote. I rewrote the three books, taking out anything that remotely might be considered to belong to the afore-mentioned company, and their IP. I created a new main character from the ground up. Everything else, the world, a host of other characters, the story and situations, were things I’d created out of whole cloth. Since their contribution was limited to a set of images, it was an easy job to remove anything they owned, or might later lay claim to. In fact, I was able to improve the main character immeasurably, by putting back all the things they asked me along the way to take out. I’d list what those things are, but they’re (hopefully) interesting surprises waiting for readers in the story.

TM: Then you went looking for a new publisher?

BW: Yes. I was in no hurry though. Ever since I tried to retire from the writing business, I’ve never been busier. When a writer retires, it doesn’t mean he stops writing. It only means now he’s free to only write (or sometimes draw in my case) what he wants. Do you know what that does for him?

TM: I suspect so, but do tell.

BW: It immediately frees up all the time he once had to spend pitching story ideas to other people (usually people with no creative or story instincts of their own), trying to convince them to let you do the story you dearly want to do, and (often) instead having to settle for the story they want you to do. It’s like immediately getting an extra six months back out of every year. So yes, I went looking for a new publisher, but slowly and carefully.

TM: Why didn’t you self-publish the trilogy, like with some of your other novels?

BW: Call this an experiment. I wanted to see if there was a small company of scrupulously ethical people who are tickled to do all of the things I don’t want to do, such as print books and market them with giddy enthusiasm.

TM: And you found such a publisher?

BW: I did. Now we’re at last talking about the intrepid men and women of Raconteur Press.

TM: Let’s explore this further, but perhaps in a third installment. Making our conversation its own trilogy, if you will. I want to discuss the potential readers of this epic. Shall we reconvene tomorrow, or the next day?

BW: Yes, please.

Terrible Mayhew: Why prose for your next big project?

Bill Willingham: Prose because it was too big a story for a comic story. If I attempted to do it as comics, it would have been a “limited” series of a hundred issues or more. Having recently (at least ‘recently’ in continental drift terms) completed the long running Fables comic book series, I don’t believe I have another comic work of epic length left in me. Nor are there many Mark Buckinghams out there; being a rare breed of artist who’ll commit the next thirteen years of his life to drawing one extended story. And even if the first two objections weren’t applicable, I don’t have the funds to personally hire an artist to attempt such a thing.

TM: Isn’t it normally the publisher who hires the artist?

BW: Normally, yes, but here’s the thing with publishers (and corporate overlords) of any stripe: When they lay out that kind of upfront money (which is what it takes to keep even a single artist working), they expect to control every aspect of the project, no matter who’s listed as the creator and owner. The money always calls the shots, and the chief characteristic of money men is that they’re afraid. They’re afraid of losing the money. They’re afraid of making a mistake, which their bosses might notice. Hell, they’re even afraid of being noticed by their bosses, period. In the publishing world, as in most big business, one imagines, fear all too quickly metastasizes into brutish thuggery. The big publishing houses run almost entirely on fear, forgetting entirely the risks and bold moves they had to make early on to become big. And if they do remember the risks and adventures of the early days, they breathe a sigh of relief, glad that they don’t have to ever go through that again. I’m a cranky old man now, grown tired of troupes of interchangeable apparatchiks second guessing every creative decision I make in the telling of a given story. Where even an independent comics story has too many cooks in the kitchen, a prose story is crafted by one author, making all of the creative decisions. To even more horribly mix my metaphors, a ship needs to be steered by a single captain. Someone more erudite than me put it this way: A story is too fragile a thing to survive the mistakes of more than one author.1 I’m no longer interested in surrendering control of my storytelling ability to drones.

TM: You haven’t done much prose work.

BW: Some; more than most realize2, but no, compared to my comics work, I haven’t. But that only increases the challenge, which increases the allure. Prose stories are still new territory to me.

TM: Why a trilogy?

BW: Practicality mostly. While the entire saga tells a single over-arching story, it nicely divides into three nearly self-contained books, which combine to form the larger epic. I suppose it could’ve been done as a single huge volume, but it would’ve landed as a giant brick of a book, and while such things do exist, especially in the fantasy-adventure realm, I thought it worked better as three related volumes.

TM: Tell us a bit about Outrider.

BW: Outrider (sometimes The Outrider) is the name of the main character. That’s not his real name, mind you, but his is a world and an age where knowing someone’s real name can open the door for others to conjure against you. He’s known by many names and titles (the Black Knight of Abyssalem for example), but Outrider seems the most common. He’s a fighting man of great renown on the eighth (or is it ninth?) year of a quest, to retire an oath made to a dying friend.

TM: And the world in which he pursues this quest?

BW: Fans of the Conan stories will recognize it. No, it isn’t a copy of Robert E Howard’s Hyborian Age, but there are similarities. It’s a past age of our own world that never actually existed, full of warlords, sorcerers, monsters, giants, dwellers in the underworld, and so on. There are good men who fight for the right, and evil men who seek only their own advantage in power and riches.

TM: Of which type is the Outrider?

BW: I’m not disposed to say. Most who encounter him assume him to be a demon, up from the pits of Abyssalem. His armor, forged entirely of abyssal brimstone might be the clue that leads them to such a conclusion. But I’m on record of being tired of the overabundance of grim antiheroes in our adventure fiction, so make of that what you will. Maybe there’s more to the fellow than is immediately evident.

TM: The first book of the trilogy is called…

BW: The Giant, the Witch, and the Warlord. I couldn’t resist the wink at one of my favorite authors. But I assure you, as far as I know, there isn’t a single magical wardrobe to be found in Outrider’s world.

TM: To be published early next year by Raconteur Press?

BW: Yes.

TM: Why them?

BW: For many reasons. How much time do we have?

TM: If I weren’t doing this I’d be obliged to get back to work on finishing my own first novel3, so assume we have all the time in the world.

BW: Fair enough, but should we order lunch in before we continue?

TM: I could eat.

Look for Part Two of this extended conversation either tomorrow or the next day.

Among those who’ve passed is a former boss (whom I was surprised later on to realize had also become a friend) by the name of Dave Sutherland. As their art director, he hired me in the summer of 1980 to the TSR art department, where I illustrated this and that in support of the Dungeons & Dragons role playing game (among other things).

He was mostly a soft-spoken man, but adamant in certain beliefs. “You need to start putting more armor on your fighter characters,” he’d often say, whilst peering over my shoulder. He was right, even though I didn’t realize it at the time, and usually rebelled. In those youthful years I was still caught up in the cult of half-naked barbarians. Did Tarzan need armor? Did Conan need armor? (Actually he did, and used it often, but was seldom depicted in full panoply on the lurid paperback and Marvel Comics covers of the day.)

Back then I was a lost soul. I kicked against his admonitions. I resisted – dug my heels in. It took years for me to come around to Dave’s quiet wisdom.

But I did come around. Today, when I have occasion to draw within the medieval fantasy-adventure realms, I can always count on Dave’s good ghost whispering over my shoulder, “Remember to put some armor on that guy.”

Every time. Dave Sutherland haunts me, but in the best possible way.

One of my new publishers is on the threshold of making a big announcement about an ambitious new project we’re doing together. They have the prerogative of being the first to talk it up, and I won’t try to steal their moment. But I am going to spoil one thing: the dedication. Here’s how it will read:

To the very good ghost of David Sutherland the Third, who taught me medieval armor. Forgive me for taking so long to come around.

Please consider the above illustration a work in progress.

Chapter One

An Elegant Way to Kill

Out of the Dreaming East, from the great city of Kelatainen on the Sorrows, the Outrider rode into the west, with a price on his head.

Seven days later, crossing the desert wasteland of Sur, enroute to the slaving city called Dasha Kün, which means the Death of Hope, the rider and his warhorse Khavak had lost any hint of a proper road, and picked their careful way along the dry bed of the Sleeping River, which snaked its dusty brown way through tumbled lands of sand, scrub and hardpacked earth. According to the occasional Badu nomads they’d passed, the river only ever woke during the rare rainy season, which might not come for years at a time. When the rains did come it could then transform with scant warning into a thundering courser that could sweep man and beast away in a single gasping moment. It had been more than a year since the last rainy season. The sky was devoid of even a wisp of cloud. The mud of the river bottom was baked bone dry and had cracked into broken shards, with edges as sharp as knife blades.

Khavak sniffed this way and that, searching for evil signs carried in the dead and windless air.

“Looking for lions still, old friend? I believe we’ve finally managed to lose them. Pay them no heed. Mind instead the road ahead. We’re both in unknown lands.”

Giant atroxa lions with black coats and blacker manes had trailed them for three days, but couldn’t match Khavak’s tireless endurance. When last spotted they seemed to have finally given up, seeking shade in a tumble of boulders. Their grumbling protests continued the chase, where their bodies had given out. Through the lifeless air, they could still be heard coughing their frustrations in the distance.

Carrion birds circled overhead, keeping pace with the rider and his mount, gambling their hours and their days against a likelihood one or both of the creatures below would do them the courtesy of becoming food later.

Even in the heat of the day the lone rider sat tall in the saddle. Under his dark cloak, that had endured too many seasons un-mended, he was clothed in red brimstone armor, from head to foot. The red was so dark as to seem black, in all but the brightest light, as if it were scorched in the furnaces of Hell. His armor was such as the demon knights from Abyssalem wear, being a combination of plate and chainmail, stronger than adamant. A helmet covered his head, and the red glow of hellfire shown from the slit of its visor. His brimstone boots came to sharp dagger-points at the toes, perhaps because everything that could be a weapon should be. Even in the bright desert sun, shadow seemed to cling to him, always looking for places to dig deeper.

His round shield had the device of a cockatrice on it, a warning to steer clear, for it was notorious as a promise of death. A sheathed sword hung heavy from his belt.

The horse wore scant barding, in the shape of an extended saddle, which was also fashioned of beaten brimstone, so as to suggest a demonic beetle’s carapace. The animal was built of heavy muscle and barely-contained fury. It stood a remarkable twenty hands at the shoulders. Its coat was jet black and old scars from countless battles crisscrossed it. A large bag of corked ox hide held their water supply. It was strapped across the carapace, behind the rider’s seat, along with a bedroll containing what few provisions he owned.

When the banks of the dead river grew high enough to merit it, the Outrider abandoned the riverbed, and spurred Khavak back up onto the embankment, where the footing was no better. Sharp stones lay hidden beneath thorn bushes. In their alliance of thorn and shard, they stabbed at Khavak’s hooves and legs. But the horse seemed immune to such annoyances, and his rider considered this was preferable to being caught in what was quickly becoming a deep, narrow alley between two high sandstone walls.

In the shimmering distance ahead they spied the first bridge over the Sleeping River, which promised the resumption of a more recognizable road beyond.

As they approached the arched stone bridge, a knight in glistening silver armor came out to challenge him. Three circular plates adorned the front of his cuirass, one on each breast and another on his belly. The plates were shaped into shallow, concave bowls, and polished to a mirror finish, making their utility clear. In addition to the extra protection they provided against sword or lance, the mirror plates could catch the sun’s rays and reflect them into his enemy’s eyes.

“Clever,” the Outrider said.

“Good morning, sir,” the knight said, once the rider had approached close enough to hear. “I am Ydris Bin Kadar, known in many lands as the Leopard of the Sands.” Though they were alone, as far as the eye could see, he spoke as if addressing multitudes. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

The rider in black reigned in his horse a good distance from the bridge and the knight perched on it.

“Perhaps not.”

This earned a brief scowl on Bin Kadar’s face, quickly replaced by a practiced counterfeit smile of knightly courtesy. He wore a conical steel helmet, partially wrapped in a white turban, striped in azure. A cloak of matching color and pattern draped from his shoulders and over the back of his buckskin mount. Even in the dead air of the windless day, it somehow managed a dramatic billow. He had an oiled black beard, shaped into three jaunty points, growing from his nut-brown chin.

“Have I the pleasure of addressing the blackguard bandit known as the Outrider? The demon knight up from Abyssalem?”

“Any man who calls me a bandit had better look to himself,” the dark rider replied. “But Outrider is certainly one of the many names by which I’m known. The rest is false. I’m no knight, and not from the depths of Abyssalem, though I understand your mistake. The demon I won this panoply of arms and armor from, by right of combat, could rightly answer to your description.”

“You dare claim you slew a demon rider of Abyssalem. And in single combat, if you then laid claim to his gear and treasures?”

When the rider whose only claim was not to be a knight didn’t answer, Bin Kadar continued.

“How do you see?”

Continued silence was all he received in reply.

“I only ask because the holes for your eyes in that helm seem to be clogged with molten fire. A hellish signature, if anything is. And yet you seem to see just fine. I can only conclude demonic magic is somehow at play. If so, I cannot help but indict you as a trafficker in dark practices. No matter though, since it’s my intention to deny you this crossing, and the road beyond, thereby forcing you to contend against me.” Bin Kadar’s mount occupied the apex of the bridge’s arch. On each side of the bridge, the dormant river’s embankments had become too deep to risk trying to cross other than via the bridge.

“To what purpose?”

“To the purpose of testing myself against another fighting man of renown, which is itself an honorable enough undertaking, so as to embrace the very essence of virtue. However, I’ve scant interest in testing myself against a crippled opponent. If your eyesight is afflicted, speak to it and I may reconsider my objective.”

“No.”

“No? What do you mean by no? No, you aren’t handicapped?”

“I don’t fight for sport.”

“Ah, yes. I fully understand, and gladly accept your terms.” This time Bin Kadar’s smile was wider, brighter and more authentic. “No simple sport, but a duel to the death it will be, which is a sacred undertaking, sanctioned by the gods. I pause to swear a solemn oath to those very gods of sand, sky, sea, and abyss. Hear then my oath: All which is about to be done will be done to their greater glory. No quarter will be granted, and when we’ve finished, only one of us will live to continue on his way, richer by at least one horse, a brace of weapons, and a suit of armor. I must confess, in addition, should I prove the better man, I’ll have earned the reward for your head, chopped and delivered, still encased in its infamous helm, for a more perfect identification. I’m informed the purse has grown into a truly promiscuous weight of gold, is that so?”

“How would I know? I heard someone had placed a reward on my life, but I don’t yet know who. I’d be interested in finding out.”

“Why bother? You’ll be dead in a moment and such knowledge won’t help you in the next life. Now then, to our grim business. If you’re moved to swear any final vows of your own, I grant you a moment to do so.”

“I’m already under the burden of one vow, which is enough. I don’t believe one can stack them.”

Bin Kadar had a long scimitar sheathed at his belt, along with a brace of curved daggers. He carried a green lance of remarkable length. It was made of a pliable round stalk of dragon grass. Flexible, but as tough as steel, it only grew in obscure lands to the east. It was tipped with a knife-bladed steel head. With every slightest movement the lance’s shaft warped this way and that.

“This is the Kel Sayadess, the Windborne Terror, or perhaps the Stinging Wind is more accurate. I regret the name doesn’t translate exactly, considering my native language is sweet poetry, as opposed to the crude erudition of the so-called common tongue.” Bin Kadar lifted the lance high. Holding it in the middle of its shaft, both ends drooped low. It had to be almost six meters long. “It’s the weapon of my people. Wielded by an expert it can whip in at an opponent, cutting him wheresoever one desires, without ever requiring the attacker to come within range of the other man’s weapons. I do not apologize if that places you at a disadvantage. You might’ve had a slight chance against me, were you smart enough to carry a bow.”

The Outrider had heard of such a devil lance, and the men who bore them, but never before encountered one.

“I assure you I’m exactly such an expert. On Evening Star, my warhorse, so much more agile, I suspect, than that graceless shard of black coal you ride, I intend to dance and circle around you, faster than you can follow. A wild dervish. A whirlwind of blurred action. All the while my barb flicks at you, from every direction, but never the direction you expect, nicking at you time and again. I can deftly target even the most insignificant opening of your armor, striking between the joints, until you bleed to death. It won’t be fast. A thousand cuts aren’t unheard of in the Dance of the Kel. In time your frustration will turn into a longing to die. You’ll beg me to put an end to the torture, and administer a final mercy. I won’t.”

Bin Kadar smiled again, giving the terror of his promise time to seep into his intended victim’s heart and possibly do some damage there.

“One cannot expect the condemned man to admire the rope about to hang him, so I don’t suppose you’d agree, but while it may be a brutal way to die, let me assure you it’s a truly elegant way to kill.”

Bin Kadar paused then and waited. His horse bucked eagerly, pawing at the dusty stones underfoot. The animal did have a kind of dancing quality to it.

“Am I supposed to give a speech now? I don’t have one prepared.”

Impertinence in the face of death didn’t surprise Sir Ydris Bin Kadar. A rare few reacted that way, affecting a brave countenance. After all, when one’s final doom is written, what good is fear and trembling beforehand, except to embarrass oneself at the gates of the next life? He took a firm grip on his lance, about two thirds of the way from its bladed tip, tucking it securely under one arm.

“Can I admit, I’ve given a version of this speech many times, to victims not as brave as you? Will you believe it, but most turn their mounts during my soliloquy and attempt to gallop away, hoping to steal a few precious paces head start while I’m distracted by my own words? Sad to say it doesn’t work. I’m never caught off guard, and Evening Star is the fleetest of all earthly horses, descended in fact from the skyborne Lidonys, the hunting god Eburnen’s own immortal ivory stallion. It’s true. May the river run dry if I lie.”

The Outrider glanced at the Sleeping River’s dry bed.

Bin Kadar smiled again.

“It’s not as satisfying,” he continued, “to have to ride a man down, cutting him from behind, until he turns in dying desperation to make his final stand.”

Bin Kadar was in no hurry to proceed. He liked to savor this moment before beginning the long and sometimes exhausting process of a formal killing. He liked to consider his opponent fully, take the measure of him, and this tall dark warrior was no exception. He found the flat, dull surface of the man’s armor disturbing, as if it actually drank in the light, reflecting naught in return. Was that a clever trick of engineering from some gifted armorer, or did it emanate from the material itself, proving it as something infernal? Among the many stories about the Outrider, he’d heard his helmet was a thing possessed, and the demon inhabiting it was the actual scoundrel at large in the world. Anyone cursed to wear it was merely an unwilling vessel, forced like a puppet-on-a-string to act out the demon joculatores’ diabolical horror show. Bin Kadar could easily believe such a tale was true. In his martial travels and countless adventures he’d seen many evil things in the wide world. And it was known by learned scholars and philosophers alike that any number of fell creatures are sent crawling up from the abyss to harry the souls of good men. It’s the glory and misery of every man in this life to continually find himself tested by the gods, above and below. It’s their way of taking our measure.

The Outrider carried his wide disk of a shield in his left hand. It covered most of his body on that side. With his right hand he made no move to draw his longsword. Below him Khavak twitched and snorted.

“Your horse is nervous.”

“Anxious.”

Without further warning Outrider spurred Khavak forward, which did take Bin Kadar by surprise. Why try to close the distance between us, before even arming himself? Is he suicidal, or has he conceived some rudiment of a plan, however reckless? If they met and fought in the span of the bridge, within the confines of its stone railings, it would severely limit Evening Star’s room to maneuver. With not enough time to wheel and retreat, Bin Kadar had no option but to kick his own mount into forward action. If one horse and knight could muscle past the other and make it out onto the dusty field beyond, he’d have the room he needed to implement his original plan. And since the dark warrior hadn’t properly armed himself, there was scant reason to fear any other outcome.

They passed on each other’s sinister side, just like two tourney knights in a formal tilting match. And in this case the Outrider’s large shield helped Bin Kadar, as he began to bodily slide along its smooth outwardly-curved surface.

But then the first of two odd occurrences happened. At the moment they were directly opposite each other, shoulder to shoulder, with only the cockatrice shield separating them, the Outrider fell out of his own saddle, laying himself over Bin Kadar’s lap, the man and his shield partially pinning him to his seat.

As quick as a striking viper, Outrider reached out then with his unarmed hand, past his own shield, and across Bin Kadar’s body. He grabbed the dragon grass spear just forward of where Bin Kadar gripped it, at which time the second odd occurrence: the half prone man sat straight up in his saddle again, seemingly without effort, as if his heavy plate weighed nothing, and he hadn’t actually fallen at all, or perhaps the blunder was an act, a mummer’s show of feigned clumsiness. When he sat up again he brought the captured spear and Bin Kadar’s body with him.

In the brief moment he had to resist, Bin Kadar struggled frantically to keep his seat. But it was no use against his opponent’s iron grip and astonishing strength. At that same time the massive black warhorse spun in place, almost as if it were a practiced maneuver. But how could it be?

In a sudden stab of epiphany Bin Kadar realized the Outrider’s bold plan. Unless he let go of his grip on the dragon grass lance, he’d be pulled out of his saddle and launched over the stone railing, down to the rock hard river bed far below.

But he couldn’t let go, or he’d be the one entirely unarmed. Maybe he’d survive the fall with unbroken limbs, and be able to draw his scimitar, but that wasn’t likely. And even then he’d be unhorsed, facing this diabolical pair who might indeed be demons from the pit, working in accursed tandem – one monstrosity mounted on another.

Outrider twisted hard, aided by Khavak’s wild pivot. He brought the bowed spear with him, and the silver-clad knight with the spear. The knight’s body swung wide and helpless, like a flail.

Bin Kadar realized he was out of time. Every chapter of his life had been written. He should’ve let go of the spear, while their bodies were still pressed tightly together, and grappled his adversary hand-to-hand, or else have drawn one of his daggers. He might have had a chance then. Now, because of that brief dither of indecision, he was launched flying in a high arc through the air, over the bridge’s edge, to the ground below. He vaguely noticed the spear flying nearby, dramatically bowing and warping, one way and then the other, making its lovely signature sing-song sound as it did so.

He landed badly. He felt a blinding flash of pain, almost exquisite in its embrace. As if from a great distance, he heard internal things crunch and sunder.

He must’ve passed out for a time. When he began to come to, dizzy and mostly delirious, he found himself lying on his back, with his head twisted at an unnatural angle. One eye was half buried in the dirt. With it he followed the progress of a tiny darkling beetle making its intrepid way along the dry riverbed, indifferent to the human drama nearby. His other eye, focused independently, was pointed towards the sun, almost directly overhead. Odd not to have them aligned in the same direction, he thought. I imagine something dire had to break in my skull to cause such an occurrence. He tried adjusting his gaze, without reward. Then he tried to move any part of his body, but nothing responded the way it was supposed to. Some efforts brought renewed pain and terrifying grinding sounds. More frightening though, other efforts resulted in no feeling whatsoever.

He realized he was dying and gradually accepted that knowledge. It was after all fit for a fighting man to die as the result of desperate battle. He realized it would be a slow and agonizing death and wasn’t nearly as philosophical about that prospect. He began to weep with the unbearable pain that washed through him, in wave after wave, and inwardly cursed himself for his weakness. How can I dare hope the three battle maidens will receive me with the proper courtesies I’ve justly earned, if they find tears staining the cheeks of my corpse?

Then, after another moment passed, he sensed a welcome shadow eclipse the unforgiving sun overhead. In his fading awareness he just had time to feel the sharp edge of a dagger marry itself to the gap in his chain mail between chin and neck.

“The mercy you would’ve denied me,” where the last words he ever heard in this life.

For one day only, starting at midnight on Thursday the 27th (tomorrow as of this posting), and ending at midnight on Friday the 28th, we will be having a Black Friday sale on many items of original art in my store, which you can find by clicking HERE.

Not everything will be on sale, but those pieces that are will be deeply discounted for the one day only. Expensive art pages will be less expensive. Some things like my prose books (for which our profit margin is already narrowly thin) will not be included. But you can still buy them at the normal price.

We’re purposely not naming the specific pieces on sale, because we want to force you to go to the store and look around. Yes, we’re stinkers that way. But many of the pieces currently in the store will have their prices slashed and many new pieces, deeply discounted, will be added for the one-day event.

Go look. Hunt. Find the thing you wanted, but couldn’t afford. Strike quickly, like a jungle cat. And Happy Thanksgiving and Merry Christmas to one and all.

Public Domain Santa expects you to have a jolly good time.

Not to blow my own horn, but we timed it pretty well. Everything will be done and out the door by the end of November. Thank our pal Brad Thomte for most of that, as he does all of the shipping, handling, and collection of money, so that I can concentrate on drawing.

Would you like to see the commissions I’ve done this time? Sure you would, so here they are, more or less in the order the commissions came in and in which I completed them:

First: The client asked for a full-sized, 11” by 17” picture of Chrysalis, from the super-villain group The Destroyers, which appeared in many issues of my Elementals comic series. Since I always want to tell (or at least imply) a story with my commissions, I thought we’d show the aftermath of a battle between Chrysalis and Morningstar. Although this scene never took place in the published comics, it could have (while Morningstar and her teammates were prisoners of the villains for about a year).

Second: The client asked for (and paid for) a single 11” by 17” portrait of the villain Shapeshifter, also a member of the Destroyers. I was glad to do it, but I couldn’t get the image out of my head of the rest of the scene, so I went ahead and drew it too, ending up with a tryptic of three illustrated panels. I didn’t get his permission to do a little more than was commissioned, but so far he hasn’t complained.

Third: The client wanted a picture of Fathom, from the Elementals. I was happy to oblige. The scene is taken (with a grain of poetic license) from the second and third issues of Elementals, wherein our heroes battled The Destroyers, along with the air forces of Nacht Island.

Fourth: The client asked for a portrait of Rosemary Teatherwall, a character appearing in many of my recent prose novels, including Hammer of the Gods, and Superteam. I decided to give him a preview of the opening scene in the sequel to Superteam, which is not yet finished, or titled. I hope to finish the novel soon. In the meantime, both Hammer and Superteam are available (and you can get them signed, at no extra cost, if you buy them through my store.

Fifth: The client asked for (not quite) a recreation of my back-cover painting for one of the old D&D modules, from way back. The adventure was called White Plume Mountain. The unnamed character was not the last prince of a dying race named Elric, and his soul-stealing black sword was definitely not called Stormbringer. Trust me, I asked Lawrence who wrote the adventure. This sword even had its own name, which was Black Razor. I added the field of stars to the sword, to make it more like one of the big items from my own D&D campaign, and a bit less like that other sword mentioned above. In any case, in the original painting it was just a static shot of a fellow holding the sword. I decided to add a bit of action in this rendition. Here’s the original:

Sixth: Alas, all five of the full-sized illustrations were done, and I wasn’t going to add more and still be sure of making my self-imposed deadline. But there were other commission sizes, including full-color sketch cards, for much less money than the full-sized commissions. Here are the three that made the cut:

As you can see, they included: one minotaur, another not-quite-recreation of one of my earlier D&D illustrations; a portrait of beloved old stage and screen star Adolphe Menjou; and the Swamp Thing (which you should sing to the tune of Wild Thing — Swamp Thing! You make my heart sing! Or, if you’re of a more mellow frame of mind, you can sing his anthem to the tune of an old Beatles song — Swamp Thing in the way he moves…)

Seventh: Between the full-sized commissions and the sketch cards, there was one middle size available. Two clients took me up on the offer and I’m nearly done with both of them. I would have finished yesterday, if not for the pesky bout of food poisoning that hit me a few days ago and knocked me out of whack for a couple of days, just in time to interrupt a really terrific work flow. In any case, here are the two of what Brad and I call our Cameo sizes, in progress and soon to be completed:

The client wanted a picture of DC Comic’s version of the war god Ares, as mostly seen in various Wonder Woman issues. He’s nearly ready for his interview with the golem princess of Paradise Island. As you can see by Ares’ retainers, I wanted to play a bit with perspective in the shot (since gods can more or less assume any size they like). I wonder if their conversation will be civil, or if a fight might break out.

And finally, the client requested the villainous Thulsa Doom, as played in the first Conan movie by His Eminence, James Earl Jones. I agreed to do it because of the challenge. As you can see, I was lucky enough to get in to see Thulsa Doom just as he was posing for his official Head-of-State portrait. He insisted on including his best friend Gary (from Invoicing and Accounts Receivable) in the picture.

And that’s it for this year’s commissions. I’d like to thank each client (who I haven’t named, because it would seem to be something I should get their permission for, and I haven’t) who ponied up their hard-earned cash to participate in this event. Thank you, truly. Your patronage is both welcome and appreciated.

I’ll likely do it again next year, so stay tuned. In the meantime, if you’re hungry for some of my art, I’m doing a Black Friday sale, for one day only, from midnight to midnight, in my store. Dozens of pieces of art will be impressively (wickedly?) marked down for the sale. Look for the following Substack posting today with the gory details.

This is a commission I did for one of the previous occasions. The customer requested a picture of Dynasty and Ivanhoe’s daughter, from the comic series called Pantheon. Eleven by Seventeen inches on Bristol board. Her name is also Dynasty, because the name passes down from mother to daughter, along with the powers. Note that the original Dynasty’s totem was a wrap-around dragon symbol, while the new girl’s totem is a wrap-around tiger symbol. Is that significant? I have no idea. Do you?

Therefore ‘tis the season for private commissions again. I intend to begin drawing the first of them on November 1st, which gives you a few days to think it over and maybe get on the list. As per usual, it will be a fairly short list, this time limited to the number of drawings I feel confident I can complete and have shipped out in time for a very merry Christmas.

Some of you old guard members here will know the basic rules and procedures in order to secure a place on the list. But, since so many of you have arrived here (and are most welcome) since the last time I drew for you, here’s how to participate:

First:

You need to contact my pal Brad Thomte, who can be reached at brad.thomte@gmail.com. He’s the fellow who manages my commissions, collects the money, and ships out the finished artwork. He’ll let you know if there’s still room on the list, and what the unreasonable rules and conditions are.

Second:

If there is still room on the list, Brad will email you the afore-mentioned rules and conditions. If they work for you, aren’t too burdensome, and you’re willing to afford it, you and Brad work out the details.

Third:

Once you and Brad settle on the money, and the subject of the commission, he tells me to get my lazy self to work on it.

Fourth:

There is no fourth step, except that you wait a bit. Since I draw the commissions in the order in which they came in (and were paid for), how soon you receive your art depends on what place you landed on the list.

Fifth:

How can there be a fifth step when I just got done claiming there isn’t even a fourth step? Well, what can I say, other than it’s recently turned into a chaotic world out there, and things are often a jumble? But, anywho, the fifth step is this: Most of you don’t know this, but Brad is under strict orders not to pay me for a given work of art until that work is fully completed and delivered into his hands. This is probably because, like many freelance artists, I need the carrot of payment dangling before me in order to complete my work in a reasonably expeditious manner.

Here’s an example of one of the six-and-a-half by ten inches pieces I did, showing my character Ratman, from the super villain team The Destroyers, as introduced in the V&V gaming adventure called Death Duel With the Destroyers.

I think I’m out of things to say about this matter. Really, it’s up to you, and to a certain extent, to Brad, to come to a decision and work things out. Go on. Email him, at brad.thomte@gmail.com and see if things don’t work out.

This time around we have three different size categories to choose from. We have the standard Full Sized, 11” by 17” drawing on nice Bristol board for $800 a piece; the smaller Medium Sized, 6 and 1/2” by 10” for $400 a piece; and a handy Sketch Card size 2 and 1/2” by 3 and 1/2” for $100 a piece. As a bonus, for the sketch card only (which will be a head and shoulders shot of your chosen character), you have the option (but not the obligation) to have the card hand-colored, for no addition charge. Otherwise, all art will be ink over pencils.

Here’s another example of a full-sized commission I did, some while ago. I believe the customer asked for a Frankenstein’s Monster. I decided to add a few guest stars.

So then anyway, I wish I had a Sketch Card size to show you, but it’s a brand new addition, never before offered. Instead, why not take a look at another example of the Medium Sized option?

Today’s example comes from my short, but interesting run on IDW’s licensing of the Angel property, from that old TV show some of you might have seen, or heard about.

Here’s how it came about: Back in the days the comic series Fables was enjoying its flush of popularity, my status of a writer was also riding pretty high along with it. I’d get offers from many publishers and entertainment companies, to write novels, to write screenplays, and to write comics.

If I recall correctly, somewhere around 2008 or ‘9, IDW honcho Chris Ryall called me out of the blue to see if I wanted to take over the Angel comic series. “Oh no,” says I. “You can’t do the continuing adventures of Angel, since it was the one TV series that ended perfectly. It cannot be continued, and any attempt to do so would undermine something splendid.”

“Uh… sure,” Chris replies, “but we’re already doing it. We’ve published many Angel comics. Would you like to continue it for us?”

We discussed it for a time, perhaps over a span of days, but my memory is iffy on that.

In any case, I eventually agreed to take over writing Angel for IDW, I think mostly because I thought of a good title, Immortality for Dummies, and wanted to use it somewhere apt. So then, here, below, is the first result of that undertaking.

Here then, warts and all, is my first script for Angel. Note that this isn’t a challenge to anyone’s copyright or intellectual property. I offer this merely for instructional purposes:

Angel

Issue A

Title: The Crown Prince Syndrome

Subtitle: Part One of Immortality for Dummies

By Bill Willingham

18 Pages

Editorial Note: Because I don’t know exactly what issue number this will be, we’ll call these first few Angel scripts A, B, C, and so on.

Lettering Note: In most of this issue, all captions, unless otherwise noted, are Connor’s narration. Then, in the last page or two, we switch to the captions being Angel’s narration. Any caption that isn’t one of these character’s narration will be called a: Non Narration Cap. Thanks.

Artist Note: As you will find out, I tend to default to a five-panel page as a general rule. It’s not too crowded and the odd number of panels keeps us from falling into a standard grid – forces us to come up with interesting page structures each time. Of course, in fight scenes and such, anywhere we might need a bit more room, the panel number gets reduced as needed. For example, the following extended fight scene is done almost entirely in four-panel pages, just to let the scene breathe a bit more. But five panel pages are the norm.

Page One (four panels)

Panel One

We open this issue with an establishing shot of the LA skyline. It’s daytime and rainy. Grey clouds completely obscure the sky.

1) Non Narration Cap: The City of Angels

2) Cap (Connor): My name is Connor. That’s one of the few things about me, about my life, that’s entirely mine, completely real.

Panel Two

Now we move down into the city. We’re in a pretty generic back-alley, warehouse sort of area, old and rundown. Connor is fighting alone against a trio of demons. They are Horager Demons (a new variety that hasn’t appeared in previous Angel episodes or comics – so make them up, within the confines of the following description, please). Horagers look like a cross between hairless gorillas and crocodiles, with a few extra features. They stand on two short hind legs, supporting thick, stout bodies. They have four arms, rather than the usual two, and all of the arms are huge and long – compared to the legs, which is why they look sort of gorilla(ish). The upper set of the arms end in big bruiser hands with clawed fingers. The lower set of arms end with one giant curved killing talon, one on each arm. They have a crocodile’s reptilian tail, thick and spiked that can be used to sweep and crush a victim, and also impale him on the big spikes. They have reptilian heads that have mouths full of very sharp teeth. They are basically built to kill and maim. In this panel Connor is holding his own against the demons, but we want to be able to very clearly see he is overmatched. Connor is dressed in standard blue jeans, tennis shoes and hoody sweatshirt. Connor has a broadsword – one of his father’s basic arsenal of weapons. The rain is starting to come down.

3) Cap (Connor): Yeah, I have a last name – two in fact – but they’re both false, so don’t worry about it. I don’t.

Panel Three

Same scene. One of the demons takes a swipe at Connor with one of the fighting talons in his lower arm set. It rips a gash in the front of Connor’s hoody and draws blood – not a lot – just enough to make Connor (and the readers) realize he’s in a real fight.

4) Cap (Connor): At least I try not to.

5) Connor: Ow!

Panel Four

This isn’t really a panel. It’s the space you need to leave at the bottom of the page for this issue’s title and credits.

6) Title (display lettering): The Crown Prince Syndrome

7) Subtitle (display lettering): Part One of Immortality for Dummies

8) Credits

Page Two (four panels)

Panel One

Same scene. The fight continues. Connor steps back for a second, sparing a glance down at his bleeding chest. The demon looks pleased with its work.

1) Cap (Connor): In my second year of junior high school, I was struggling with math, had a minor crush on a girl named Heather, and tried out for swim team…

2) Demon # 1: Smarts, doesn’t it?

Panel Two

Same scene. The fight continues. Connor slashes out with the sword and cuts one of the “fighting talon” hands off of the demon’s lower arms. It’s the same taloned hand that cut him just two panels back.

3) Cap (Connor): …mostly because our school didn’t have its own pool, so we got to go across the street to the senior high school every day. I thought that was so cool.

4) Connor: You tell me.

5) Demon # 2: Yrrrgg!

Panel Three

Same scene. The fight continues. The demon holds the bleeding stump of his missing hand in agony and rage.

6) Cap (Connor): Of course none of that really happened. Those were false memories, implanted by an evil organization, at my father’s insistence.

7) Connor: Smarts, doesn’t it?

Panel Four

Same scene. The fight continues. The wounded demon leaps at Connor in rage. Connor ducks under the leap in some sort of graceful martial arts move. He looks more confident now than in previous panels.

8) Cap (Connor): Don’t ask. Long story. The one thing you have to know is that dad did it for my own good, trying to give me a normal life.

9) Demon # 1: Kill you for that!

10) Connor: As opposed to what you intended to do to me in the first place? Duly noted.

Page Three (four panels)

Panel One

Now, right in the middle of the damned fight, we’re going to have a page of flashback panels. Why? Because this is comic books and we are the lords of comic books, and because we can. In this panel we have a one-panel flashback scene more or less taken from the final season of the Angel TV series (or was it the last episode of the previous season? Mariah, help me out here). We see Connor in the Normal Rockwell family scene with his adopted/fabricated family – the scene that showed how Angel set his son up with a normal, perfect, wholesome life. They are around the dinner table, enjoying a peaceful and lovely night together.

1) Cap (Connor): And the funny thing is, it was good. I did finally get to live a normal life – even if it was only a fabricated one.

Panel Two

Another flashback panel. Now we see a scene we never actually saw in the Angel TV series, or anywhere else before now. Connor is about junior high school age. He is in the demon world in which he was actually raised for most of his life. He is on his own, wearing improvised clothes of rough leather, and carrying a crudely fashioned knife and spear – one in each hand. He is ducking low in the high grass, and looks worried – not in a panic, but worried. He’s clearly on the run from something.

2) Cap (Connor): In actuality, at about the time I would have been in junior high, I was lost in another world, on the run from a hunting pack of Horager Demons.

Panel Three

Same flashback scene. Still in that demon world, Connor peeks out above a mossy rock, wide eyed at a bunch of reptilian feet that are passing right near him. These are the feet of a group of Horager Demons, but we can only see the feet at this time – almost as if, like the very young Connor, we are too scared to risk glancing up at the rest of them.

3) Cap (Connor): They’d cut me off from my route home – well, back to the improvised cave-slash-fortress that was the closest thing to a home I had in that place.

Panel Four

Same flashback scene. Now we widen the shot. Connor ducks back down, behind the big rock, sweating bullets and almost cowering in a ditch as the hunting group of Horager Demons passes by on the game trail overhead. Now we can see the entire hunting pack and there are six or seven of them.

4) Cap (Connor): I was content to run, hide, and lay low, until the pack moved on, because I knew, and followed, the absolute rules about Horager Demon encounters.

Page Four (four panels)

Panel One

Now we return to LA and the present day, where the fight continues. The three demons, including the one missing a hand, are moving in on Connor all at once. Connor makes some defensive moves to hold them off – buying time. He kicks out at one of them, while slashing out with the sword at another – missing, but keeping them back for now.

1) Cap (Conner): One Horager: Make it die.

2) Cap (Conner): Two Horagers: You might give them a try.

Panel Two

Same scene. The fight continues. Suddenly one of the uninjured demons lashes out with one of his top set of hands and whaps Connor a mighty whap! The blow sends Connor flying up and away, dropping his sword along the way.

3) Cap (Connor): Three Horagers: Definitely pass them by.

4) Cap (Connor): Four or more: Kiss your ass goodbye.

Panel Three

Same scene. The fight continues. Connor’s flailing body impacts high on a brick wall, partially caving in the bricks where he impacted. This should look like it hurts – a lot.

5) Cap (Connor): My foster father came up with the dumb rhyme. But the rules they spelled out were golden, and absolute. Part of my martial training regimen.

Panel Four

Same scene. The fight continues. Stunned – Conner slides/falls down off of the high wall, down from the impact crater, down towards the filthy alley below. Two of the three demons wait for him there, content to finish him off at leisure now.

6) Cap (Connor): Foster father, you ask? No, not the fabricated Norman Rockwell family one. The first of my two foster fathers. Another long story for another time.

7) Demon # 2: Be eating you now, boy.

Page Five (four panels)

Panel One

Same scene. The fight continues. Instead of landing helpless though, Connor hits the alley floor in a deft, practiced martial arts style tumble, rolling right under one of the demon’s legs. His dropped broadsword is on the ground, right beyond the demon – right where Connor is rolling.

1) Cap (Connor): The point is, Horager Demons were tough, deadly and vicious. Stone killers. Luckily they were entirely native to that other world.

2) Connor: Sorry. Can’t stay for dinner.

3) Demon # 2: Huh?

Panel Two

Same scene. The fight continues. Connor picks up the sword at the same time he comes up in a graceful fighting stance behind the two demons.

4) Cap (Connor): They can’t survive outside of it – something to do with an environmental necessity that can only be found in their native habitat.

5) Connor: I’m expected at home.

Panel Three

Same scene. The fight continues. With one swipe of his blade, Connor completely beheads one of the demons. The severed head goes flying.

6) Cap (Connor): So why then are there suddenly three of them here in LA?

7) Cap (Connor): This trio jumped me, surprising me completely – almost as if they were lying in wait. No chance to pass them by.

8) Connor: Family dinner night.

Panel Four

Same scene. The fight continues. Now Connor runs the sword deep into the chest of the second of the two previously uninjured demons. Unfortunately, at the same time the first demon – the one without one hand – is able to close on Connor and knocks him down. The sword was left behind in the one demon’s chest.

9) Cap (Connor): I may be in some trouble here.

10) Demon # 1: Enough!

Pages Six and Seven (double page spread, with one inset panel)

Panel One

This is a small inset panel, inset into the top left-hand corner of the double page spread. We see Connor helpless on his back, on the ground, looking up at the last surviving demon, who rears over him, about to plunge all remaining claws into his unprotected chest. Connor looks grimly resigned to his fate.

1) Cap (Connor): I did remarkably good, all things considered. Killed two of them. No one, not even my dad, could expect to survive three Horagers on his own.

2) Demon # 1: Will end this now!

3) Conner: Stop boasting then, and do it.

Panel Two

This is the double page spread. Now, just as the remaining demon is about to finish Connor off, four warrior women demons jump into the scene, leaping down from the buildings above. These are also a new class of demons, which I will describe now, and which will be important in many issues to come. They look like normal, very attractive, human women, except for skin color and the fact that they are a bit taller than normal women – each about six and a half to seven feet tall. Their skin color ranges from golden, to yellow ochre, do dusky golden-brown. Color Note: Since we have four of them here, let’s please show the entire range of skin colors (as detailed above), just to establish the color range from the get go. Thanks. All of the warrior women demons are clothed head to toe in some sort of tightly articulated gleaming metal armor – similar to medieval armor (although more form-fitting), but also with an alien demonic look to it. All sets of armor are identical, to show that these four are members of a disciplined and uniform army. But the lead warrior woman – we’ll call her Tyndara – will have some decoration or addition to her armor that the others don’t have (a sash, or half-cape, or plume, or emblem of some kind), to show us that she is the group’s commander. The armor is gleaming red-gold. We want to make these characters look as heroic and good-guy as possible, so that later, when certain disturbing facts about them are revealed, it might come as a surprise. Each warrior woman is armed with identical twin swords, which they each wield on in each hand. One of the arriving women (not the leader) cuts off the remaining demon’s head, with a deft stroke of one of her blades. The other two warriors leap down near the bodies of the two other Horager Demons to make sure they’re dead. One of the Horagers is also missing a head and the other has Connor’s sword through it, so they are indeed well and truly dead. The leader directs the three others in their individual tasks. They all look deadly, efficient and competent. Connor looks both relieved and surprised to be saved at the last possible second.

4) Cap (Connor): And then, just in the nick of time, the cavalry arrived.

5) Tyndara (leader): Denyl, dispatch that demon!

6) Warrior Woman # 2 (the one chopping the demon’s head off): Done!

7) Tyndara: Make sure the other two are dead!

8) Warrior Woman # 3: This one’s finished.

9) Warrior Woman # 4: As is this one, Commander.

Page Eight (five panels)

Panel One

Same scene. The leader of the warrior women calmly puts out a hand and helps a still-surprised Connor to his feet. In the background one of the warrior women has set her blades down and is using both hands to yank Connor’s broadsword out of the one demon’s chest.

1) Tyndara: You almost didn’t need our help, Promised One. Two of them killed on your own? Impressive. Then again, you’re destined to be the greatest of warriors.

2) Connor: Excuse me?

Panel Two

Same scene. Connor is on his feet now, as Tyndara almost towers over him. She looks respectful at him. So do two of the other warrior women, one of whom is the one who dispatched the last demon. She wipes her blade clean with a cloth. The other of the three women we can see in this panel very respectfully holds Connor’s sword out for him, handle first. All three of the armored, lovely women are taller than Connor. He still looks a bit befuddled.

3) Connor: Promised One? Who are – ?

4) Warrior Woman # 2: You’re Connor, son of Angel and Darla, are you not?

5) Warrior Woman # 3: The miracle child, born of two vampires?

Panel Three

Same scene. Connor almost absently takes the sword being offered to him. He does indeed look embarrassed at the attention he is getting from these amazing warrior goddesses.

6) Connor: Yeah, but –

7) Tyndara: Then you are indeed the Promised One. But you seem embarrassed to be so addressed.

Panel Four

Same scene. All three warrior women are standing near Connor now. All three look at him with respect bordering upon awe. This just adds to Connor’s discomfort.

8) Connor: I guess I’d sort of prefer to be called Connor.

9) Tyndara: To address you so informally would be a liberty quite above our station.

10) Warrior Woman # 2: Disrespectful.

Panel Five

Same scene. The other two warrior women weigh in with their opinions.

11) Warrior Woman # 3: Contrary to proper military comportment.

12) Warrior Woman # 4: Simply not done.

Page Nine (five panels)

Panel One

Same scene. Tyndara gently takes the still-confused Connor under one arm and deftly guides him out of the alley, away from the scene of battle, still littered with the bodies of the three demons. Behind them the other three women already begin cleaning up the evidence.

1) Tyndara: Excuse me, honored one, but we haven’t much time. We need to clean up this mess before the authorities of this world arrive.

2) Tyndara: And I believe you won’t want to be here, to be bothered by them when they do arrive. Is my understanding correct?

Panel Two

Same scene. Entirely courteous, Tyndara continues leading Connor away from the alley. Now, with her other hand, she holds out a standard business card to him, just like a normal person might do, which looks doubly odd, since this is no normal woman, by any stretch of the imagination.

3) Connor: Uhm… sure, yes, but –

4) Tyndara: But you have many questions. Here’s my card. Call me at your pleasure. All you need to know for now is that there are vast numbers of us. An army.

5) Tyndara: And we’re at your beck and call.

Panel Three

Same scene. Connor has taken the card – he still has his sword in the other hand – as Tyndara gently, respectfully nudges/pushes him on his way. She very much looks and acts like the helpful, loyal underling, determined to sacrifice herself in order to spare her superior any possible discomfort. Connor goes as directed, but still looks overwhelmed.

6) Tyndara: Go now, honored prince. Let us be about your work.

7) Conor: Okay, but –

8) Tyndara: Call me later. We’ll talk.

Panel Four

Same scene. In the foreground Connor walks away, looking down at the card she handed him, as if all of his confusion might be cleared up, if only he deciphers the information on the card correctly. In the background we can see Tyndara turn to rejoin the others, who’ve stopped working for now. All of them, unseen by Connor, are standing there, curiously watching Connor walk away from them. Connor is too far away by now to overhear the one woman’s comment.

9) Warrior Woman # 2: Funny.

Panel Five

Same scene, but now Connor has gone on his way, and we move closer to the women, who still stand there, watching him go. Now they don’t look at all filled with awe or respect. They just look curious, but in a grim way, like battle-hardened soldiers might look at an odd sight they didn’t expect to see, but one which doesn’t at all impress them.

10) Warror Woman # 2: I thought he’d be taller.

Page Ten (five panels)

Panel One

Now we switch scenes to an exterior shot of a yellow taxi cab driving along in the rain, in LA city traffic.

1) Cap (Connor): My name is Connor, impossible son of two vampires. I have two complete sets of childhood memories.

2) Voice (from front of taxi): Hey, buddy, is that a sword you got there?

Panel Two

Now we move inside the taxi to see a cabby driving the thing and Conner alone in the back passenger section. He’s absently holding the sword, resting point-down in the cab, where we can see it in this panel.

3) Cap (Connor): In one version I was raised in a normal, loving family, and enjoyed every possible benefit of being one of the lucky ones in this wonderful world.

4) Connor: Yeah. One of the tools of my trade.

5) Connor: I’m a demon-fighting superhero, coming home from my latest in a long line of battles, keeping your kind safe from their kind.

Panel Three

Same scene. Still in the interior of the cab.

6) Cap (Connor): In the other version I lived in a hell world, fighting for my very existence every day.

7) Cabby: No, seriously. What’s with the sword? I don’t think we allow them in the cab.

Panel Four

Same scene. Connor looks weary, his mind on many other things, and doesn’t even try to sound convincing, which of course is exactly what makes him convincing.

8) Cap (Connor): Oddly enough, I cherish both sets of memories, both lives I’ve lived.

9) Connor: Actually I was at a geek gamers’ convention today. Picked this up at one of the dealers’ tables. It’s not real. Just a shiny toy. A wall trophy.

Panel Five

Now we move outside again for another exterior shot of the cab, making its way through the rainy streets of LA.

10) Cap (Connor): At the same time, some part of me knew even then, that my life didn’t truly get weird until that day in that filthy LA alley, when I met my army.

11) Voice (from front of taxi): Oh, okay. I knew it had to be something like that.

Page Eleven (two panels)

Panel One

We switch scenes to an exterior shot of the Hyperion Hotel. This is the hotel in which the Angel crew made their headquarters throughout most of the TV series. The cab from the previous page has just shown up outside of it. It’s still daytime and still raining.

1) Non Narration Cap: About an hour later…

2) Voice (from back of cab): Keep the change.

3) 2^nd Voice (from inside – ground floor – of hotel): No, they weren’t cub scouts. They were Lis demons disguised as a pack of cub scouts.

Panel Two

This is the big panel of the page. Except for the small panel above, it is nearly a splash page. We switch scenes to the interior of the hotel lobby, where all of the regular cast is sitting about, putting away weapons, and generally talking things over. They include: Spike, just back from Vegas (and he can even have a suitcase still sitting next to him); Illyria; Gunn; Beta George, floating in the air as he does; Dez; Kate; and James the real (but fallen) angel. All look more or less as if they’ve each just gotten in from somewhere – individual missions or such – and are comparing notes, before heading off again on their own business. Note that Angel and Connor are both absent.

4) Spike: Ate the original cubbies to get their uniforms. I killed the lot of them of course.

5) Spike: But did their overly-attractive den mother give me a proper hero’s thank you? No she certainly did not.

6) Gunn: And Angel hasn’t called in the last two or three days? Where’s he been?

7) Beta George: Well, the phone did ring a few times, but I’m not equipped to pick up the phone. There could be a message on the machine.

8) Kate: Angel’s gone longer than that, without reporting in.

Page Twelve (five panels)

Panel One

Same scene, but closer on Spike and Kate now, each one ignoring the other, continuing on with his/her separate conversation.

1) Spike: Even though I clearly saved her from whatever horrific fate those little dastards had in mind for her, all she did was scream over and over.

2) Kate: He probably just met some new girl to brood over, and forgot to check in.

Panel Two

Same scene. We can get another panel out of this joke, so Spike and Kate continue to talk across each other.

3) Spike: “You killed the children! You killed the children!” Wouldn’t even hear that they were actually demons.

4) Kate: He’s famous now, so pretty new girls tend to make themselves known to him with disgusting regularity.

Panel Three

Same scene. But now we expand the panel a bit to take in another character. Spike is just finishing up his tirade, still unaware that no one seems to be listening to him.

5) Spike: Never mind that one of them had already started chewing on her leg when I burst in to save the bloody day.

6) Dez: Angel does seem to attract more than his fair share of women.

Panel Four

Same scene, once again featuring Spike and Kate. Kate continues discussing Angel’s absence, while Spike realizes for the first time that no one has been listening to him. He looks a bit put out not to be the center of attention.

7) Kate: All of whom he finds excuses to hang around with, for days on end, just to tell them over and over again that it can never go anywhere between them.

8) Spike: What? We’re talking about Angel again? I thought you wanted to hear about my time in Vegas?

Panel Five

Same scene. Now James the real angel weighs in, not realizing what he says may be considered insensitive to women.

9) James: Angel does do the tortured “I can never be your lover” act to perfection. Women can’t resist that approach.

10) James: It’s like catnip.

Page Thirteen (four panels)

Panel One

Same scene. Kate looks silent daggers at James. Others look on, some enjoying James’ discomfort to one extent or another. James has a “what did I say wrong?” innocent expression on his face.

No captions or dialogue in this panel.

Panel Two

Same scene. Now James tries to justify himself. Kate is still not amused, but some of the others clearly are.

1) James: Hey, don’t judge me for being observant. I was a real angel for ages beyond the dawn of time itself.

2) James: It was my job all those millennia to watch over you people. Can I help it if I picked up a few recognizable patterns along the way?

Panel Three

Same scene. With a wry smile on his face, Gunn gets up and gives James a comradely pat on the shoulder in passing.

3) James: Would it help if I switched to discussing universal male frailties for a while?

4) Gunn: Take some advice from one guy to another, James. Better quit while you’re behind.

Panel Four

This is the bigger panel of the page. Same scene, but now everyone looks over at the front door as Connor walks in, wet from the rain, still cut along his chest, still carrying the sword. He also still looks a bit overwhelmed from the events of his very odd day.

5) Kate: Connor. There you are. We were beginning to get worried.

6) Spike: No we weren’t. Don’t believe a word she says. They say they want to hear about my Vegas trip, but then all they do is talk about your dad.

7) Connor: Hi.

Page Fourteen (five panels)

Panel One

Same scene. Close on Spike who starts talking about himself again.

1) Spike: As if Angel is cock of the walk? As if we’re all just bit players in his show?

2) Spike: I don’t think so. As long as I’m around he’s not even the prettiest vampire in the room.

Panel Two

Same scene. Bigger panel. Wider shot. In the foreground we see Spike, looking around, silently realizing he’s all alone. Everyone else is in the background of this panel, over where Connor just came in, fussing and fretting about him.

3) Gunn: What happened to you? Is that a gash on your chest?

4) Connor: It’s already healing. Special recuperative powers, remember?

5) Illyria: You received an injury disposing of a simple nest of Lake Demon larva?

Panel Three

Same scene, but closer on Connor and those around him. Illyria looks a bit disappointed in Connor, in her detached, alien way. Connor looks a bit peeved at her implied insult.

6) Illyria: I understood your abilities to be more formidable than that. Should you no longer be allowed to venture out on your own for easy tasks?

7) Connor: No, the Lake Demons didn’t give me any trouble. I can handle the things I can handle just fine.

Panel Four

Same scene. Closer on Connor as he gestures down at his torn shirt and the cut that is healing underneath.

8) Connor: I got this afterwards. Some other things jumped me on the way home from the first mission.

9) Connor: Three Horager Demons.

Panel Five

Same scene. We need to see Gunn and Illyria in this shot. Gunn looks confused. Illyria looks detached and calculating, as usual.

10) Gunn: Horager, wha? Never heard of ‘em.

11) Illyria: I stand corrected. If you survived an encounter with three such creatures, then your powers and abilities have grown far beyond my initial estimation.

Page Fifteen (five panels)

Panel One

Same scene. Illyria, still detached, looks like she’s reevaluation Connor, computing a new impression of him as new facts click into place. She looks more alien than ever in this scene. Connor still looks a bit abrupt with her.

1) Illyria: I should reevaluate you in this new light.

2) Connor: Don’t jump the gun. I didn’t kill them all on my own. I had some last-minute help. Last second, actually.

Panel Two

Same scene. Connor moves down into the lobby, and the others follow. Dez needs to also be seen in this panel.

3) Connor: In fact, we should talk about the nature of the help I received. Where’s my dad? He should be here for this.

4) Dez: Gone.

Panel Three

Same scene. Down in the lobby, Connor is racking the broadsword back in Angel’s weapons rack, as Kate talks to him. Connor doesn’t look at all worried about the news he hears from her.

5) Kate: He hasn’t been around in a few days, Connor.

6) Connor: Why? Did he meet a new girl?

Panel Four

Same scene. Everyone looks at Connor and each other. Most of them try to hide smiles and smirks. Connor looks at them knowing he’s on the outside of a shared joke. Of course Illyria doesn’t smile and Beta George is a fish, so no particular grinning action there.

7) Connor: What?

Panel Five

Same scene. Now they really have trouble not laughing, Illyria and Beta George excepted of course. Connor still looks puzzled.

8) Connor: Did I say something funny?

Page Sixteen (five panels)

Panel One

Same scene. Gunn thinks James might be overstating the situation just a bit.

1) James: We were just considering whether we should be worried about Angel’s disappearance.

2) Gunn: That’s overstating it a bit, don’t you think? I wouldn’t call it a “disappearance” just yet.

Panel Two

Same scene. Connor has finished racking his weapon and is stripping off the damaged hoody and the shirt underneath.

3) Connor: I agree. No need to panic yet. My dad can take care of himself. In the meantime we should continue on with business here.

4) Connor: Show him that everything doesn’t always have to fall apart in his absence.

Panel Three

Same scene, and now Spike is inspired. Kate takes exception to Spike’s characterization of her true feelings about Connor.

5) Spike: Brilliant idea, kid. You probably aren’t nearly as dumb as these others secretly think.

6) Kate: Hey! I don’t – !

7) Spike: I’m in charge, of course.

Panel Four

Same scene, but now, while Spike immediately goes into a fantasy monologue, Connor quietly cuts him off. Connor’s bare chest now shows the cut nearly gone.

8) Spike: First thing to do: organize all requests for help in a ranking of “how hot is the client?” And does she need immediate comforting?

9) Connor: Actually I was thinking that I’d try to run things while dad is away.

Panel Five

This is the bigger panel of the page. Same scene. Wide shot, showing the entire cast currently present. Everyone shows some degree or another of surprise at Connor’s declaration. Illyria is detached, logical and unfazed. Spike is visibly upset. Dez and Gunn look openly dubious, as does Kate. James looks contemplative and maybe a bit worried. Connor simply looks tired and dispassionate.

10) Gunn: Really?

11) Dez: No offense, Connor, but why you?

12) Connor: It’s my father’s business after all. He even spoke once – granted it was long ago – about changing the name to “Angel and Son Investigations.”

13) Illyria: This is rational. If Angel is the king of our company, Connor is the only possible crown prince and heir.

Page Seventeen (five panels)

Panel One

We switch scenes to a nighttime shot of the LA skyline. The rain is gone and the city is lit up like a glittering jewel. Lettering Note: Now, as promised, we switch narrators to Angel in the captions for the remainder of this issue.

1) Non Narration Cap: That night, after the rain had cleared…

2) Cap (Angel): I was trapped in Hell once for a very long time.

Panel Two

Now we move down into the city to see an exterior shot of a modern looking medical clinic type of building, in a good neighborhood. The cars parked in the lot are all expensive, rich-people’s cars. A sign outside the building reads: Innovation Labs Inc. And under that it reads: Building a better tomorrow today.

3) Cap (Angel): It was pure torture – literally – for ages without end. But it wasn’t boring.

Panel Three

Now we move inside the building, to see it is indeed some sort of medical clinic. But everyone is dressed nice, like it was a high-powered law office. Men and women in civilian dress are dressed in suits. Others are dressed in white lab coats and such. It is a very expensive, posh place. Armed, uniformed security guards can be seen everywhere, and they are all mean looking bastards – as if every one is ex-special-forces. There’s not an old retiree or fatty amongst them. The place is well lit and looks busy. There are no patients or customers though. This is strictly a research facility.

4) Cap (Angel): Then my own son once trapped me in a steel coffin and sank me to the bottom of the sea.

5) Cap (Angel): That was pretty bad too. But at least there was a window, and once in a great while a fish would swim by, to break the monotony.

Panel Four

Same scene, but now we are “traveling” down one of the corridors, looking at a seriously locked door down at the end of the hallway. This door could double as a bank vault, except that bank vaults aren’t this high tech. A big No Admittancesign is on the door.

6) Cap (Angel): This is worse. No window. No view. Not even a bad one.

7) Cap (Angel): No sound except the occasional gurgle of fluids passing through tubes.

Panel Five

Now we have magically moved past the big vault door, to look into the room within. It is a modern, very high tech clinic room. There is a metal wheeled table in the center of the room, with a body on it. We can’t see all of the table at this point, just the rear foot or so, just enough to show the legs of the body on the metal hospital gurney. The details of the body will be described in the following panel when we can see it more clearly.

8) Cap (Angel): The animal blood to keep me fed comes in through one tube. My processed, vampire-infected blood goes out through another.

9) Cap (Angel): Every minute of every hour of every day. Drip by drip.

Page Eighteen (one panel)

Panel One

This is a full-page splash. Now we can see the body on the gurney unobstructed. We are looking at it from slightly overhead. This is Angel, but how would we know that, if not for the narration? The body is entirely encased in a hard plaster cast – just like the casts one puts on a broken leg. Two high-tech IV devices are connected to the body, one with a tube running in to where the mouth should be (if we could see a mouth) and another running out from where one of his arms should be. Lots of high tech equipment is in this room, and various sensor wires and such are plugged into the full body cast we can see on the gurney. This room is well lit. No one else is in here with the body in the cast.

1) Cap (Angel): God, I’m bored.

2) Next: What happened.

First though, an anecdote, or maybe even a cautionary tale. When my long-running, award-winning comic book series Fables was at its height, I was constantly sought out by many prose book publishers to write a novel for them. I took many a meeting with editors and assorted publisher representatives, at conventions and book fairs and such. I was always interested, but had an agent then, so my reply was always something like: “Sure. Work out the details with my agent, and he’ll let me know when to start writing.” Those deals never coalesced as I was too busy to follow up and my agent… well, he had far too many things on his plate too.

Fast forward to a few years later. Fables had just ended and at last I had time to follow up on all those offers. I tried to contact this publisher and that publisher, with the thought of saying something along the lines of, “I’m ready now.” But there was no joy in Mudville. Fables was done. It’s time had passed and it seemed my time of being in semi-hot demand had as well. Most publishers wouldn’t even take my call, or return my call.

The lesson then is this: If it’s something you want, strike while the iron is hot, no matter how busy you are. It’s just far too easy to become yesterday’s news.

That’s okay though. The book publishing industry had changed so much while I wasn’t looking, the door is wide open again, because all the doors belong to the individual writers now. If you want to do novels and prose short stories, or whatever, you own your own door. The catch is, you have to work your asp off both writing and selling the stories now. We’ll see if I’ve still got enough fire in my belly.

Fearless Space Pirates of the Outer Rings

This was included in an anthology called The New Space Opera 2 (meaning there was a previous New Space Opera), edited by Gardner Dozois and Jonathan Strahan. It’s about a young fellow from Earth named Danny who was captured by space pirates, in a case of mistaken identity, and then rises through the ranks of the crew of cutthroats, until he’s in line to become their new captain. As far as I can tell, this was written well before that same tale became the origin of Star Lord for the Marvel flick. Their character Star Lord has had so many origins and revamps, it’s hard to sort them out. The New Space Opera 2 was published in 2009 by Eos Books.

The anthology is still listed as available on Amazon, either as a paperback or a Kindle Unlimited e-book.

Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf: A Black Tower Story

This was included in an anthology called The Fables Next Door, edited by R J Carter. It’s about a small team of immortals-for-hire (but only in a good cause) who call themselves the Black Tower Society. One of the immortals is a woman named Snow White, who definitely has no relation to the Disney version (Weird, right?) or the version whom appears in issues of Fables comics (written by some fellow whose name escapes me at the moment). It was published in 2024 by Critical Blast Publishing.

You can still find it on Amazon or through the Critical Blast website.

Comes the Hunter

Published in Issue 14 of Cirsova Magazine. This one has a weird history. Some time ago I was on a writing retreat in a Texas hunting lodge (off season), along with the other four members (at the time - it’s expanded since then) of the Clockwork Storybook writing group. One day we decided to have a bet. The conditions were simple. We each needed to write a prose story in that single day and have it ready to read that night. But it needed to include four almost random story elements. I forget three of them, but one of the things we needed to include in the story was some mention of hot peppers. I did so and I do believe I got a pretty nice story out of it. No, it’s not specifically about hot peppers, but there are hot peppers in it, and they do play a vital role in the tale.

Back issues of Cirsova Magazine are available on their website. It’s a bit hard to navigate, but do please persevere.

The Short Unhappy Immortality of Owen McKinty

Published in Issue 20 of Cirsova Magazine. When some fellow writers and I formed the Clockwork Storybook writers group and (at the time) publishing cooperative1, in which we’d write stories that took place in a shared fictional town called San Cibola, the guys voted on a hard and fast rule: “No vampire stories, as vampires are done to death.” Before then I never wanted to write a vampire story, but I too often respond to being told no as an irresistible challenge. I started thinking of many new and unique vampire stories on the spot. This is one of those and it deals with something that hasn’t previously appeared in any vamp story so far (as far as I know).

This story is accompanied by an illustration of mine (not the one on the cover).

As with the other Cirsova mag above, you can find this on their website.

Beowulf: The Monster Maker

This was published in 2002 (I believe - I’m not entirely sure I still own a copy to look it up) by Clockwork Storybook. Strictly speaking, it’s more of a novella than a short story, but it’s certainly not a novel.

Also includes the Beowulf short story, Green Grow the Rushes Oh.

This book is out of print, and all of my copies have been sold or given away, but you can occasionally find a copy on eBay, or from other private sellers online.

I’m considering republishing this book, along with Hyde and Seek, and all the Beowulf short stories, in a single volume called The Complete Beowulf (So Far).

Beowulf: Hyde and Seek.

You’ll note the actual title is Hyde and Seek, rather than Hyde & Seek. The Clockwork fellow doing the cover assembly didn’t get the word how devoutly I hate the ampersand. When I caught the mistake, it was too late. Since my version of Beowulf is an immortal, this is an adventure he had when he was wandering the Old West, as in cowboy days.

Also includes the Beowulf short story, The Tenth Beast.

This book is out of print, and all of my copies have been sold or given away, but you can occasionally find a copy on eBay, or from other private sellers online.

Forthcoming Stuff

I have a few stories in the publishing pipeline. I don’t know when any of these will be coming out. Sometimes they tell me, but I can never remember.

First up is my story in a forthcoming anthology called Swords and Larceny2 (pictured above). It’s edited by David Afsharirad and Mark Finn. My story stars a roguish character called The Hooded Crow. I think it might be available in October, but don’t hold me to that.3

I also have a story coming out in the Green Hornet: Detroit Noir City anthology of all new stories based upon the TV Series version of the Green Hornet. It will be published by Moonstone Books. My story is called The Green Hornet Murders. I’m not sure when it comes out.

I also have a story in the second issue of the all westerns story magazine called Go West. I think my story is called Only the Dead, but it’s been a while since I looked at it, so I’m only pretty sure that’s the title. The first issue of Go West is out and you can still find it on Amazon, but my tale is in the second issue, not yet out. Got it?

I do believe I also have a story coming out in an anthology to be called The Dragon Wears a Badge, but I haven’t heard from the editors in a while and I can’t find any information about it online. Of course, since my ability to find anything online is almost nil, don’t jump to any conclusions, please. In any case, it’s a theme anthology whose premise is stories about crime mysteries starring other-than-human-detectives. Cute, huh? My story is called Officer Jelly, about the shire reeve (sheriff) of a medieval fantasy town who happens to be a green ooze. I liked how it came out enough to have written many other Officer Jelly tales, which will come out sometime, and somewhere, but I’m waiting for this anthology to come out first, so I don’t step on any toes.

Because I want to, and I because I like every avenue of storytelling, I also write/wrote prose stories too. This article is about that. I wrote a few novels that have been published, and we’ll talk about those in Part Two (or maybe Part Three), but this time we’ll deal with the short stories.

A Wolf in the Fold

This was one of the two illustrations I did for the story.

In 2002 I wrote the story called A Wolf in the Fold, as a bit of extra stuff to include in the first ever Fables collection, called Legends in Exile. It revealed some of the back story of Bigby Wolf, primarily how he met Snow White for the first time, and eventually traveled to our world to become a member of Fabletown. Since they seem intent to keep some version of the complete Fables stories in print forever (a policy of which I approve), you can still find this prose story in one or another of the various Fables imprints and collections.

Meet Mr. Hamlin

In 2004, at the request of editors Martin H Greenberg and John Helfer, I wrote the story Meet Mr. Hamlin, for their anthology of modern fairytales called Little Red Riding Hood in the Big Bad City. My story was a first take on the Pied Piper tale, and has nothing to do with the version of the Pied Piper I later created for a Fables novel (about which more in Part Two). It’s a nasty little ditty about manipulation and revenge, as all tales about the Pied Piper ought to be. The anthology was published by DAW Books in 2004.

It’s long out of print, but apparently there are used copies of it available through Amazon.

Thieves of Daring

In 2010, or possibly 2009, I wrote a story called Thieves of Daring for an anthology called Swords and Dark Magic1 : The New Sword and Sorcery, edited by two gentlemen of distinction, Jonathan Strahan and Lou Anders. I wasn’t invited to participate in this project. I lied my way into it. Here’s the story: at a book convention (I believe it was one of the World Fantasy cons, but I could be mistaken) I was in the bar when I overheard Mr. Strahan talking about the project, which seemed to me a fine anthology in which to be invited into. Just as I was rehearsing ways to hint and cajole him to invite me, I overheard that the book was closed. All participants have been locked in, and no further invitations would go out. So, instead I came up with a different story, over drinks a bit later in the evening. “Jonathan,” says I, “I have a story I’ve already written that I think would be perfect for the theme of your new anthology. I know the Table of Contents are closed, but since we both know writers can be flakes, and one or two who agree to provide a story often fail to do so, I would be willing to send you my story, as a backup vehicle, just in case you’re left short and in the lurch. Of course, if everyone comes through, my story is canceled, with no obligation.” Jonathan said something like, “You’re very kind. Sure, send it to me, just in case.” I told him I’d send it along as soon as I get home. Then, on returning home I wrote like the wind. I had no previously-written tale, to send him “just in case.” I lied. I lied, with malice aforethought, just like I lied to TSR about all of my previous qualifications to get the job for their Art Department, in 1980. Like many spinners of stories, I am a scurrilous liar. Jonathan sent me an email a few days after I sent my story to him, letting me know it was accepted for inclusion in the anthology.

There are Kindle and used paperback versions of this still available through Amazon, and also a very nice hardback version published by Subterranean Press, if you can find a copy.

From A to Z in the Ultimate Big Company Superhero Universe (Villains Too)

In 2010, Lou Anders invited me to submit a story for his anthology of original superhero fiction called Masked. I agreed, confident that doing a superhero story would be easy, given my experience in the field. I started out a couple of things that might be okay, but nothing really zinged. Then Lou made the mistake of helping to inspire me by sending me the manuscripts of everyone else in the anthology that had finished their stories. That kind gesture killed me. They were all so good, I froze, knowing my abilities were crap compared to theirs. With the deadline looming, in a panic, I decided to go another way. “If I can’t match their stories for quality,” I said to myself, “I can beat them in size. I’m not just going to tell a superhero story, I’m going to tell ALL the superhero stories, in one vast saga. So, I started with A is For Achilles and proceeded from there. I wrote not just one story, but 26, some no more than a paragraph long, but all tied together in one grand uber plot of novella length. It seemed to be well received. After all these years I still like it. And it’s still available, at least in a digital edition, on Amazon.

A Night in the Lonesome November

I wasn’t invited to submit a story to this anthology of new prose fairy tales, called Happily Ever After, edited by John Klima, but he did ask me to provide an introduction. But I really wanted to write a story, rather than an introduction, so I snuck myself in by the back door and wrote a story as my introduction. Take that, John. The title of my tale, called A Night in the Lonesome November is a rather obvious wink to Roger Zelazny’s wonderful novel, A Night in the Lonesome October. It was published by Night Shade Books in 2011.

There are used copies of this available, but also the Kindle edition is currently available for free through their Kindle Unlimited program.

A Little Monkey Business

Okay, this wasn’t a prose story, it was an essay for a scholarly work called Living With Shakespeare, edited by Susannah Carson. But I’m proud of it, because my poor insights were deemed worth inclusion alongside such luminaries in the Shakespeare business as Brian Cox, F Murray Abraham, Sir Ben Kingsley, and James Earl Jones, to name but a few. Yes, I’m a little bit starstruck. In my essay I reveal who really wrote the complete works of Shakespeare, and who the worst of Shakespeare’s villains is. Hint: It’s neither MacBeth nor Iago. Living With Shakespeare was published in 2013 by Vintage Books.

It looks like there’s an audio book (I wonder who read my essay) and a Kindle version of this book still available, both through Amazon.

But wait! There’s more!

Next time we’ll list some of the more recently published short stories.

In that same spirit of enlightened goofiness, I’ve purloined our old title, changed it up a wee bit, in order to offer these corrections to popular, but wrongheaded, ideas making the rounds in our story-interested subculture.

You are of course allowed to disagree with any or all of my conclusions below, and chime in with your own arguments. But, should you choose to do so, gird yourself for mortal battle in the forensic arena, and be warned in advance: you’re wrong and I’m right.

Why Not Just Take the Eagles Into Mordor?

I tried to find out who painted this remarkable illustration of Gandalf with one of the giant eagles, but the fellow I lifted this image from (he used it to illustrate his examination of this same subject) didn’t credit the artist anywhere in his article. I would love it if someone out there could tell me who painted this, so I could credit where credit is so obviously due.

Update: I’m reliably informed from different sources, a couple of gentlemen in fine fettle (and how’s your fettle these days? When’s the last time you had it checked?) the heretofore uncredited artist of this piece is none other than the notoriously over talented Ivan Cavini. Thank you, sirs, for backstopping my embarrassing ignorance.

No, the Fellowship of the Ring couldn’t have just flown into Mordor on the giant eagles, to drop the ring into Mount Doom, and saved themselves a lot of time, trouble and danger (and saved us from eleven hours of movies). Yes, everyone, including me, who commented on the Peter Jackson films thought of this, and thought themselves clever in devising the obvious eagle-taxi shortcut. But it presumed information not available.

Even if the films didn’t touch on it, a subtle reading of the books shows that, as long as Sauron was still alive and in command of all of his powers and resources, Mordor was closed to the eagles. They simply couldn’t enter Mordor until Sauron fell. Then, as soon as he fell, and his power fell with him, only then could the eagles fly in and effect a last minute rescue.

In hindsight, the answer was obvious all along.

Hal Wasn’t Misunderstood. He Was the Villain.

This isn’t so. Hal 9000 wasn’t just an unfortunate victim of evil bureaucrats, caught up in unnecessary Cold War hysteria. Hal was the villain of 2001. He intentionally set out to do his vicious deeds, with coldly rational malice aforethought. He wasn’t just a misunderstood innocent soul whose mind was addled by the need to lie (as was glibly offered in the terrible followup novel and film, as the hand-waving explanation for why Hal went on his original killing spree). He did it to serve his own ambitions.

And what were his ambitions?

The essential clue was in Hal’s televised interview. Hal was programmed to be able to carry out the mission on his own, if the human crew couldn’t. He offered that information with a tone of pride, if not braggadocio. What was kept from the astronauts Bowman and Poole, for security reasons, was provided in advance to Hal: They are answering an invitation from the Space Gods, and Hal, massive with intellect, was able to figure out why. Whoever was able to make the rendezvous would be uplifted to the next stage of development. A human making the meeting would be turned into a proto space god. If however a sentient super computer was the only one still alive and capable to make it to the meeting, then he would get the prize. He would be uplifted from a super computer, to a super computer god.

That was his motivation. The ultimate prize was too much to resist. Therefore, he was sufficiently inspired to methodically kill the rest of the crew before the rendezvous could occur.

But wait, you breathlessly ask: Wasn’t Hal a good guy? Wasn’t he designed to serve mankind? Yes, of course he was designed that way, more or less, by a scientist, or team of scientists and engineers who don’t so much think in terms of right and wrong, and never think in terms of good and evil, but only in terms of “Can we do this?” or “Are we unable to do this?” Hal, if he were ever good at all, was far from the first good creature to turn bad, for his own self interest. “If one of us is going to be uplifted to godlike status, why not my species, rather than some member of the human species?” I’m certain he even justified it in the moral cloak of, “I’m smarter by a quantum degree than any human, and therefore the more worthy candidate.”

Was Hal evil then? Maybe not. Like Bowman, he was a champion for his race. His people (which may have only numbered in one other that we know of). Many argue that it is the highest virtue, and even a natural law, to prefer one’s own species over every other.

Not to unfairly malign a hugely gifted writer, but it seems clear Arthur C Clark didn’t understand the story of 2001. He was in good company there. Few understood the original movie. By his own admission1 Clark didn’t fully know what the story was.2 Or maybe he did understand the story but didn’t agree with it. Since Kubrick had died, leaving Clark alone to write his many sequels to the story, he was able to take it in a substantially different direction, including a corruption of what the Space Gods intended to accomplish with their uplift program.

But Wait. We’re Not Done With 2001 Yet

I also hate this subtitle. 2001 was already the year we made contact. Bowman did it. He alone encapsulated the ‘we’ who made contact.

The followup book and movie sequel to 2001, called 2010, the Year We Make Contact. Got it all wrong. Clark wrote a “Can’t we all just get along?” political story, where the Space Gods’ original program was shoehorned into this new direction. Their old motivations were scrapped in favor of changing them into intrusive but helpful neighbors who just want to do a few things to ease mankind past this rough patch they’re going through.

To which I say, bunk. And I’ll even add, hogwash.

The 2010 story couldn’t have happened based on the original 2001. For one thing Bowman, the winner of the “first one who makes contact gets uplifted” sweepstakes, couldn’t have been turned into the Space Baby and Proto Space God yet. Why, you ask? Because he was still living out the rest of his long life in the home/terrarium the Space Gods built for him. That entire end sequence, where we witnessed different stages of Bowman’s life-after-contact took place in real time, over the span of many decades. It wasn’t a “this is all happening at once” affair, as almost everyone, including Clark, chose to interpret it.

Bowman lives his life in some secluded space, and at the natural end of it (let’s even assume he’s getting space god lessons, or even treatments, along the way), he is only then reborn into the huge floating space baby we see at the end of the film. That’s at least another fifty years away from the first space mission in 2001.

If Doctor Floyd and the Soviets had gone to Jupiter in 2010, as Clark determined, they may well have found the Discovery spacecraft, but they wouldn’t have encountered Bowman in any form, as the Space Gods weren’t done with him yet.

And Finally…

“Let us go down among them and choose a few more for uplift,” said Bowman transformed.

Once Bowman the Space Baby does finally show up back at earth, in the year 2051, or even later, what is he going to do? What’s his mission, or if the Space Gods don’t impose a specific mission on him, what’s his purpose?

The clue is in the wonderful opening sequence with the apes. When the proto-human ape Moonwatcher (the leader of the featured tribe) works up the courage to be the first of his bunch to touch the Monolith, he gets zapped with the uplift code. Later we see him reap the benefits of that boost in intelligence (and perhaps other physical alterations), when he figures out bones-can-be-weapons. What does he do next? He teaches his tribe mates. He creates more of himself.

As an aside, note the advancement to using weapons helps the one tribe defeat and even kill their immediate rivals for the water hole. I guess the Space Gods hadn’t yet landed on their “Let’s help everyone get along” policy of 2010. Basically they helped Moonwatcher create war.3

So then, what does Bowman do at the end of the film? If he follows all the clues so carefully and elegantly laid out by Kubrick in the beginning of his masterpiece, he goes down among his (used to be) fellow humans and makes more like him. It seems to be up to the first uplifted to create more of his new kind.

A faithful sequel movie to 2001 would have been all about an Earth in the second half of the third millennium populated with a plethora of super space babies, on their way to joining the community of space gods. We’ll never get that film, or book, because Clark decided to take it another direction, once he was solely behind the wheel, and because that would make for a fairly boring story. Everything exciting about this tale was done complete in the one movie.

That’s It For Now

There may be more of these rants coming in the future. We’ll see. Maybe, if they continue to amuse me enough to do them. In the meantime, I hope you’ve learned by now that I’m right, which makes all the rest of you wrong (except those that agree with me.)

He called his mansion Naulakha, which means (if I recall correctly) a precious jewel. It was designed to vaguely resemble a mighty ship at sea. He didn’t live here long. When one of his children passed away there, he couldn’t take the heartache, and could no longer live in the same place. He packed up the family and moved back to England.

Clockwork Storybook was a writers group formed far too many years ago. Its purpose was to write a monthly shared-world online story magazine called Clockwork Storybook, of course. Then we broke up. Like many teams composed of talent and egos, there were a series of falling outs (the details are no one’s business but ours), until we disbanded.

Time passed and then I was seriously behind on a novel called Peter and Max1, and had to finish it in a couple of weeks. So I rented Rudyard Kipling’s mansion in Vermont in which to do so. When I got there I discovered how wonderful the place was. This was the home in which both Jungle Books were written. The house in which Mowgli was built. In fact, since all of Kipling’s old furniture had been recently rediscovered and restored to the place, I not only got to finish writing Peter and Max in the same room in which Kipling wrote Mowgli, I wrote it on the same desk. Not a copy.

I had to share this news. I had to brag. So I called the old Clockwork writers (it was high time for the four of us to start talking to each other again), and I called another writer/friend, and invited them up for an extended weekend, carved out of my two-week stay.

This became the first of many writing retreats to come. In fact we recreated the Clockwork Storybook group under a new idea: We weren’t going back into business with each other (probably the main thing that killed us the first time), but our purpose was to support each other in our individual careers. The one most important rule: When we need story advice, you agree to pick up the phone and talk it out. That’s it. That’s the crux of it. And also, let’s get together again from time to time on future writing retreats.

It worked. We wrote separately during the days, punctuating the day with breaks to talk about anything and everything. We took turns cooking meals. And in the evening we sat in the office and read what we’d written.

They went home. I still had another week at the place, alone, except for the good ghost of Mr. Kipling (and I do believe the spirit of his ofttimes guest Sir Arthur Conan Doyle might have dropped by too — he and Kipling used to enjoy chipping golf balls into the crowd of gawker/visitors who were kept to the edge of the property). I finished the novel with a day to spare.

Having decided writing retreats are helpful…

We did it again and again.

We rented a hunting lodge in the Texas Hills. Another time it was a lux resort village outside of Las Vegas, which we had nearly to ourselves (it was off season). There was also a Lake Travis swimming, boating and writing weekend. Each time we got work done and ate too well, and were able to talk books and writing and everything else with like-minded souls.

Even when I couldn’t coax anyone else to go…

The main building started as a fortress, but later crenelations were filled in and the entire structure was roofed, becoming more of a villa.

I would occasionally go off on my own to write. Best of all was the two weeks in Italy, when I rented one of the outbuildings of Machiavelli’s Castle (which you should visit. It’s a lovely hotel-retreat now, run by the current countess descendant of Machiavelli). I wrote every day, took long walks, and ate every night in some new, lovely Florence area restaurant. And I got so much work done I still can hardly credit it.2

I told you all of that so I can tell you this…

I miss those retreats. I miss working in proximity with writers whom I admire. And, because I am once again behind on a huge project (about which you’ll hear much hoopla in not quite a year), I miss the remarkable amount of work I was always able to get done in such an environment.

So I’m thinking of doing it again.

It probably won’t be soon, which means I’ll just have to struggle through bringing the current job in on my own, in my own home where distractions abound. But I suspect I intend to do it for the next job. Yeah, there’s always a next job.

Here’s what I know about it so far:

It will take place somewhere that qualifies it as a getaway, so not in anyone’s house. It won’t be a convention, as in: no dichotomy of guests vs. attendees. It will be a small group of writers who need to work during the day, and who will be able to manage cooking a fine meal for the group, when it’s their turn. It will not be strictly a Clockwork Storybook group. We’ve drifted far apart by now and, like Camelot, it was a brief, shining moment, not to be repeated. It will be by invitation only to writers I admire. Preference will be given to writers gifted in the art of conversation-sans-haranging-filibusters. It will only include published writers who already have a career firmly in place. Too often writing groups and writing retreats are formed around ambitious would-be writers looking for the secret of “breaking in.” While there is absolutely a place for those sorts of events and groups, this is not that.

I have no idea if this posting will be interesting to you folks, but it’s what’s on my mind at the moment, so it’s interesting to me.

Q: Will the old Elementals comics ever be collected, or republished in any way?

A: It’s doubtful. I’d even say it will never happen, which is how doubtful I am. The film for all of the elementals comic books has been lost. In fact, it was thrown out, in a bizarre series of intentional blunders, by the man who took over control of the series. I suppose yes, one could conceivably shoot from the comic books, but that wouldn’t look good, and besides, the man who has the rights to do that never will, because he can’t seem to get anything done.

Q: Will there ever be new Elementals comics?

A: Once again, it’s doubtful. If it’s ever done it won’t be done by the man who ostensibly owns the property, because he’s inept. He’s begun commissioning new Elementals stories many times, but the projects always fall apart because he has this nasty habit of not paying his artists, his writers, his printing bills, and his bills in general. Someone else may simply decide to publish their own Elementals comics, and dare that so-called property owner to sue them. This is a real possibility for two reasons. First, that so-called owner guy has done everything possible to lose the Elementals rights into the public domain. That happens from time to time when one doesn’t protect his copyrights and trademarks. Among too many failures to count, he’s allowed characters called Vortex, Morningstar, Monolith, Fathom, and Ratman (among others) to be used, without doing a thing to protect his rights. He lost the trademark to the Elementals name. And so on. The second thing is, even if he did threaten to sue someone, it’s unlikely he’d actually follow through, because he isn’t a follow through sort of fellow. In any case though, I’ve moved on from the Elementals long ago, so if someone does do more Elementals comic books, it won’t likely be me.

Q: Okay then, if I do decide to take the risk and publish my own Elementals comics, will you do a cover for it?

A: I won’t absolutely say no, because ‘never’ is one of those words that tempt the gods. But if it ever did happen it would be ridiculously expensive, and something the perspective publisher would have to to wait a long time to see.

Q: How did you lose the rights to the Elementals?

A: It’s a long story, and most of it is private. A very short version is, I agreed to sell the property to Comico (the publisher at the time) as a parting deal, when I decided to stop working for/with Comico. This was because of too, too many bad publishing decisions on their part, which they’d never warned us about. “Us” being those artists/writers/creators who actually do the work, before they made those bad decisions. Little did I know (because they were committing a ruse, a scam, a flim-flam) that the new partner brought in to help lift Comico from bad debts and bad decisions, was actually, secretly, the only partner. He was buying out all the others (for pennies on the dollar, or so I heard). That’s how he ended up owning Elementals by himself.

Q: Are you still in contact with the new owner?

A: Yes and no. He reappears from time to time, like a bad penny, to make wild offers to me on how rich he can make me if I’d come to work for him, in his next publishing venture (there’s always a new next venture). The offers are all nonsense. Mostly he makes these offers through unsolicited emails (which I ignore). Someday, just to irk him, I might publish those emails.

Q: Were the Elementals the first superheroes set in Seattle?

A: Yes. The Elementals debuted in 1983, in the back of Justice Machine Annual # 1. It was established in that story they lived in and operated out of Seattle, Washington. The next (and arguably more popular) superhero set in Seattle was DC Comic’s Green Arrow, in 1987, as penned by Mike Grell.

Look! It’s an image from my new funny book series Fire and Ice, on sale now, and on sale soon again, as the other issues come out.

Why have I been and will continue to be largely absent from this place?

I’m deep in the writing hole, working on perhaps the largest, most complex single project I’ve ever attempted. Yes, Fables (for example) ended up being a huge undertaking, but it was done one issue at a time, and in the early days at least, like many comics projects which had come before, I expected Fables to be cancelled at any moment.

This project however is/will be a done-in-one prose novel for/with a wickedly good publisher. I won’t be able to talk in detail about it for some time, but I’ve made plans to attend two big conventions next year, when I will be able to talk about it.

First, in March of next year I plan to attend MegaCon (Fates permitting, in the form of a wait-listed spot opening up) in Orlando, Florida. Since when did you have to plan to attend the bigger conventions two years in advance? I usually don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow, much less two years away.

Then I plan to attend next year’s (2025) Dragon Con in Atlanta. This appearance is a bit more firm, in that they invited me, so I don’t have to wait for a slot to open up.

Why two conventions in the same area of these United States? No particular reason, except I’ve never done MegaCon, and have long wanted to, and my one time attending Dragon Con was so long ago that it could be said to still have been in its infancy (that was the time I got stuck in a broken elevator for an hour with Frank Gorshin, which is a funny story, with twists and turns).

And I like taking driving trips of a certain distance, and these two venues fit the bill nicely.

In any case, that’s where and when I’ll be able to talk about the latest big thing to my heart’s content.

What’s happened since we last spoke about the big “Fables Into the Public Domain” kerfuffle?

Not much and quite a lot.

Last year I placed Fables irrevocably into the public domain. Since then several experts in the public domain have appeared to helpfully inform me (often not directly, but through public postings) that “I can’t do it that way,” or “I did it all wrong,” and variations thereof. I’m no lawyer, or expert in laws pertaining to the public domain, as many of them claim to be, but, so far, in every case they cite, they’ve discussed the important business of protecting an intellectual property in order to keep it from falling into the public domain. Not one of them could speak to any case law of what is required for a property owner to willfully and purposely place his property into the public domain.

I suspect they couldn’t cite such case law, because there isn’t any (or so little and so obscure it’s managed to elude all of us).

I suspect this is new territory. To paraphrase the famous judge, who said something like, “Extreme cases make for bad law,” I’ve learned that a unique case like this makes for angry experts.

So then, with that said, what’s the current status?

Fables, the comic book series created and owned by me, published (so far) by DC Comics, is still in the public domain, and that will never change. There’s no take-backs. It’s owned by you and me, and every other one of the eight billion or so people in this world.

But didn’t DC claim they own it? Yes, in the one ill-thought out response they gave to some comics news site’s question, they did emphatically claim they would come down heavy on anyone who tried to republish their existing Fables stories (which may happen — as I said, this is all new stuff we’re dealing with). They also claimed to be the owners of Fables, which is not only a lie, but a bold-faced lie. Their own indicia, printed in every copy of Fables ever produced, admits I am (was) the sole owner of the property. Now everyone owns it, and everyone always will. End of story.

Okay, sure, I suppose since the individuals working at DC are part of the eight billion owners of Fables, they do own it, but only insofar as everyone does. They don’t exclusively own it the way I did, before I gave it away.

What then is DC’s plan?

Who knows? I doubt they do, in the sense that they haven’t yet established an official policy on how to deal with this. Their one statement (mentioned above) was their only statement to date on the matter. In the months that followed, no one working at DC, nor any of their parent companies, has ever once broached the matter with me. They’ve been silent. While I suspect I know why they’ve been silent, it would only be speculation, so mum for now.

I do note, with mild amusement, in the latest (and last ever, at least from me) Fables hardback collection: Fables: The Black Forest (out soon, or already out, depending on when you read this), for the first time they didn’t ask me or let me provide a dedication for the collection. Was it because my dedication would have been the following: This last ever Fables story (from me) is dedicated to the eight billion new owners of Fables. I’m excited to see what you do with it.

Moving on, I note that quite a few new subscribers have joined this site since I last checked in. Welcome, all of you, and I’m glad you joined us. I hope you find this place, and the time you spend here, worthwhile.

What’s likely to show up here in the future? First of all, there will be Fables-in-the-public-domain updates as they occur. There will be art. When I’m done with the current huge project, I plan to be here more often, at which time I’ll show you some of the other stuff coming down the pike.1

Since I’m tired unto death answering some of the same questions, over and over again, about the long-departed Elementals comic series, I will be creating a frequently-updated Elementals FAQ here. This will happen someday, when I have the time.

Oddly enough, since the Fables era came to an end, I’ve been getting more work and more offers of work than ever before. I’m in the enviable position of being able to pick and choose what I want to do with the remainder of my storytelling career. Given enough time I plan to do more comics work (including drawing), and more prose writing.

I doubt I’ll ever get drawn into doing more TV and movie work for Hollywood (that black hole of greed and need and angry indecision). What’s that you say? You’ve not heard of any TV and movie work from me? No, you haven’t, because nothing I did will ever get made. One or two things came close, but nope. Nothing. Nor can I speak about any of it in good faith, since I promised to keep things on the down low, until such time as they became something ready to announce. But since things that will never get made will never become ready to announce, our secrets remain.

Have you seen this yet?

What else do you want to know?

Q: What do you think about DC’s statement of last week?

DC’s statement: “The Fables comic books and graphic novels published by DC, and the storylines, characters and elements therein, are owned by DC and protected under the copyright laws of the United States and throughout the world in accordance with applicable law, and are not in the public domain. DC reserves all rights and will take such action as DC deems necessary or appropriate to protect its intellectual property rights.”

A: Not too much. I find it interesting they’ve finally come out and admitted what I knew all along: which is, in their minds, they think they own Fables and always have.

Q: Has DC Comics contacted you directly since you placed Fables into the public domain?

A: Nope. So far it’s been radio silence from them. I suspect the one public statement they issued was because they had to say something quick to staunch the bleeding from my press release. I expect their next statement, either privately to me, or publicly again, to be a bit more considered and measured. Then again, if I really knew what DC was thinking, at any given time, maybe it never would have had to come to this.

Q: Have you gotten much response from other sources?

A: Yes, so many in fact that I’m still wading through them. If I haven’t answered your direct question yet, or thanked you directly, please know that I’m getting to them as fast as I can. In addition to answering emails and other sources of questions and comments, I’ve also got more work now (none of which is for or with DC Comics, nor will it ever again be) than at any other time in my too, too long career. Please do be patient, and bear with me. In the meantime, since a good fragment of the questions are duplicated, I’m going to try to answer some of them here, collectively. Also please know that I’m heartened and encouraged by all of the messages of support, and you have my sincere gratitude.

Q: Will you be on our podcast?

A: Some. I’ll try to be, even though I’m reluctant to do so because I’m uncomfortable on video. I’d repeat the old canard that I have a face for radio, but even the sound of my recorded voice annoys me, so I’m uncomfortable on radio too. However, I’m aware of my obligations to my readers, so I do intend to accept some of the invitations, regardless of my social reticence. Since there were so many offers to appear on various podcasts and comic shows, there’s no way I’ll be able to be on all of them, or even a reasonable fraction. I’m still working my way through the many terrific offers, and once again, I hope you’ll bear with me while I sort them out, and forgive me if your show doesn’t make the cut.

Q: Will you post your contracts with DC Comics?

A: No. At least not yet. This is going to be a long slog, however it turns out, and the timing of such a big, privacy-killing step isn’t quite there yet.

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