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There is a tremendous difference between an idea in your head and an idea on paper. The idea in your head is invariably genius--at once sweeping in grandeur and infinitely nuanced in detail. By contrast, the idea on paper is nearly always a disappointment--a muddle of compromise, contradiction, and half-formed epiphany. A tragedy in execution.
The process of writing, then, is the process of waking. It is the process of reconciling the starry-eyed wonder of our dreams with the drab but unerring truths of our reality.
It is the rare figment that does not dissolve in the harsh, still light of day.
So, you know, if you find one of those figments... have a party or something, okay?
Today, we ask the question:
How do we save ourselves the time and trouble and perpetual disappointment of chasing down every single maybe-great idea that floats across our field of vision?
The title of this week's column is a business term. Business people are not known for their clever wordplay. The term quite literally means "the proof that your concept works."
Before you roll out a new health care program for your employees--as I'm sure you'll all be doing sometime in the next few weeks--you'll want to test out the mechanics of your system in miniature. If you can demonstrate proof of concept, it justifies the expense and risk of the larger enterprise.
In comics, your proof of concept may be your pitch. A plot. A script. Some art. The key is that you really need to know your concept and, yes, you also need to know what you have to prove.
And we all have something to prove.
Let's start with a real world example. Well, real world-ish. It starts on the Scryptic Forum, which is at the very least geographically located somewhere outside of my own head.
I was responding to another writer's post about writing comics with extremely large casts. About halfway through my overly wordy response, I stumbled into writing the following paragraph:
"For example, I can see writing a 100 page superhero comic in which each page features a different superhero. Maybe call it 'Last Hour' and it tells the story of what the world's superheroes do with their last hour after they've failed in their last attempt to save the world. Some heroes struggle in vain, some return to their families, some attempt to settle old scores, etc. (Hmm, I'll probably sit down and write this at some point.)"
As that last, parenthetical sentence suggests, I knew even as I was typing those words that I might be onto something. But how to be sure?
First, it helps to know what good ideas look like.
(And here I mean "story ideas." Sure, "Let's put little round things on the bottom of this box to make it go," is a good idea. It's just not very relevant to this conversation.)
Good STORY ideas all have something in common. They all tie into some universal aspect of human nature, and they all present that aspect from a specific point of view.
I may be burned in effigy for saying this, but "zombies versus robots" is not a good story idea.
What IS a good story idea? Well, let's see:
"The sins of our past come back to haunt us as we struggle to embrace a brighter future... as symbolized through this battle between zombies and robots."
"Zombies versus robots" isn't really an idea at all. It's just surface. It's this second version that moves us deeper, grounding the conflict in some real insight into the human condition. Here, specifically, the awkward nexus between optimism and regret.
This "Last Hour" story has potential, because it has--at minimum--a passing resemblance to a good idea.
On one level, yes, it's superheroes at the end of the world. That's the simple "zombies versus robots" summation of the idea. But what's the deeper idea?
This world we have could be gone tomorrow. As a race, we long ago achieved the capacity for self-extinction. One nuclear device in the wrong hands could set off a chain-reaction that could end everything.
Life. Love. Hope. Possibility. All gone in an instant.
And the sad truth is that every day is the end of the world for somebody. Sometimes it catches you by surprise, and with the blink of an eye you're gone.
Sometimes you see death coming.
What do you do when time is running out? If you only had one moment left to you, what would you make of it?
What do you want to say with your last breath? Who do you want to kiss? Or kill? Or forgive?
And, because it's a story about superheroes, it is a story about failure too. These were the people who were supposed to save us. These were the people who were supposed to be better than us. If our heroes are the ones who teach us how to live, what can we learn from the way they die?
That's an idea for a story. It sounds good, but will it make a good comic book? That's down to the execution.
So let's talk format:
As originally proposed, it would be 100 pages long, and each page would introduce a new character and tell a complete story.
That's a little bit nuts. (Even for me.)
The stories are too short, and the volume is too long. Figure 64 pages instead, with most vignettes running two pages. Some might only need a page. Some might run to three. But two seems like a good average length.
Dan Slott is experimenting with two page "super-compressed" stories in an upcoming issue of Amazing Fantasy. I've been experimenting with a similar format for something called Lightspeed that I'll talk about in another column down the road.
But will superfast two page vignettes work for this project? Well, there's only one way to find out.
With a vague format in mind, the first step is to brainstorm ideas for individual stories. I do this in Microsoft Excel, because it's easier to manage dozens of entries that way. (And the format suggests at least thirty individual vignettes.)
I've come up with a dozen or so ideas so far. Some are as simple as "a hero drinks alone." Others are more high concept, like "a robot returns to his creator to find out if he has a soul."
The first order of business is to take one of these ideas and see if I can make it work as a self-contained two page vignette. If I can write one of these mini-stories, hopefully I can write all of them.
This will be my first "proof of concept" piece for "Last Hour."
And it starts right now:
--
"THE LONG THAW"
PAGE 1 - 6 Panels
P1.1
Angle down, close, on a boy's hands, awkwardly trying to carve through a thick steak with a knife and a fork.
BOY (from off-panel)
...AND THEN TOMMY SAID, "BUT I ATE IT FIRST!"
P1.2
As P1.1, but an adult man's hands reach into frame, with knife and fork, to help. The boy's hands pull back as the adult cuts into the meat.
ADULT (from off-panel)
LET ME HELP YOU WITH THAT, SAMMY.
SFX
KNOCK KNOCK
P1.3
On JACK WALTERS (the adult from P1.2) as he looks up from the table towards the front door, off-panel.
Jack is a fairly average looking middle-aged man. He wears a dress shirt, a tie, and glasses. He has a thick moustache and a receding hairline.
He looks nervous.
WIFE (from off-panel)
JACK? WERE YOU EXPECTING SOMEONE?
SFX
KNOCK KNOCK
P1.4
Wide shot. The Walters Family dining room.
Jack's WIFE sits on the far left, a fading beauty in a pink blouse. She senses something is wrong.
On the far right, Jack is getting up out of his seat, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He is already heading around the table towards his wife. Jack is clearly worried, too.
Between them sit their two children: SAMMY, a ten year old boy, and MEGAN, a five year old girl. The table is covered with food, and the two eat greedily, oblivious to their parents' interaction.
WIFE
HONEY. YOU DON'T--
JACK
I'LL GET IT.
JACK
IT'S... IT'S PROBABLY NOTHING.
P1.5
In profile. Jack stands facing out the open front door to our left. He stands in shock, listening to someone just outside (and out of view).
VOICE
I'M SORRY TO BOTHER YOU LIKE THIS, MISTER WALTER. TO BOTHER YOUR FAMILY.
VOICE
BUT WE DON'T HAVE MUCH TIME, AND THERE'S A WRONG I NEED TO SET RIGHT.
P1.6
As P1.5, but Jack begins to back away.
VOICE
TWELVE YEARS AGO, YOU HIT A LITTLE GIRL WITH YOUR PICK-UP TRUCK.
VOICE
YOU HAVE A GOOD LAWYER. THE JURY FOUND YOU WERE NOT GUILTY.
PAGE 2 - Panels
P2.1
Wide shot. A blue energy beam shoots through the doorway, hits Jack in the chest, and send him flying backwards across his living room, frozen solid.
P2.2
On WINTER WITCH, a mature superheroine in white, hands glowing blue.
WINTER WITCH
"NOT GUILTY." THIS MORNING THAT MEANT SOMETHING TO ME.
P2.3
Jack's Wife and children huddle over his frozen body, half-shattered on the living room floor. The family is all wails and tears.
WIFE
OH GOD! WHAT DID YOU DO? WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY HUSBAND?
P2.4
Profile. Tight on the Winter Witch's right eye.
WINTER WITCH
I PRAY THAT WHEN WE DIE, WE RETURN TO THE ONES WHO LOVE US.
WINTER WITCH
FOR BOTH OUR SAKES, MRS. WALTERS.
P2.5
Profile. Tight on Jack's Wife's left eye, staring back towards the Winter Witch, off-panel. Jack's Wife is full of hate. She cries.
WIFE
I HOPE YOU ROT IN HELL YOU BITCH.
WIFE
I HOPE YOU MELT.
P2.6
Tight on the Winter Witch's eyes. A tear drop forms out of her right eye.
WINTER WITCH
I ENVY YOU. ALL OF YOU.
WINTER WITCH
TO KNOW SUCH GRIEF. TO FEEL SUCH MISERY.
WINTER WITCH
FOR YOU THE END WILL BE A THING OF MERCY.
P2.7
Tight on the tear, luminescent, rolling down her cheek.
--
Bah. Needs a lot of work still, but I see some promise. At the very least, the thing has a beginning, a middle, and an end... though I think the level of precision necessary to pull this off might require me to do layouts as well.
Expect more work on this next time, including a review and revision of the "POC" piece, some layout work, and the usual oddball digressions.
 Drew Melbourne is hip deep in production on his upcoming comics series, ArchEnemies. Since the book is due out in early April, and the Previews
with the February solicitations is out next week, Drew suspects that
he'll be able to make a big splashy announcement about the book in
mid-January. Until then, look for periodic updates here and on DrewMelbourne.com.
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