Preface



Today seemed as good a day as any to start my own thread. I've been planning on it for a while, but kept pushing back the when. It got to a point of "now or never" and so here we are, rather hastily as these things go.

What I am presenting here is a series of exercises, not a polished collection. I hope to see in plain, linear view a visible progression as I dare to tackle other styles and formats and genres. So I give fair warning now: many of these will be hit or miss. I probably will not go back to edit any of the following content, but in the very least I will make comment about where it could have or should have been changed or improved.

I would like to say that I will update frequently, but I hesitate to make any promises in that regard. The most I can say is that I will try to post something as often as I can and hope that will suffice.

Feedback would be greatly appreciated and encouraged, although I must say that praise does not interest me, even if deserved.



- s.

November 23, 2007



~


Advert

A tall, animated man pointed at a large sheet of Bristol paper resting on a tripod easel. Drawn onto it were sketches made in charcoal pencil, laid out in comic panels.

“It’s like this, right. We’ve got some bloke on a horse, yeah? Wearing one’a them buckle hats? What're they called? Well, anyway. It’s broad and peaked so you can't see his eyes. Mysterious stranger type. He’s plodding down the path, only it’s Sherwood, see. Next we’ve got him staring down at a buncha Merry Men—John Little front and center, Will Scarlet to the side and a very fat and drunk Friar Tuck holding a turkey leg. Anyways, Locksley, right? Swings down on a rope, makes his big appearance. ‘Stand and deliver,’ right? So our man, he pauses for a panel and then swipe! Fast as lightning he whips out a coupla of our pistols—dramatic frame of that—and blam blam blam! Blows them away. Then in the last panel we show our man going on his way with the bodies of Locksley and his lot on the path, stiff limbs in the air. Tuck’ll still be clutching his turkey leg, see, and Scarlet his knives, Locksley will only have nocked his bow—didn’t have the time to let it fly. Big, block text on the bottom: Ua Siaghail! ...Something something.”

He grinned proudly and raised his brows.

One of the two other men in the room looked at the man, the sketches and then the man again.

“Ought... Ought I to applause now, or something?” he deadpanned.

“Would you?” said the first man, in a patronizing, sing-song voice.

“Well, I will!” said the other seated man, clearly older than both, and he clapped his hands. “Well done, Desmond. Brilliant! Er, of course the last bit will need some improvement.”

“Of course, of course, Father,” said the first man, smiling and drinking in the compliment. “In fact, I thought dear Kieran could fill that in for us.”

The second man sighed and cradled his brow in the crook of his hand. “Must I?”

Desmond shrugged. “I’m an artist, not a writer.”

Clearly, Kieran wanted to say, but thought better of it.

“Come on, lad,” said their father, resting a hand on Kieran’s shoulder, causing the man to recoil a bit at the touch. “Show some enthusiasm like your brother, hey? After all, this will be your company someday.” Then added lowly, turning away, “Though I pray not soon.”

“As do I,” muttered Kieran, seething in his seat.