There’s something about this industry. I don’t know what it is. But all of us who have read comics and love comics get this idea in our heads that if we come up with a story idea that we think is good, we can become a comics writer. Maybe we think it’s an easier industry than film or literature to get into. Or maybe we think it’s a lower art form, and therefore we have a chance at it. We think we could write a story as good as all the published comics out there, and the companies will be wining and dining and fawning all over us and begging us to let them start using our stories. And maybe we think we’ll be successful and make a fortune.
I remember how hopeful I was, that Oakland, CA Wondercon in April 1997, because I thought I had a decent story, and I’d shown it to friends, and everyone was so impressed. I had my scripts for the first three issues of Limbo Cafe. I did not bother putting together a submission package. I somehow had it in my head, I would be able to just walk up to DC, and ask for an editor at Vertigo, and tell them my story idea, and maybe leave a script with them if they weren’t blown off their feet right there. Then they’d spend a few minutes reading my script and see how good I was. I’d immediately get that phone call, and I’d be on my way with my comics career.
You know, you kind of know it isn’t going to work that way, but you build things up in your head. You want it to happen that way, because you work so hard. And you put in so much time, and you think, I’m a nice guy, so you just kind of hope, Now it will all pay off.
I’d gotten a fortune cookie the night before, and I remember it made me even more confident. I can’t remember now what it said, but it was something along the lines of, You will try a new business venture and become successful beyond your dreams, or A new career will bring new fortunes, or something like that.
I went up to DC, and I asked about a Vertigo editor, and they said, you may want to talk to Axel Alonso if you’re doing a crime or horror style of Vertigo, or Julie Rottenberg for more of a fantasy Vertigo. Julie was busy at the moment, so I walked right up to Axel. I was shocked. I knew his name, and hers. I knew what books they did, and I couldn’t believe I was dealing with them. It’s amazing how accessible all your comics heroes are at comics conventions. You just walk right up to all these names you know, and there they are, and they talk to you just like that.
I tried to pull out my script submission package. He said editors can’t really look at written submissions at cons, because it takes too long and too much is going on. So he didn’t look at anything I had. I tried to give him a package to take with him, but he wouldn’t take it. He said he would just lose it at the con, so he recommended I send it to the DC offices. He told me how many submissions they get every week, and it’s not easy to go through, but they do occasionally hire new writers.
Looking back, I’m pretty sure he mentioned the Gangland anthology they had just put out or were about to put out, and a young newcomer they took a chance on named Brian Azzarello. You history buffs and Azzarello fans can look that one up.
Axel recommended, “You need to be able to sum up your story in a quick sentence,” and he was ready to send me on my way. I asked if I could give him my catch line. He obviously didn’t want to hear it, kind of paused like, “How is the best way to handle this?” Finally he said, All right.
So I thought, okay, here we go. This is it. Comics career, here I come. Prepare to be dazzled.
“It’s about an atheist who dies and finds himself in a Christian afterlife.” Another pause. Then he began telling me how they deal with that premise in Garth Ennis’s Preacher, and they’re doing it a little in the Sandman books. And he sent me on my way. It occurred to me, when I make a pitch like that, people probably assume I’m a judgemental, prissy Christian preacher planning to proselytize some moralizing tale of how Heaven kicked that stupid atheist’s ass down to Hell, and he regretted it while he burned and suffered for the rest of eternity, and boy did he wish he’d been a Christian, amen.
It seems like Darkhorse had been at this convention in the past, but maybe they weren’t there that year, or at least I didn’t go talk with anyone. And Marvel, it seems, was never at this convention. So I didn’t know who else to try and go talk to, so I didn’t really go anywhere else.
I found a time when Julie Rottenberg was available, and she was much sweeter and gentler, and tried to give some general advice on how to structure story proposals and such. She spoke with me a little longer than Axel, but basically said the same things. I had planned to spend the entire weekend at this show, but realized I had nothing left to do after that first day, a few hours in, so I gave my second day pass to someone I saw coming in as I left. A crushing, devastating weekend.
Looking back, I’m very aware that Axel was perfectly gentlemanly, and a real sport to be out there looking at the scripts and giving advice to morons such as myself. But when you’re this close to it, if feels really devastating.
I didn’t realize how upset I was until I got home and got in an argument with my girlfriend, who’s an artist, and six years older than me. She pointed out that being an artist is awful sometimes, because we want it to work out, but then you just get dealt these real-world blows that put you in your place. But if it’s what you love, you’ll just keep doing it anyways, and working harder at it, and maybe someday it’ll go somewhere, and maybe it won’t, and you’ll either keep trying because you love it, or lose interest. It was a painful lesson, but so nice that she had been through these same rejections, and could show me that it’s just part of the process. So I kept writing, and waited for the next cons.
The next year I brought my scripts again, but wasn’t really interested in pitching things anymore. I didn’t have the strength to get a bunch more rejections. I went to DC once more, and there was Alisa Kwitney, who I knew edited Sandman. Wow! Amazing. You just walk up, and they’re friendly and courteous and there for you, and they treat you like a person. It’s unreal, the access that the comics industry gives you to its stars. You couldn’t do this with your favorite singer or actress or sports star. There’s nothing like the comics industry that I know of. No other “celebrity” medium allows you such contact.
This time I approached with a doomed attitude. She was very sympathetic and sweet, and basically just nodded an ascent to my “You’re not really looking at any scripts, are you?” She said, it’s really difficult to read scripts, but if I can get it in comics form, it’s easy to flip through a comic and get an idea of the story, and of the writer’s storytelling ability. She said what’s most important is that a writer shows he can tell a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. It sounds really stupid, but you’ve got to have an idea. What is the story, how does it start. And it’s got to go somewhere, and keep you interested going there. And it’s got to resolve itself. She said a lot of new writers come up with great ideas but don’t know how to finish them. A lot of older writers can write a story just fine, but they can’t come up with ideas any more. You’ve got to be able to start, middle, and finish it.
The seemingly least helpful advice most everyone seemed to give was, If you want to be published, you should have a published product first.
The conundrum here is, how do you get published if you have to be published first? But many artists in the industry either self-publish, or began with a small company, and slowly worked their ways up. If you have something in print, it shows commitment (with time, money, or the faith of someone else in your work), dedication (to plow through and actually finish and get into print the project), storytelling (because if it’s in print, it has to be a full story, or at least a full chapter), and a nice package to display what your work is capable of, the overall quality, and the consistency of the quality. It’s a much better sample of your work than a few drawings in a binder.
Eventually, my attempts at shopping Limbo Cafe petered out. Having collected and read a stack of “story submissions guidelines” packets from different companies, I changed my plan of attack.
Submission package guidelines are all basically the same, regardless of the company. Include a cover letter, with the big picture. Follow this format when writing your script. Give a short story proposal. Give some short character descriptions. Give a few page sample of your script. Make sure your name and contact info is on each page. Make sure you include a stamped, self-addressed envelope if you want a response (this was before everyone had an email). I was ready for action.
April 16, 1998, I sent myself a certifed package of ten story proposals for Vertigo-type stories. I did this to prove that I had come up with these stories on or before that date, in case there was any question of copyright ownership. All the stories were ideas I eventually planned to tell in Limbo Cafe, the story I’d been trying to shop to DC. I planned to start shopping these short stories to DC or Darkhorse, and see if they would be less overwhelmed by short proposals sent in the small, minimal format that they recommended in their guidelines. I reasoned, if they liked one of these stories, then while I worked with them and built a relationship with my new editor, it would be easy enough to get them excited about the whole Limbo Cafe series. (Ah, innocent naive moron!) I think I probably took some of these to conventions but never showed them to anyone. I did, however, send a few of them to DC. I fantasized about sending them to all the editors, a new one every week, so that hopefully one of the editors would have to take note. I sent a couple, never heard from anyone, and got too intimidated about sending more, or even bugging anyone at any other comics conventions. I began to think about new stories I wanted to tell.
December 2, 1998, I was maybe a minute late witnessing an accident on the freeway, but as we drove by, I saw the body that wound up on the road. Losing momentum with all my old stories, I began to get a new idea about a body found on a freeway with someone else’s head sewn on, and I was beginning to think about drawing it. If I drew it, I thought maybe that would be something to show editors, and while they looked I could pitch my story, and even if they didn’t like the art, they’d have to listen, and maybe they’d realize what a good writer I was…