isant-it-great - Tumblr blog

[isant-it-great]

Group Blog Post

Group Members: Isa, Sasha & Beth

For this group, we’d grouped together for our love of comic books and graphic novels. We decided that we wanted to focus on publishers for graphic novels that weren’t too comic book focused.  We decided to look into short graphic novels that have been published, and it seemed like Anya’s Ghost by Vera Brosgol is a published, ‘Read-In-One-Sitting’ graphic novel. It was published by the company “First Second Books”, an American publishing company more known for picture books and young adult/Early teen graphic novels. 

Sasha, Beth and I agreed that First Second Books, while a potential option, published mainly for audiences younger than our target audiences. All three of us decided that our graphic novels would be focused more heavily towards older, late teens to late 20′s audiences, due to heavy tones and harsh graphics. While Anya’s ghost seems to follow heavier topics, our stories have very gore-heavy scenes that wouldn’t be appropriate for the content that First Second Books seems to publish. 

We continued to explore different publishing options for our novels. after looking, we came across “Archaia Publishing”, a company very open to publishing artists and authors while allowing them to continue to hold the creative licence and decisions made about stories. Archaia Publishing is the company that people filter through to eventually be published by BOOM! Studios if picked up.  BOOM! Studios publishes comics for series like Adventure Time, Steven Universe, Armory Wars, and many other comics. While publishing big name graphic novels and comics, they also pick up smaller, more independent graphic novels and allow people to sell by novel or by edition, which would work for shorter graphic works.  BOOM! Studios has both works for younger audiences and adult audiences, well balanced out. This work could potentially work out very well for all 3 of us with the novels we all plan to create. We agreed to hype each other up on Twitter years from now when all of our books finally get published. 

[isant-it-great]

[isant-it-great]

Blog Post #4 - Start, Stop, Continue

I’ve enjoyed our workshops thus far. The transition from in person to online was slightly jarring, but I suppose it also solved our classroom issues. I do miss getting to see people’s expressions and the way that they communicate their feedback, however. 

Start: Seeing if more people want to read their own posts. Maybe while people are posting their feedback, if someone were to type, “I want to read mine” or “I’d like to verbalize mine.” I feel like with the designated speakers, sometimes people feel like they aren’t able to vocalize what they have to say. So maybe offering the option more directly would help. Stop: There isn’t anything I can think of at this time that we need to stop. I think that it is going very well, and there aren’t many improvements to be made. If I think of anything, I will absolutely let you know. 

Continue: Having designated speakers with a designated order. As well as allowing authors to answer questions and respond at the end. 

[isant-it-great]

Post #3 - Workshop Reflections

So far, I’ve enjoyed the dynamic of the workshops. Having people find and use examples for their critiques has been making people more carefully consider their words.  I think it’s also good for when someone doesn’t have any critiques on the actual piece and just enjoyed it, it’s nice to have them explain and talk about what made them enjoy it. Those little things don’t just help a writer see their strengths, but it also helps their self esteem, which is great.  I have however, begun to feel that having every person say something creates redundancy. I think that people stating “Everything I’ve wanted to say has been said already” works in that sense.  Otherwise, I think it’s been great so far. 

[isant-it-great]

Post #2 - Workshop Response

Let’s start with this: I’m loving the process of getting to read people’s writing. The process of reading and critiquing is like looking into a little window of each person’s deepest thought process— it’s incredibly exciting.

So far— I’ve enjoyed every story I’ve read. I thought many comments made during the critique process were very helpful for the writers and I’m hoping that each writer didn’t take every comment too much to heart. I’m very nervous for receiving feedback and I am incredibly fearful that people will not enjoy my story or not find it interesting, or have poor thoughts on it because my story features two queer characters.

But in response to the actual process, the format of going around the room at first then popcorning around and adding comments here and there is a neat format that I think works well. I do however think we should limit it to 30 to 60 seconds per comment in the interest of time. Also, not my place to say, but I do think it would be important to have a small talk on the importance of respecting They/Them pronouns. It’s 2020– it’s time to normalize pronouns other than she/he. Other than those comments however, the space felt very comfortable and supportive for each writer. People did their best to lift others up while still giving them proper feedback on things they could change.

10/10, would critique again.

[isant-it-great]

Writers Blog Post #1

The reason I enjoyed this first piece written for the “You Choose” assignments, was because I enjoyed how fluid you could be with it. The concept of writing and how to write or how to become a “better writer”— It’s all very abstract and vague. One would usually tell you “Practice to become a better writer”. No one assumes that you’ll suddenly be thrust into a story that toys with the inner mechanisms of your mind and messes with your train of thought— but here we are. I enjoyed both the assignment and the grisly product that I created from it. 

[isant-it-great]

“How To Be A Writer” (Hall Blog Post 1)

Becoming a writer is incredibly easy. I usually find myself asking why everyone hasn’t chosen this career path yet, considering that it is the easiest of them all. It’s just scribbling down some words onto paper and making them into a coherent, legible, statement, right? ...Right?

The day you become a writer, you’ll wake up and state, “This is the day I want to become a writer”. You’ll spend the day tending to your normal list of errands, maybe walking the dog then going to the market. Once that’s done and you’ve returned home, you’ll be sitting on the worn leather couch and suddenly remember, “Oh right. I was supposed to become a writer”. It’s not until you’ve sat down at your desk and pulled out a piece of paper that you will start to become a writer. As you’re sitting there trying your hand at poetry one moment, you’ll find that the next moment, you’re halfway through a bottle of scotch and your ashtray is almost full. Your heartbeat pounds against the concave cavity of your weak chest just like the rain pounds constantly against the window outside. You are not a writer until you’ve experienced sleeplessness. It’s hours later, late into the night, the television quiet and the dog long asleep. You think of your wife. You wonder how she is. You remember your wife died several years ago in a tragic accident, along with your son. You go back to writing. You are not a writer until you’ve felt pain.

You’re trying haikus next. You feel like it’s a lost art form that should be more widely appreciated. You’re trying to remember the format. Five, seven, five…? No, that’s not right. Write. Writing, you’re writing! You’re going to become a writer! You will become the next Lovecraft or Steinbeck or Poe because you are a writer, damnit, and you are a good one. You pour yourself more scotch. You realize the bottle is empty, but you cannot get up from your desk until you’ve become a writer. You’re not a writer until you’ve experienced withdrawal.

It continues to rain and the dog snores soundly on the plush rug in front of the fireplace. You look over to the dog and smile, you wonder if you should pet him. As you raise your hand to gently scratch behind Fido’s ears, you see the pen, now stuck to your hand, melded to your skin. You’ve been writing for so long that your skin has now permanently grew over the pen, the handle now sunk into your epidermis as if it is now an extra appendage, created only so you can write. You are not a writer until you have experienced confusion.

More time passes. Your candle has now completely burnt out, both literally and metaphorically. You decided you’d had enough practice and that you’re now ready to begin your autobiographical masterpiece that is sure to upstage any award winning author to date. As you are attempting to write about that time your mother spilt coffee on your back on accident when you were eight, you feel your body finally begin to give out, as if your lungs are collapsing and your shoulders are sinking in. You figure maybe you’ve been pushing yourself too hard? Whatever, you’re not a writer. You need to keep going. As you are pushing your pen so hard into the notebook that the ink bleeds and the pen cries out with every word, you hear a rapid hammering from the front door. You didn’t order pizza, at least not as this hour. Who could that be? As you peel yourself up from the desk, your skin slowly unsticking itself from the priceless mahogany desk chair, you leave your study and silently slither to the front door. The knocking continues, echoing throughout your suburban palace. Fido, your canine companion, does not bark. He only follows you and watches as your one normal hand reaches for the doorknob. You slowly open the door, awaiting the possible pizza you may have ordered in your writing induced drunken stupor. There before you in all her glory is your late wife, holding your late son on her hip. He holds fistfuls of her blonde hair in his cherub like hands, as they stare at you with their hollow, sullen eyes. They are both crying as they watch you— dirt, mud and blood covering their bodies. “Why, Henry?” She sobs out, her cries startling your son. Your name is not Henry. “Daddy, you didn’t save us.” Your son looks at you with sad, pleading eyes. You look down at your hand, the one with the pen directly absorbed into your skin. You look to your other hand. You are holding a kitchen knife. When did you get a kitchen knife? Your wife takes the knife by the blade. You cannot let go. You cannot pull away. You are scared, and you are unsure as to why she is doing this. She stares into your eyes as she walks closely to you, plunging herself onto the knife. You watch as her body slams on and off of the blade, dark crimson staining the beautiful white gown she was buried in. She continues this pattern over and over until you are no longer able to tell the difference between the rain outside and the tears in your eyes. Either way, both are pouring down endlessly with zero signs of stopping. You watch as she collapses onto the ground, your son still alive in her arms. You try to drop the knife, but you can’t. Your flesh has grown around its handle like vines to a tree trunk. You cannot drop your murder weapon. You look down at your hands, no longer yours. One a tool for destruction, one a tool for creation. You look down at your son. “Daddy?” He reaches up to you with those short, chubby arms.

You look up at the wall in your home, searching for your wedding photo. Instead, a photo of you and your dog sits in its place. It isn’t until that moment that you realize: You’ve never had a wife. And you never had a son, either.

You shut the door and return to your desk. You are not a writer until you’ve experienced fear in its truest, most unadulterated and evil form.

Congratulations, you’ve done it! You are now a writer.