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joezy27 · 1 year ago

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"How To Write HAWKEYE" by Matt Fraction

My process for Hawkeye isn’t like anything else I’ve ever used for writing, and it’s sort of involved. For a lot of reasons—none of which have to do with the how of anything, let alone the how of writing comics—my approach with this book, I decided early on, would be completely different than anything I’d ever done before. I’ll get into some of the why and how here, but, from that decision, everything about writing Hawkeye kept getting weirder.

About a year before I started on Hawkeye, I started to experiment with writing in a method called Marvel Style or Plot Style. It’s called Marvel Style because Stan Lee came up with it when he was the only writer at Marvel and had to produce eight books a month. Stan started to write in a way that leaned very heavily on his artists rather than requiring him to produce the screenplaylike scripts most of us think of as full scripts or just, y’know, scripts.

Art by David Aja

Here’s an example of a full script I gave to my dad:

PAGE ONE 1.1 A SWEATY GUY gets out of a car. GUY We’re here. 1.2 The guy walks to a house, nervous, peering over his shoulder as he goes. GUY Ha ha. 1.3 He walks up to the front porch almost on tiptoes. GUY ha. 1.4 CLOSE: Still nervous, still on edge, he adjusts his tie. Blood under his fingernails. Uh-oh. NO DIALOGUE 1.5 FROM BEHIND: As he pokes his finger into the doorbell, we see, with his other hand, he’s got a gun held behind his back. SFX Ding dong

Note: SFX means Sound Effects

And so on. Now that took me as long to type as it took you to read, but you get the gist: dramatic beats and certain visual moments are isolated and chosen because they transmit the narrative and dramatic story flow to an artist who chooses his shots (or might take my suggestions if there are any) accordingly and crafts a sequence of images, keeping in mind moment, frame, image, flow. Isolated dialogue runs below to allow the artist to understand how much space to allot for words, and that’s it. McCloud-101 stuff, right?

But Marvel Style for David [Aja, the artist on Hawkeye] looks something more like this:

PAGE ONE Okay, David, on this page, a little car pulls up to a little suburban house and NERVOUS MAN gets out half-laughing to himself. He skulks to the front door, maybe adjusts his tie. He’ll have, like, blood under his fingernails. He looks over his shoulder, knocks. Then the last image on the page needs to be: we see he’s got a GUN BEHIND HIS BACK. “We’re here,” he’ll say, at some point, to no one in particular. And maybe giggle on his way to the door. NERVOUS KILLER CREEP here to WREAK HAVOC, David. Okay.

And I’ll move on to page two. My scripts are super informal. Nobody, but your artist and letterer are gonna read it, so why not make it fun for them to read?

I chose to write Hawkeye for David like this for several reasons. First, my favorite pages from our time on Iron Fist, which was written Full Script-style, always came when he’d politely and respectfully diverge from what was scripted for him, make something magical, then find his way back to where he was expected to be. So I’d start writing more and more vaguely for him, to give him more and more freedom, and he always crushed it. By “crushed it,” I mean he made a great page that made me look smarter than I am. Second, and I mean no disrespect to any of David’s other collaborators, many of whom I’m a fan, but I never liked David’s work more than I did on Iron Fist. And they were all doing full script for him. So, y’know—maybe a lightbulb went off. Third, writing Marvel Style scares the living crap out of me. It is the antithesis of what we teach ourselves as writers. It requires trust and sharing and believing in your partner—and he’s a partner, not an artist here, just check the credits page—and trusting in the collaboration above all else. And it’s easy to see how slippery a slope Marvel Style can be to get to “PAGES SEVEN THROUGH NINE: They fight.”

Art by David Aja

I started experimenting with Marvel Style because it scared me, and when I get scared, I get exhilarated. These things, this job, it’s the best, but it can grind you down. It crushes your wrists and warps your spine and dries your eyes and smooths down your teeth and grows your gut. Excitement and danger, though meager compared to what, say, a firefighter might encounter, is important in your work.

Also, I thought it could save me time. I thought I could do half my work on layaway, basically; that I could crank out a plot in three or four days and script a few weeks later, in one or two days. I mean, it worked for Stan, right? And he and his partners—partners—only created the dang Marvel Universe. Lastly, it’s [Marvel Comics’s former editor-in-chief and current chief creative officer] Joe Quesada’s fault.

Let me digress here for a second: Joe da Q is a great guy. Great artist, great boss, great dad, great guy. And I love talking to him about the art of the art, because he’s been around and has some stories and a head full of great thoughts about it all and … and you do it for about a minute and a half and you realize exactly how Joe earned everything he earned and you couldn’t be happier. Anyway, one night Joe is winding Mr. Brian Michael Bendis up at BarCon. BarCon is the “con” that happens in the bar of the guest hotel of whatever con you’re at, literally, every single night, of every single convention, ever. Anyway, so Joe is claiming much of Marvel’s now-decades-long dominance over comics came from the inescapable visual firepower of our founding fathers, that Marvel’s visual style is as much a key to its successes as the radioactive spider. And if you doubt it, just look at how the key moments in the company’s history were written: Marvel Style. Brian howled in outrage, “That’s not writing, that’s cheap, that’s lazy. When you cede control of choice of moment to someone else, you’re just mad-libbing …” It went on and on. Joe poking, Brian exploding, and Joe giggling with glee.

Joe Quesada loves his family, the Mets, the Beatles, Marvel, and winding Bendis up, in that order.

I realized though, as I listened to them play-fight, that it was making me nervous. Just to think about Marvel Style. Just to pretend I’d even try it, even on a short story made me, sweartagod, nervous. So many of my favorite comics were done by singular cartoonists—Eisner, Hernandez, Brown, Clowes, Chaykin. And the more I thought about it, how could I ever hope to write the thing those guys did for themselves? You can’t. A writer could never coax American Flagg! out of Chaykin—unless they gave him a Marvel Style script and treated him like a partner as invested in the storytelling as the writer.

So I knew I had to try it.

This comic has been written in a giant scramble. All out of order. Not by design but … but because Team Hawkeye does nothing the easy way.

I know a big part of Brian’s lessons here is that the only way you need to find is your way. That your way is the right way and anything else is an obstacle but … but please, god, don’t do it like this. This is how I know how to do Hawkeye.

My initial pitch for Hawkeye ended up being published as issues 4 and 5. It’s our first two-part storyline and is very different than the issues on either side; international travel, glamorous and exotic casinos, international cabals of evil. Clint-as-Bond, where he’s in a tux more than a supersuit. Marvel said okay—remember, we just needed like nine of these—but I pulled out because it wasn’t right. When I sat down to write it, it wasn’t right, and I had to leave. I had a story, not a book, and so I stopped.

Then one night I thought about Jim Rockford and The Avengers—the UK ones I mean—for whatever reason, and found my book.

So I had to repitch. I got it, luckily, but everyone thought I was nuts. Anyway.

I was going to write Marvel Style for David. It was going to be all done-in-one, or sometimes two, issue stories. It was going to be about what Hawkeye did when he wasn’t being an Avenger because, when I got the book, Clint Barton was everywhere and I didn’t want to step on toes. Give me him on his day off, I figured. It was going to be street-level, real-world kind of stories, in, of course, the Mighty Marvel Manner. I would try to counteract the banal everyday stuff with a complicated structure that would reward close-reads. So yeah, there might be an issue that’s about Clint trying to buy tape, but it’s going to start with a car chase, cut back two days, then cut forward again, and on and on. And he would have a kind of mentee/partner in a young girl named Kate. It’s a double act.

So then I wrote the first issue. And I sent it in, and my editor said what I felt and suspected: “This is a second issue.” And he was right. It was as much about Kate as Clint, and it’s Clint’s book, so back to the drawing board.

Then I wrote what became issue 1. So, psychically, the order of Hawkeye to me goes 4, 5, 2, 1. Physically, in terms of what was actually typed and invoiced, Hawkeye was 2, 1, then 4 and 5—because those were for a guest artist—then 3, then 6. It can wreck your head if you have more than just that to do, let me tell you.

Art by David Aja

HAWKEYE ISSUE 6

Issue 6 was a breakthrough for a lot of reasons. First off, though, at this point, there were five other issues and they were all written out of order and it was hard for me to keep track of what was happening when and where.

I knew 6 was our December issue, and I always wanted to write a story with Christmas as a backdrop, so I locked in to making it a holiday issue. And I wanted to do a story about Clint wanting to hook up his DVR, but things kept getting in his way. Somehow those two strands tied together in my head.

I wasn’t kidding earlier when I said this job kills your hands and your wrists. Add to that I’m an art school dropout who misses his sketchbooks and I’ve, from the start, always started my comics writing in cheap little notebooks. Partly to get away from typing, partly because I love the feeling of graphite dragging across the page, partly because I’ve thought out and problem-solved in sketchbooks my whole life.

I wish I knew how I made the following intuitive leap, but I think that’s just it—like so much about my writing, Hawkeye especially, is all intuitive. I took pieces of paper and folded them in half. Across the top, I wrote the issue number and title. Down the left, I numbered 1 through 20 to represent each of the twenty pages of the first five issues, and then I wrote in a short sentence or phrase about what happened on each of those pages. I needed to, at a glance, be able to see how I was pacing things. And if I want to check, oh, how many pages that fight scene was on page 3, I could just consult my mockups and move on. I could just carry them around in the back of the notebook, lay ’em all out in front of me, and see six months at once. Perfect.

For whatever reason, I have continued to write like this for Hawkeye. I’ll lay out the last few issues and the next few issues, even if all I have is the cover idea and title (if I’ve got the title I have a vague sense of what the story will be), and look at how they all flow in and out of one another. Here’s the mockup for issue 6.

I randomly gave myself six days to tell this story in. (There’s a DJ Shadow track called “Six Days” that director Wong Kar Wai shot a video for, and I like the song and the video and I like the sound of “six days” as an increment of time. It comes up in my work a lot I’ve noticed.) Now, at some point in the writing, I realized everybody in the real world has to endure the holidays together, so I thought, “Great, we’ll find out what day our book comes out and make that the day the book starts on, and then bip and bop around the real days of the month.” But at that point, it had started on a Thursday or whatever, so I had to rework it all, and I kept getting confused.

As I pecked through the list, things got complicated. Look in those margins and you can see me losing the real time aspect of it, the actual days and how they all fit. So I had to get linear for my own sanity, if nothing else.

Here’s me boiling down the six days just so I could keep track—but once you tie a comic down like that with a nonlinear chronology, suddenly this all gets important. Well, was the fight at night? Okay, so then the next morning he has to be here, and beat up. But if … well, wait, he needs to be there, too. So maybe the fight was really the night previous, like, at 12:01 a.m., and it’s really been closer to forty-eight hours since, and…

Anyway, it was weirdly algebraic. You’ll see, in the script, how I added time even to help David and Matt Hollingsworth, our genius colorist, in their staging.

With my little half-sheet done, it was time for me to write my take on Marvel Style for David.

My Marvel Style scripts are really, if I’m being honest, about 15 percent less full than a typical full script. There’s dialogue sometimes. And if there’s, say, six little paragraphs on a page, you can tell how many panels a page I’m thinking about. But it’s as Marvel Style as I get. It works for us, though. For example, using the page as a kind of Advent calendar—to use an Advent calendar as a design device, came entirely from David. As I said—I trust in him to be as invested in storytelling as I am, and he produces things I’d never think of, let alone know how to explain in a script for someone to draw.

Notes for Haweye #6

ART PROCESS From my script, David produces thumbnails—and they are the most laborious thumbnails you can imagine. All of David’s heavy lifting is done here. These things are tiny little bursts of science. Not that his mark making isn’t important, but his thinking is paramount to all of it and you can see it all in the layouts. It’s his half-sheet, if you will. Hardest work goes there.

Art by David Aja

So I take the layouts and do a dialogue pass the best I can. Scenes can grow or change or transmute from what I’d written, or I can give notes and add things or take away. It’s great—as long as I can tell what’s happening, I mean. Which isn’t always.

So then David enlarges the pages with his own dummy lettering pass. By “dummy lettering pass,” I mean he actually letters the book roughly, but completely, so I can see where things need trimming and he can see how the words work in the frame. He sends this back and I tighten up my script accordingly.

Once David’s art gets the editorial okay from editor Steve Wacker, it goes back to David and colorist Matt Hollingsworth who have been, in the background, talking about the color schema for the issue. In a book where time shifts so hard and weird, color is one of the primary keys to helping orient the reader. Our readers are smart; they always get it. A big part of the why is Matt, doing subtle, almost invisible little things to keep you going with us. I could talk about this more at length, but it’s not my place to; let me just say, there is tremendous storytelling happening with our book’s colors.

Art by David Aja

Then I adjust the lettering until poor Chris Eliopoulos (letterer on Hawkeye) wants to murder me and the book has to be sent to press. Wait two weeks and, voilà!

We must be doing something right.