Writing a Comic Book Memoir: Part 2

Hey Readers!

Despite a very surprising and stressful day I was actually able to get a few script pages of Crowbar done today.

This was me today.

One thing about writing a true story and focusing on the key scenes of my life that relate to the narrative is that I'm having to do a lot more skips in time than I originally thought I would. I knew going into the story that there would be major events at different stages of my life, but I wanted to try and convey the same feelings or problems over the course of years on a single page.

I think I covered it in this first draft, but luckily I can always go back and rewrite it if it doesn't work. Knowing that I'm going to have to rewrite a story eventually is a blessing when it comes to moving on with the project. One of the things I clashed over with some of my professors in college was that most writing students aren't taught to finish anything.

What was their excuse?

"It's all about the process," they said.

Well no amount of process matters if you don't finish writing the damn thing. Not every comic I write ends up being drawn or published, but I at least make sure to finish the script. I'll even finish scripts or stories for things that I know I'm not going to send out.

That's a thing I've heard about from some other writers lately, that it's good to just finish things no matter how good or bad they are. I've found that it helps me target areas where my writing could be stronger and I make a point of improving on it the next time around.

I do have some character sketches that I can share, but I'm going to ask for permission before I do that.

Until then enjoy a piece of comic book storytelling craft talk from master Scott McCloud as he talks about clarity in making comics.

Scott McCloud lays down the science of simplicity in storytelling.

Thanks for keeping up with this blog as I continue to work on my comic book memoir. Or is it just called a true story because of the collaboration thing? I still haven't looked that up, so I promise I'll do that for the next post!

- Kenny

"Rise and Fall" - Flash Creative Nonfiction Experiments

I've been experimenting with creative nonfiction lately between juggling comic book projects, my internship, and plugging away at the novel I'm working on (Chapter 13 currently). This is a little piece I wrote about this summer. I't kind of prose poetry, but most flash creative nonfiction tends to read that way.

I still want to work on this, but this is the current draft.

Enjoy!

Rise and Fall

Written by: Kenny Porter

From LifeHacker.com

Her chest rises and falls with each sleeping breath. Navy blue sheets bundle at our feet. Fan blades hiss in the window between wood molding and white walls. Recirculated air cuts over her body and drapes over mine. Monitor light bathes the room in a deep, rich yellow.

My hand slides up her back. I rub her shoulder, letting her know I’m awake. She stirs, but still sleeps. My hand glides down her arm, her side, and her leg. Her hair lifts from a burst of air. Goosebumps rise on her skin and her feet slide up and down the mattress.

Summer crickets lull me to sleep. My body sweaty from her embrace. My heart still booms in my chest, but my mind races faster -- walks we’ve shared, meals we’ve eaten, and the travels we’ll embark on together.

She rolls on her side, hands under her head. I slide my arm under her pillow, fitted against her back. The heat is unbearable. Two bodies wrapped in navy on a ninety degree night.

I can’t let go. My heart beats against her back, rhythmic, like an old locomotive. Louder in my ear than the chirps from crickets.

My hand runs up her leg, back to her face. She moans and nuzzles backward toward me. My hot breath wraps around her neck. Her chest rises and falls as she breathes.

I drift to sleep. Slowly, then like a hurricane.

Our first date is the stage, we the players. A coffee shop in a blistering Michigan winter. The date flashes like the bulbs of ancient cameras. Hot coffee, wood stove pizza, and a musical backdrop for the drinks on my couch. We probe with jokes and anecdotes. The conversation crests and drops between the two of us.

She sits at the other end of the couch, legs curled up, and I mimic her on my end. We talk, laugh, and the moment comes when we lock eyes. Everything rises in our chests. I want to kiss her. She’s too far away. I feel the moment drop away. A perfect moment built like a metaphysical bridge. Now it’s a cinder block, dropped off the side and falling toward a cold river.

I ask if I can kiss her.

She laughs and says, “yes.”

I shudder awake. My sweat is frozen from the fan. I grasp for blankets at my feet. I’ve shifted to the other side. The dark side of the mattress. Romantic heat from my body has run dry to fuel my dreams. I wrap myself and press against her back again.

She’s warm. I wrap my arms around her, rest them below her chest. Cold night air has settled. I hold her tightly. I time my breaths with hers. My heart booms out of sync, but our lungs rise and fall together.