Essays

The two essays which follow were written respectively at the end of the TwoDays production, and a little after the first proper run of comics had been printed off. As you'll see, the 10 month production period was a bit of a rollercoaster. With the benefit of hindsight, my views have mellowed quite a bit since then (particularly in the case of the first piece), but I'll present them unedited, as an indication of what kind of things go through a creator's mind while they try to get their work out into the world.

1. Why Do Comics? (August 2005)

Why, in the name of God, do I put myself through this?

All I can really remember about the pitch was that the conference room was pretty dark, and hot, and I fealt really stupid talking into the microphone in front of 50+ comic book fans. It was just under a year ago, Saturday the 23rd of October 2004, at the Holiday Inn in Bloomsbury, that I took part in the writer's pitching session of the final London Comics Festival. We'd been planning this for the last month, trying to formulate the perfect hook, but when it came down to it, our pitch sunk like a lead balloon. When you're up there, infront of the packed audience, aswell as the comics-pro panel (ours included Dan Didio and Mike Oeming), time just seems to hit ffwd, and before you know it the 3 minutes is up. It doesn't help that Kev F, the compere and head honcho of the Comics Fest since 1999 needed to keep the crowds happy, and if that involved cracking wise about your precious work for poops and giggles, then you were gonna get it in the teeth. We'd hardly made it through half our material by the time we were escorted off stage, our dreams of dazzling the audience with our groundbreaking new comic seeming about as far-fetched as the gender-bending zombie future-shock which eventually won the session.

So what was our big idea? Well, I think I'd rather you find that out for yourself. The comic's called 'TwoDays', and with any luck, by the time you read this it should be in a comic shop (vaguely) near you. Our intention from the start was to do a non-superhero thriller, set in the real world, straight up. Influenced by our favourite movies, TV and comics (The Usual Suspects, Trainspotting, The West Wing, Ex Machina), but more importantly by the events we were seeing unfold in the world around us, a dark conspiracy was woven. From October 2004 to July 2005 I drew the 44 pages of artwork; slow progress but I'd been juggling it with completing my MSc. I'm currently in the process of taking it to various shops around the country, to offer on 'sale or return'; Gosh! in London is always welcoming, whilst the 'Travelling Man's in Bristol and Manchester are also both very small-press friendly.

Surely, it's this point when the pay-off should come, right?

Wrong-diddly-ong. Even some of the most prolific and talented small-press creators working in the UK today will find that they're not making a profit from their comics. In fact, the definition of a runaway small-press success is one which doesn't leave it's creators completely out of pocket. So once again I'm faced with the question: why should I go on creating small-press comics? How about critical acclaim from the appreciative audience? Well, sadly no; your average small-press reader probably won't even entertain the notion of giving feedback to the creators, even if they greatly enjoyed the comic in question. This makes sense, since only about 0.1% of mainstream comics readers write in to give kudos to the publishers. Translate those odds to your average 100 -> 200 copy small-press print run, and you can expect roughly zero responses.

If you're considering starting a small-press comic on your own, I won't lie to you, the lack of creative feedback is about as demotivating as a kick in the nuts. When you're spending 10 to 20 hours of your free time every week for months on end on a project, it'd be good to know whether you're doing it right. The one piece of advice I can offer though, is don't give out samples for free to strangers. If you post out, pass out, or distribute your work in progress in any sort of 'blanket' fashion, you'll only hear back from a tiny fraction of your targets. Or rather, I should say, you'll only hear back from a select few without additional effort from yourself. This is because feedback only generally occurs as an exchange of opinions. In an ideal world, criticism, support and advice would be unconditional and plentiful, but nothing ever comes for free in the real world, and the insight of other small-press creators comes at the cost of your own. So if you really want to know what fellow small-press artisan's think of your work, sure, give them a copy, but don't be afraid to follow it up with a couple of emails. It might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship!

The making of 'TwoDays' over the last 12 months has been a labour of love, as I think most small-press comics are, no matter what the scale or subject matter. I also think that at the beginning, middle and even end of each project it's natural to question your motives for carrying it out. Although there are a great deal of talented writers and artists out there who would consider producing small-press to hone their skills for mainstream publishing, there are also those for whom it would only ever be a 'leisure activity'. And for those amateur creators, the only real reason to step down the small-press rabbit hole is 'for the love of the game'. Your small-press comic may well be one of the most frustrating, time-consuming, expensive, and segregated things you ever do. It'll also be one of the few things that no-one can take away from you.

The real question should be, why not?

2. Selling TwoDays (September 2005)

So I was sitting at the end of the bar of The Brass Monkey in Edinburgh, cradling a pint of 80 and reading a movie magazine; the open box sitting next to me was full of copies of the new small-press comic I had created. Next to me was a weathered looking Keith Richards look-a-like, a regular who seemed to enjoy lecturing the young bar staff on the ways of the world. He reached into my box and pulled out a copy, drawling "What's this then?"

"It's a comic I've done. Have you read any comics?"

"A long time ago..." he smiled.

"Do you want to buy one?" I chanced.

"No," he answered immediately, and without missing a beat, he continued "but I can tell you if you should be selling them". After about a minute of flicking through my comic, I asked him what he thought. His dead-pan reply was simply "did you grow up watching fucking A-ha videos?"

Regardless of this, I sold comics to three different people who approached me as I sunk my two pints at the bar. It wasn't even my intention to sell any to the punters in the pub that night, my curious audience had literally come to me. Keith Richards pointed out to me after the third and final sale; "You're a very lucky man, that they let you do this here", referring to the two tenders behind the bar. And he was right, since I hadn't been to that particular pub in Edinburgh for over a year, and was a complete stranger to the staff. What's more, I hadn't even lived in the city for over five years, I was in the final hours of a three day break, visiting Scotland to see if I could drum up some interest in my comic from the alternative shops that fill Glasgow and Edinburgh city centres. The comic we'd produced, 'TwoDays', was a political thriller set in the Scottish capital, and we really hoped that with the support of local retailers, we could tap into a potentially large market who might not have usually considered reading small-press. It wasn't the only piece of luck I'd had over those three days.

The first day of my break was spent in Glasgow; a city which had changed a great deal since the early nineties when I grew up there. At one time, it had been home to six different comic shops, each specialising in some of the best and most exciting mainstream and independent comics around, boasting thousands and thousands of back-issues between them. Independent music shops were also plentiful, selling second-hand or hard-to-find cd's and lp's at prices well below the high street giants. A couple of these shops sold small press comics on their counters, a trend championed by the central branch of Tower Records. Today only 3 of those comic shops remain; one with a greatly reduced capacity, another now focusing almost entirely on toys and collectibles, and the final shop becoming increasingly restricted to the mainstream necessitated by it's status as part of a national franchise. The music shops have fared even worse, with three of the most popular independent outlets in the 'fashionable' west end going out of business and Tower shutting it's doors permanently. As I wandered round some of the now defunct sites, I discovered that there were literally no outlets left by which to sell our comics to an audience of any kind, let alone the uninitiated masses we had hoped to reach. The comic shops which remained in central Glasgow made a policy of not selling small-press, their shelf space being far more profitably filled with superhero cross-over 'events' and maxi-series. Their staff also seemed to be quite out of touch with exactly where in the city independent creativity was still being supported and encouraged. In fact, the only positive outlet I could find was a street-art supplies shop known as 'Shakewells'. The guy in charge, Danny, used to run one of the now closed down small-press friendly stores. He took some of my comics, and went further, to suggest that I try to sell some by hand in the University district. It was fresher's week after all.

Now I'm not the most confident of salesmen, but I've got to believe that even the slickest of hustlers would think twice before trying to push small-press comics to the public in person. The potential for losing face was huge, but it was quickly becoming apparent that I had no other options. That, and having not lived anywhere near Glasgow for over half a decade, I didn't actually have very much face to lose in the first place...

The next day found me sitting cross-legged down a back alley in the west end of Glasgow. My sales technique was simple; I would sit in silence and let any curious passers-by approach me. On the ground in front of me were laid three A2 sheets of paper, one bore the hastily hand-written message "New Comic, 'TwoDays', £1.50 Each", while the others were makeshift blow-ups of the black and white art of two of the interior pages (crudely constructed the night before using Windows Paint, 9 sheets of A4 each and a lot of double sided tape). To clarify, it wasn't just any back-alley in which I'd chosen to carry this out, it was the corner of Ashton Lane in the west end, a point which intersected the paths between a popular local car-park, the main Glasgow University campus and Hillhead tube station. Although the lane had very few shops on it, it was home to some of the area's most frequented pubs and restaurants, and featured plenty of quiet spots which I could occupy without getting in anyone's way. In retrospect, the legality of all this was pretty questionable. Indeed within twenty minutes of me settling down, a couple of policemen strolled past, although to my surprise they didn't even break stride on their way down the lane (on noticing my sign, one even casually exclaimed "Brilliant, comics galore!"). I didn't need a Keith Richards look-a-like to point out my good fortune in their selective indifference.

The first customer of the day approached me before I'd even finished scrawling the letters on my makeshift advertising banner.   She told me that although not a comics fan herself, she had a flatmate who was apparently quite an avid reader, and would probably enjoy a copy. Unfortunately, neither of us had change of a tenner (first lesson of the day, bring plenty of shrapnel!), and even though she offered to pay for a copy in Marks & Spencer's vouchers I let her have one for free. Plenty of paying customers followed, with some even offering more than the asking price, so my initial loss was eventually recouped.   What surprised me was the range of locals   that approached me; Scots, foreigners, students, young professionals, aspiring creators, and more than a fair share of more mature readers who hadn't touched a comic in a decade or two.

In the course of two hours on that sunny Friday afternoon, I managed to sell sixteen copies at full price. In a comic shop, it would've taken me several months to do that sort of business, and I certainly wouldn't have recouped full price for those copies. There's something incredibly rewarding about selling your comics in person, about getting to actually meet face to face the readers of your work. What's more, by taking my comics directly to the public I was reaching an audience that I'd never have come close to approaching through either specialist shops, comics fairs or internet orders.

I had high hopes the next day, when I went through to Edinburgh to try and repeat my success in the capital city. Not only would it be a Saturday, during peak shopping hours, but the comic was set in Edinburgh, and so should find an eager audience. I soon found out that I still had a great deal to learn about the art of street sales. The weather on Saturday was far less favourable, with intermittent drizzle and Edinburgh's trademark gales making the practicalities of my street sales a lot more difficult. It's obvious that gloomy weather will make prospective customers a lot less frivolous with their cash, but I fealt there was more than this going on. Even though I'd placed myself at the top of Cockburn Street, a central spot on the path to several of the most popular independent cd shops and alternative retailers, I managed to generate very little interest over my first forty five minutes of peddling. The fact is that due to the high amount of tourist throughput in Edinburgh, street vendors are far more common, and locals have developed a particularly thick skin to anything being sold by hand. And of course, the rain didn't help much either.

The good news is though, that several popular independent shops in Edinburgh are still strongly supportive of small-press (particularly Dead-Head Comics and the two branches of Avalanche   Records), allowing me indirect access to the audience there. Instead of being demotivating, the experience certainly developed my empathy towards those that rely on street-sales for a living. It also made me appreciate the many subtleties involved in reaching the best audience; not only is gloomy weather a cruel mistress, but it can destroy your chances of   making any sales whatsoever. More importantly, those people most often related to alternative audiences (students, goths, punks) will often not be interested in spending their cash on your work.