Got word from my publisher late last week that the final cover design for my book (formerly known as Paper Movies) has now been approved — and I can start showing it off to folks.
The actual publication date hasn’t been locked in yet (so far as I know), but it looks like it might be part of the Fall listings. Don’t worry – I won’t forget to let you know.
After leaving the apartment I had lived in since I moved to Los Angeles, I’ve had a season of “nomad” life. It’s been interesting, as it has given me food for thought about personal space and how we respond to it.
My first stopping point was a hotel that serves those needing “extended” lodging. It was a room with a kitchenette. As places go, it wasn’t bad. a reasonably comfortable bed, space, a table for my laptop (and free wifi, which was nice). But it was a neutral place. Likewise the Motel 6 I was at for a time, although without the kitchenette.
Neutral space was a good place to be after leaving someplace I’d been for so long. But it had none of my own decorations, which I miss. My various dragons, for instance, like Snoozy, who used to reside on top my TV.
Then there’s my artwork. Those pieces of my art are expressions of myself that were always present. Being without them to look at has made me realize that even though there is pleasure in having these externalized aspects of myself, there can also be a sort of muffling consequence of their presence. They are well-known, not necessarily surprising to me. I had perhaps begun not to see them.
And of course, there’s the matter of furniture. My desk chair, with its comfortable seat and adjustable height. Sitting in chairs that have a lower seat that mine has been hard on my knees. Or my sofa, which had been carefully selected for the height of its seat, its depth and length. And my bed, with its air chamber mattress that can be as firm or as soft as I want it any night. I do miss these things.
I’d come to take these things for granted. Even though I actually thought otherwise. It’s when you are without something that you really begin to appreciate it.
What really brings an edge to these musings is the additional experience of living in someone else’s space. It isn’t that the other places are bad. Not at all. Just different. One hostess is far more orderly than I am usually. Everything has its place and it is obvious she is good about putting things away. I felt that I was relearning orderly habits while staying there. My next hostess has a more relaxed approach to things, perhaps necessarily, because of her teen-agers. By comparison, I find my own nature lies somewhere between those two examples. I’ve had my desire for order rekindled, but also the affection for relaxed “lived in” environments. A third location I’ve stayed at was a return to larger space. It was like relearning how to live in multiple rooms.
When I was growing up, the mother of one of my friends was the sort who was hyper-protective of the living room furniture — covered in plastic, with plastic runners on the carpet. I imagine the plastic was taken up when adults were entertained, but not when the children had friends over. I always thought it odd, for it seemed to make the “living room” considerably un-life-like.
What will it be like when I once again have space of my own?
I don’t know. Elements of the décor will change, of course — some parts won’t be reused for various rasons, and inevitably the layout of the furniture will be different. But re-establishing myself in a space of my own will be interesting. I have a fresh appreciation of what having my space, my own home, means to me.
As I leave another temporary haven, I am very thankful for these spaces belonging to others. Thankful for the concern of the friends who have helped and thankful for what I’ve learned of myself in the experience. I’m now hoping that I can “pay it forward” to others — soon.
I was at church a few weeks ago, and as we were singing one of the praise songs, I was thinking of how my voice was in need of practice singing. I thought of how I have not sung regularly outside of church services and meetings in a long time. And suddenly, I wanted to get my guitar out of storage.
I was fairly sure it was reachable in the storage unit. I drove over there after church and opened it up. Yes, indeed, there it was. It took a little bit of maneuvering to get it out.
As I lifted it out, brushing some dust off the case, I noticed two name labels on it. Of course, I knew they were there. But unexpectedly, seeing them this time, they registered. The guitar had sat in my old apartment un-played for several years, an object taking up space and collecting dust.
But this time, I saw them. I noticed them. One was the obvious: my own name, identifying the contents as mine. The other label was the name I’d given the guitar.
That was a bit of a jolt. I had named the guitar! How had I forgotten that?
As soon as I saw it, I remembered. I remembered the name and what it means.
What struck me was how it had been obscured for years. Why I had a guitar at all, how I’d gotten this guitar, why I named it at all. All those thoughts came bubbling up as I maneuvered the case into the car.
I grew up in a musical household. I like singing. I could play the piano a bit. But one thing I couldn’t do, was play the piano and sing at the same time. So, when I was in junior high, I got a guitar and taught myself chords. That guitar saw a lot of duty — going to camp with me, teaching fourth grade Sunday School. But it didn’t have a case and it got a little banged up.
As I finished my undergraduate studies, for Christmas or a birthday (I don’t remember which), my parents got me a new guitar. A beautiful Spanish style 6-string guitar in a case.
I named her “Kelda.” The name was a Norse one, meaning “spring, fountain.” I wanted it to be an inspiration and uplift.
I used to sing frequently. I don’t know why I fell out of doing it. But getting Kelda out of storage was a good thing. I did some singing. And remembered more of myself once more. How had I lost that? I’m not sure. The important thing is that I’m changing things around, reclaiming something of myself.
Well, at long last, on the day I contracted to do so, I delivered to my editor the manuscript of my book Creating Graphic Novels: Adapting and Marketing Stories for a Multi-Million Dollar Industry (formerly known as Paper Movies: Adapting Stories as Graphic Novels). The combination of text and graphics was a lot of work, since I wanted to make the images be more than just supplements to the text. I think I succeeded.
Along the way, I became very fond of my creation, Professor Exposition. He’s an almost unfailingly cheerful fellow, and yet not obnoxious about it. I think I got very playful with him. He gets to have the last word, as it were.
When I began doing these pieces, the intention was to write about my friends to express why I like them as people, what it is in their characters that makes me glad to know them. I didn’t want to get into talking about the things they might have done for me, mainly because what benefits I get out of the relationship beyond companionability was beside the point.
But lately, I’ve been going through a season of drastic change, and there have been a few friends who have manifested their care in very active and substantive ways. And I’ve been feeling over the last few weeks that I need to acknowledge the above-and-beyond help they have given me.
I should say first off that there have been a large number of people during the last year and a half who have given me financial help in big and small ways. I’m not going to post a long list of those: some gave small amounts because it was all they had at the moment, some gave larger amounts; some people I know well, others are (even now) acquaintances I see infrequently. That each of them was moved to help me in my need was humbling, and the small gift was as great and glorious as the large. Everyday I give thanks for those friends.
Recently, I moved out of the apartment I’ve had since I moved to L.A. In the time I’ve lived in that one place, others of my friends have moved three or five times (even just around L.A.). Letting go of the “old place” was traumatic. I liked the building and my neighbors. I liked the general neighborhood, and its general centrality for most of my activities. I liked that it was just a mile from my church. But the circumstances were such that I had to move. And the financial logistics didn’t come together until a week or so before I had to have all my belongings out.
Here’s where the above-and-beyond came into play: some of these dear ones came to help me pack up a mountain of stuff and transport it to my storage units. Hours and hours of labor on behalf of a friend who was (truthfully speaking) barely keeping it together. The emotional stress and uncertainty nibbled away at me. but they stuck with me. They deserve some public recognition and thanks from me (though I certainly said it many, many times while we worked).
Robin Reed gave me several days of her time, packing boxes, loading them in her vehicle, carting them to the storage unit. I knew she was generous to start with, but her willingness to be there and help me pack stuff was so crucial, I really could not have done it without her. Jennifer Oliver O’Connell (and her husband Lynn) also willingly helped haul boxes. Even when I was stressed out, her no-nonsense generalship gave me joy — I was so thankful for her help. Guyla Mills gave diligent help in packing stuff. Gwen Jennings astonished me by helping for a couple of days: astonished me because we had only recently become friends. Her help in those days just before the deadline meant a lot to me. Robert Shank gave me a day from his schedule to pack up many crucial items. (God willing, they all come through the ordeal safe and sound!) I was so frazzled at that point that I could not, on my own, have thought of his pragmatic solutions to certain packing challenges. Linda Culpepper was kept from physical assistance because of a bug on the crucial day, but she chipped in a Pollo Loco card that fed the team on one of those days.
It’s always a gift to help friends at either end of a move. The process is so often hectic and challenging even in the best circumstances. And these were not the best circumstances: I was stressed, fearful about my future, loaded down with many years’ accumulation of stuff. On top of that as more and more went into storage, I was being shocked and appalled at how much of my own life had become buried alive. That these friends helped me through this “rite of passage” in such a physical way is very precious to me. I could not have done it without them.
Whatever lies ahead for me has been made brighter by their ready willingness to help when I truly needed help.
The saying goes “A friend in need is a friend indeed.” I think I want to add to that by saying “A friend in deed is a joy forever.”
(Other friends have given me help in shelter, but that is another story that is not finished yet.)
I grew up in Jackson, Michigan, and for me memories of celebrations of the Fourth of July are inextricably tied to memories of the Cascades.
For those unfamiliar with this lovely attraction in my hometown — it’s a massive fountain, a spectacular waterworks built on a hillside in one of the city’s parks. Its displays run throughout the summer season, but on the Fourth, it becomes the setting for the fireworks display.
The Cascades carries lots of wonderful memories for me. Including my beginning awareness of color combinations — for I always thought orange and green were a difficult combination to pull off well.
On either side of the waterworks are walkways that climb the hill, lots of stairs. And there was usually spray from the large side fountains on each main level, so you could be certain of getting dampened (at the very least) if you wanted to make the climb from the front level to the hilltop.
But the rotation of lighting effects as well as the sound of the water (often accompanied by previously recorded music or by performances from live musicians) is the principal attraction of the place.
Dusk would come, followed by dark, and the beauty of the thing weaves its charm around you.
Whether monochrome or not….
But on the Fourth, the waterworks became the staging ground for the fireworks.
My father would gather us together, often taking a picnic supper along, and the pop tent, so we could sit sheltered from the mosquitoes until the fireworks display. We would suitably Oooooah and Aaaaaaw.
These were my earliest memories of Fourth of July celebrations. For an ideal setting, there’ve been few places that have seemed better to me than that of Jackson’s.
I’ve been in temporary housing since the end of April, after leaving my old apartment. Although the Creature from the Black Lagoon has been my traveling companion, he was not keen on being photographed in the hotels. I’m not sure why, since he was content enough when we went to Mythcon in Albuquerque. But I let him have his way.
However, he seems pleased with the current house-sitting situation, and was willing to let me take some pictures.
First up is one with the clay model head of my character Zoe, from my slowly-progressing graphic short story “Zoe Alone.” Poor Zoe has not been well protected in the moving about, so she’s gotten a little bit mushed. But since she’s clay this can be repaired.
The Creature said that since I was taking pictures, perhaps it was time to record Teddy and Dino, who mostly live in my car, Baby. Teddy and Dino are parking lot foundlings, hence their affiliation with the car. Dino I found in the apartment parking area. Teddy, however, was found in the parking structure at Sony Studios. He looked mighty forlorn there, so I collected him and he has taken up residence in the car.
After a lot of work in revising the nature of my sample chapter of Paper Movies, I finally got news from a publisher last week that they are interested in the non-fiction project and want to publish it. Yay! All the paperwork still has to be drawn up on the deal, but I’m very pleased with this. I like the publisher and think it will be a great home for the book.
Of course, now I have to redo the first two chapters of the book in the new presentation form as well as adjust all the rest of the material for it.
Paper Movies is about adapting stories as graphic novels: how to go about scripting a graphic novel, finding an art team (and what each member of that does), getting it published, building an audience for the work. It is especially intended for those who are not familiar with the ins and outs of the comic book business.
Originally, it had been intended to be a basic prose-driven text, with photos along the way to demonstrate aspects. But the editor at the publisher suggested a more graphic approach to the material, and once I got into the revamping, I was sold on the idea. It works great this way.
The following is one of the pages from the chapter, just to show the new style in the presentation —
My little friend, Professor Exposition, will be getting quite a work-out along the way as he helps explain things.
I’ve got my work cut out for me. And this is a good thing.
The Creature scopes out some of the remaining items that have to be moved out. He thinks there’s still a lot to do. He’s right, of course. But sometimes a body just needs a break. Which I’m taking today.
Back in 1991, Christo did two major installations of large umbrellas, one in Japan and the other in the U.S. in California. The installations “opened” early in October. On Saturday, October 26, the installation was nearing the end of the scheduled display. I had not gone to see them — they were installed in the pass well north of Los Angeles. And, I admit, I was a bit skeptical of what they might be like as “art.” But a friend wanted to see them and didn’t want to drive up alone. So I agreed to go with her. I was glad I did.
The following pictures were taken that day. It was a bit overcast (and later would get very gusty, heading in to rain). But as we came over a rise and saw the first of the umbrellas directly ahead of us, dotting the slope like giant dandilions, it made me smile spontaneously.
There were quite a few people driving around the area on the roads beside the I-5. The installation was on the Tejon Ranch in the Tejon Pass. There were many present to view the Umbrellas, creating just a touch of a carnival atmosphere under the cloudy sky.
Although many of the umbrellas were positioned to be not easily accessible, there were plenty right by the roads for people to check out. I think there’s not many who went with cameras who did not attempt the following shot. This is my favorite picture of the excursion —
Something about the overcast skies made the whole installation feel startling as art.
As it turned out, not long after my friend and I departed, heading back to Los Angeles, the winds increased and everyone tried to find some shelter. Unfortunately, one woman was killed when the umbrella she’d taken shelter under got tipped over by the winds, large concrete base and all. Because of the accident, the installation was shut down immediately and the last couple of days of viewing where cancelled.
I was won over quickly on seeing the installation. I’m glad I did go see it. It made for a memorable day.
I have recently created a Patreon page, where I will be posting about my works-in-progress, and indeed sharing draft chapters as things move forward.
I want to express my deepest thanks to those who have joined the Gold Level of my noble Patrons.
Bradley Rader
