ASCENSION #2

Hey all. I wish I had time to keep up with the writer commentaries I was doing last year, but with the amount of titles I’m writing, my editorial duties, and my other job, I’m barely finding the time to blog here at all.

I did, however, want to issue a blanket trigger warning for ASCENSION #2, which came out today. The issue features a would-be school shooting and, later, one instance of attempted suicide and another of fairly extreme violence. When writing these kinds of scenes, figuring out the best and most honest way to tell the story, I always strive to be respectful while also being true to the idea. I think ASCENSION #2 does that, and I hope you do, too. I do, however, know how devastating even reading about this kind of thing can be, so I did want to give a bit of a warning before moving on with it. (SPOILERS: the shooter does not get more than two yards past the doors before he is dealt with),

That said, this issue is of great personal importance to me. If the impact of reading it has a fraction of the power than writing it did on me, I’ve done my job.

There’s not much I can show without spoilers, but here are a few panels. It’s truly one of the highlights of my career thus far, so I can’t help but show a little.

Writing the final issue of ROBYN HOOD

ROBYN HOOD: LEGEND #4 was written last night in a flurry of espresso, feels, tears, and manic-manicness. And then, after that, I wrote 3/4 of the next issue. Now that I’ve cleaned up the mess of #4, it’s time for me to do the same with #5.

And then write my final few pages of the Robyn Hood trilogy. It’s insane to think that Robyn Hood Volume One was my first EVER miniseries for Zenescope Entertainment. Hell, it was my first ever miniseries, period. Now, over one-hundred comics later, the story is ending tonight.

Here’s to Robyn. And to you, for reading the series enough that we got THREE VOLUMES. That’s crazy. CRAZY. I remember I had two versions of the story. There was the version that I told myself was going to happen.

VERSION ONE. Robyn Hood #1 sells decent. I knew it’d be at least decent. I did a shit-ton of press on it, Zenescope’s marketing was on point, the covers were phenomenal, and I was basically just confident we wouldn’t fuck that up. But I thought, best case scenario, Robyn Hood #1-5 sell decent and then I get to use the character in other parts of the Grimm Universe.

VERSION TWO. Robyn Hood #1 does REALLY WELL and then every thing we do with the character after the first series does REALLY WELL and I can tell this story exactly how I want to. But this is the painful line of thinking, Patrick, this hurts. Don’t think this way. This will never happen.

IT HAPPENED.

So, I got to tell my crazy story. I’m about to finish it. Again, thanks for sticking around.

And fuck, wait until you see what I’m launching the month after the final issue…

Tomorrow, CODE RED #2 hits shelves.
It will be my 100th published comic book.

Tomorrow, CODE RED #2 hits shelves.

It will be my 100th published comic book.

asker

randomfire27 asked: Have you ever doubted your own ability as a writer?

mattfractionblog:

have you ever read this blog? 

like, always, every day, all the time, with literally everything I type. i already regret typing “have you ever read this blog” because I’m sure it’s not going to be read in the jovial, joking, manner in which it was typed, so i’m typing this, and already regretting IT, because it’s so fucking cloying and like-me-like-me-don’t-be-mad-at-me ARRGH i am going to stop now and get back to sucking FOR MONEY instead of sucking here FOR FUN

sometimes

Fucking poetry.

Also GPOY

On writing.

Being a happily exclusive, happily salaried staff writer for Zenescope Entertainment, it’s easy to begin seeing writing as writing Grimm Fairy Tales stories. I have a lot on my plate — I’m scripting between five and eight titles a month for Zenescope and, now that I’ve been made editor, I’ve a slew of additional duties. Add a day job and a big move… and I’m pretty busy. I’m not Charles Souleing it (hats off to that man indeed), but I have let my non-paid writing fall by the wayside.

And I think that’s dangerous. 

The Grimm Universe, which is, I believe, the largest shared universe in the comic book world that is not published by the Big Two, has characters that I’m as passionate about as my creator-owned characters. In 2013, I had been content with writing the adventures of Robyn Hood, Liesel Van Helsing, Sela, Zeus, the Being, Hades, and all of these characters that I have used to tell stories that matter to me on a personal level. I did release two creator-owned books — Family Pets and Suckers — but those were primarily scripted some time before the year began.

The danger of writing solely within one universe is that if you’re only scripting characters set in one world with shared dilemmas in a shared universe, you may be doing that universe a disservice. One of the elements I’ve been striving toward is making every book I write feel vastly different from the other books I’m scripting. Currently, I’ve got Robyn Hood: Legend, B.A.R. Maid, Wonderland: Asylum, Ascension, Godstorm sequel, and a brand new Helsing series on my plate. If there is any crossover in tone or even character voice, I won’t have done my job. I think the answer to keeping them separate is not to write less — the act of writing, every single day, is essential to my being. I think to keep these books strong, and to keep myself sharp as a writer, I should also write prose. Every day. I’d like to look into doing more theatre, and perhaps film. I think, instead of further diluting the gumbo that is my writing load, it’ll make me clearer, more ardent, and, perhaps most important of all, more me.

I mentioned that writing is essential to me. I’ve been thinking about that a lot today. It’s a bit eye-rolly that the New Year is such a big day of reflection and promises of change… but it’s so common for a reason. People love having a catalyst for change and, at this point in my life, I may be in more need of self-assessment and reevaluation of what is, in fact, essential to my being more than ever.

So, to you all, happy New Year. I hope it’s a damn good one. I’m planning on catching the sunset tonight, but before then, I’m writing an article about Stephanie Brown. And then, I’m going to get Helsing #1 in, because damn I’m excited for this story.

-PS

Everyone thinks writers must know more about the inside of the human head, but that is wrong. They know less, that’s why they write. Trying to find out what everyone else takes for granted.

- Margaret Atwood (via cannonbonecracks)

Ouch… maybe that’s true.

(via tattoolit)

THE LAST DAY - a short story

by Patrick Shand

She exhaled, cigarette smoke streaming from her mouth.  Though it was August, I instantly thought of winter, when every breath turns to fog before your face.

“Pretty night,” I said, looking up at the starry sky.  I nudged the ground with my sneaker, making the backyard swinging bench rock lightly.

Mackenzie put out her cigarette on the sole of her shoe, and leaned back on the swing, her red hair falling behind it.  The skin of her upper arm rubbed against me as the swing moved.

“It’s alright,” she said, staring into the starry expanse.  “I mean… you’ll never get too much in Long Island.  Stars, I mean.  Too close to the city.”

“It seems like a lot,” I said.

“That’s because you’ve never left Long Island, JF,” she said.  She leaned her head against my chest, and I smelled her perfume—she was wearing the one I liked best—which badly tried to cover the smell of the weed we had smoked.

I chuckled.  “Are you high?”

“Bit.”

She seemed normal—I mean, you could tell when she was really gone, because you’d lose 98% of the food in your house in a period of ten minutes—and I wasn’t that high either.  We didn’t have rolling papers, so I had to rip a page out of a book and roll the weed in that.  When we smoked, we mostly tasted the paper, so I’m not sure how much it could’ve worked.  I did feel off though, as if I were halfway there.  My chest felt tight, like there was a pocket of air caught under my sternum trying to push its way through my bones.

“We should’ve saved it, probably,” I said.

She sat up straight.  I saw in her eyes that she was tired, maybe wanted me to drive her home, but I didn’t want her to leave so I didn’t pursue it.

“I wanna draw this.  The sky,” she said.

“I thought you didn’t think it was that nice,” I said.  

A sly smile made its way across her lips and she stuck her tongue out at me.  “I changed my mind, Troy.”

I couldn’t help but smile too.  I loved when she called me that.  Probably because she was the only person I knew—not counting family, of course—who sometimes called me something other than JF.  The name “Troy” may not be a great name, but hell, it’s better than JF.  People have been calling me JF since fifth grade.  It stands for “Jew fro.”  Not something you’d like to be known for, eh?  I mean, it’s something that even my friends call me, so it isn’t like I go home and cry about it.  It’s just nice to be called something real once and a while.

“Want me to go inside, get a pencil or something? Paper?” I said.  “I could…”

“No, no.  Let’s just sit here.”

“Not a problem.”  And it wasn’t.  Some of the best moments, at least in recent years, were spent sitting here with Mackenzie.  Watching her long red hair spread across the flower-patterned cushion of the swing-bench, like fire raining down on a bed of daisies.  She was beautiful, and I think that I might have loved her, if I even knew what the word meant.  She probably knew.

For a long time, we stared up into the sky.  Every now and then, a plane would pass.  It sort of shattered the image, seeing something man-made careening across the sky, but we still watched anyway.  I’m not sure how much time passed before we saw it, because what happened before and what happened after really doesn’t matter.

Mackenzie and I saw it at the same time.  Mostly, it looked like a clamshell.  A closed, metal clamshell, round but flat.  There was light coming from it, but not the blinking sort of light that comes from a plane.  It was more of a glow, like the white-hot light of a star captured in the sides of this craft.  I stared into the sky, incredulously watching it move, my mind churning at overdrive.

“A balloon?” Mackenzie murmured, but I didn’t answer.  I laid my hand over hers, and she turned her hand over, locking her fingers between mine as we watched the thing in the sky.

I might have believed it was a balloon or some kind of man-made craft if it didn’t move like that.  Its movement was smooth, more like a tiny fish gliding underwater than anything flying through the sky.  It was fast, so incredibly fast, that a blink would cause you to miss half the spectacle.  It was over before we could truly marvel at it; the thing, the craft, glided so quickly into the distance, descending on a downward angle as it went.  At that rate, it would surely crash into the canal just beyond the Northern Woods… But seconds, a minute passed, and I heard nothing.

I was about to say something to Mackenzie, but when I turned to her, I was caught by her excited and incredulous gaze.  Her face said everything.  We couldn’t have seen it, but we did, we did!

For a moment, I’m sure my face said the same thing—I felt it inside, the excitement and a whole shitload of fear—but then, when I looked back towards the sky and saw that it was the same crisp sky as before, I sighed.  “No,” I said, breaking the dazed silence.  “No.  We’re high.”

“Not really.  More like buzzed.  And hardly even that,” Mackenzie said.

“Well… well maybe you were right,” I said.  “It was a balloon.”

“Right,” she said, cocking her eyebrow.  “I’m no, er, ballooneer, but that… did you see the way it…?”

She was right.  I mean, I think she was.  The way it sped across the sky as if it were its natural habitat.  Unlike the plane, it fit into the sky perfectly.  Looked like it belonged.  I might have been wrong, and there might have been some scientist or ballooneer who knew for damn sure I didn’t see what I thought I saw and could prove me wrong, but they didn’t matter.  I was—we were—fairly certain.

I laughed loudly.  It wasn’t a sound of mirth, more like a release of nerves.  I was grinning stupidly.  “I…  That thing was headed down,” I said.  I noticed that Mackenzie was still holding my hand.  I didn’t want to let go, not to get her art supplies or to run from whatever had landed, but I looked at her, my eyes probably big as saucers, and said, “Should we, like, go inside and watch the news or something?  To see if… I don’t know… anything is happening?”

I felt ridiculous saying it.

She shrugged.  “Nah.  Not unless you really want to.  I mean… if something happens, we’ll know.  Probably first.”

“Heh,” I said.  Another expulsion of nerves.  “Kinda scary.”

She leaned back, the strands of her long red hair flowing down the flower-patterned cushion like a river of blood.  “A little.  But mostly not.”

She lit another cigarette and returned to watching the sky.  The tip of it glowed brightly and the tobacco crackled softly as she inhaled.  She giggled, blowing a stream of smoke in my direction.

“Want one?” she asked.

“No, thanks.”

Once again, she leaned back, resting her head against my chest.  She does that often, switching positions and then switching back again.  She tapped my chin with her index finger as if she were knocking on a door.

I looked down at her.  She was looking up at the sky.

“Does it make you feel small?” she asked.

I considered this.  Fact was, it didn’t matter what I may have felt—I was small.  No getting around that.  To the universe, everyone was.  Everyone is small, and everyone is expendable.  What I saw that night pretty much solidified that for me.  But with Mackenzie’s head against my chest, her red hair spreading down from my heart to my lap like blood, none of that really mattered.

“No,” I said.  “It doesn’t.”

“Good,” she said.  “Me neither.”