dare i?

i love graphic novels. however, if you asked me about the thousands of underground word-picture publications i would fail to tell you which ones i thought had the most exquisitely drawn illustrations or which alan moore book i thought had the most profound message about society. i'm not going to lie to you, readers: i really don't know much at all about the would of graphic novels, and i'm not going to pretend i do. this lack of knowledge was probably what caused my first (and presumably last) attempt at writing/illustrating a graphic novel, well, what the young kids would say, an "epic fail".

ah, yes...but it's come time again to embark on a new literary mission in ela class - the second round of independent writing projects. and i think i'd like to take another stab at the graphic novel. and this plan didn't just pounce upon me like the metaphorical puma of good ideas. it's been nesting in the back of my brain ever since i completed my first graphic novel in the seventh grade. my (very minor) perfectionist ways have forced me to have a constant desire to make what formerly was a screw-up into something better. sometimes my more prominent, lazy, procrastinator side dominates, yet this time, my love for the peanut butter-and-jelly relationship of words and pictures is pushing me forward, into the depths of challenge.

my first graphic novel was about a young, pious girl suffering from the black plague in the middle ages. (what fun!) it was a comedy, too. no, just kidding. i thought it was a good idea from the start, but as the writing process progressed, it turned into a nightmarish experience that i was desperate to abandon. although i personally believe any story can be adapted into a graphic novel, drawing pictures of sickly children lying listlessly on flea-ridden bales of hay was not my idea of an inspirational writing experience.

this time, i plan to write something more personal. about myself. not exactly a memoir, because i believe that memoirs shouldn't be written unless you are inches from death (but still able to pick up a pen or type on a keyboard). i guess it would be more of a documentation of my life right now, in the midst of stress and confusion and angst. i have a million ideas swimming around in my cerebral sea and i feel the need to put them down on paper. the story isn't exactly linear, nor does it have a set point. but it will. all i have to do is harness my inspiration and courage, even though it sounds painfully corny. i'm determined to master the art of the thing i love most about literacy. wish me luck.

The Allure of Pictures and The Printed Word.

Capacity by Theo Ellsworth is by far the most beautiful book I have held in my hands, read, looked at, pondered, understood, not understood. A squarish, thick graphic novel that I stumbled upon in my favorite comic book store. Looks like any other little-known, arty book in the store. Upon closer inspection, the pages contain a marvel in the world graphic novels. Capacity. A freakish, fantastic world illustrated in back-and-white pen drawings, meticulously detailed, each square inch of intertwined, cross-hatched flat space a world in itself. An audacious attempt to illustrate the images that appear so frequently in the author's head. Characters banter mischievously throughout the pages of the book, among the myriad of dots and dashes that come together to form a congested mass of wildly imaginative scenery and action. Hand-written words that are so natural you can tell they just came out of someone's notebook. It's not condescending; it's simple. Language that has earned plaudits from journalists, writers and artists alike. You could spend hours deciphering one of the pictures, the beautiful universes that muddle together into an image that looks like a winding, lopsided dream. The book begins with a strange, robotic illustration, also featured on the cover, that the author describes as "the reader". You are immediately placed (gently) into this story as a creature that fits in, so when the giant, ever-changing friendly beast places you on the chair he has so thoughtfully strapped to his antlered head, you don't feel so strange. The author does what many seem to forget - he makes you a character in the tale, and frequently interrupts the story to apologize for the strangeness, saying things like "Oh, by the way, are you still doing okay? Thanks for sticking with me through all of this! Here, have some more imaginary tea!" The author presents himself as someone who is hospitable, friendly, and perfectly human. We grow to like the author. This is really what sets Capacity apart from other books of its kind. You are not merely thrown into the world of fantastic creatures, mysterious cities, dark streets, and cryptic wizards offering you magic glasses. You are told the author's story in such a way that you forget about the insanity. He switches on and off from telling the true stories of his abandoned projects and his experiences of living out of a car. He then goes back to his dream-like histories, a welcome break from his somewhat lonely and obsessive life. The book is a like a Russian doll, a story inside a story inside a story. You would be confused if not for the author's frequent check-ups.

I was trying to pick a book out at Bergen Street Comics that day. This was before I had laid eyes on Theo Ellsworth's book. There was one I'd been eyeing for a while, a beautifully illustrated, wordless hardcover called Weathercraft. But, as I always do, I decided I would keep looking for a bit before making a big decision. I was a little bit put off by the fact that there was no dialogue or narrative in the book. While the illustrations were stunning, the experience of "reading" the book was like being

blindfolded, then dropped out of a plane and into a forest where there's lots of squirrels and stuff. You can sort of get a gist of what's happening by piecing together what little information you gather from your surroundings, but there's really nothing there to relieve your maddening curiosity and awkward misplacement. Capacity has a certain allure because of its conversation-like narratives and totally unpretentious descriptions, with an equally amazing supply of intriguing pictures. Sorry if I'm over-using corny analogies, but reading Capacity is like eating a chocolate bar with nuts in it or something else kind of chunky. Every bite of chocolaty sweetness is broken by a textural freakout of something else. A perfect balance and equilibrium between chocolate and nuts, words and pictures. Both are deliciously enjoyable, and this is what makes Capacity an incredible book.