Fade To Black, Panel 2

Here's the rough draft of panel two.

PANEL TWO
Front of the ship. Jodie comes in for landing. She yanks on the strings, hard. There are hundreds of red and blue corroded metal containers dotted randomly across the ship. A few in shot for this panel. The heavens have opened up, and thousands of water-like missiles plummet down to the wooden deck.

They strike Jodie with savage vehemence. Her hair has become soaked to the bone. Water-droplets dribble down her exquisite face.

CAPTION
Just great. It would have to rain.

I think it's getting better. But I have this nagging feeling that it's total tripe. What ever am I going to do? I'm trying as hard as I can. But it appears as if my best isn't good enough. Maybe comics isn't for me after all. I don't want to quit. I have a story to tell. I have an excellent character that needs to be put out there. Jodie could be huge! She could be the real rival to James Bond. But no-one will ever know. And that makes me depressed.

Fade To Black Graphic Novel

Maybe I was too quick to eject myself from comics. I got a bit overly depressed. That happens with my bipolar disorder. I've thought things through. And I've decided to give Public Enemy a much deserved rest. It's a little too fresh in my mind to contemplate a re-write at this moment in time.

So, I've decided to move onto another comic that I've rewritten hundreds of times: Fade To Black. Yes, it's another spy-thriller. And yes, it stars Jodie Summers. I have this thing for spy-thrillers. I have a desire to be a famous spy-writer. I hope Jodie can rival James Bond. That's my aim anyway.

I've roughly written the first panel. And here it is.

PAGE ONE:
PANEL ONE

A good shot of JODIE SUMMERS. Jodie's a beautiful english rose. Very cuddly, girl-next-door type look. She has an aroma of sweetness and innocence. Jodie has pitch-black hair, that's in a loose ponytail. With the odd few strands running down her young, ethereal face. Her crystal-blue eyes are focused downwards, towards something in the corner.

Jodie's parachuting through the brooding, grim midnight air. Impenetrable thunder clouds surge across the coal-black sky. They're like a herd of wild beasts running lost and aimless, charging with concrete force.

Jodie has an Union Jack parachute. She tugs on the chute strings trying her best, to guide herself through the hazy, black fog that dishevels itself across the boisterous Atlantic Ocean.

Mammoth sized Atlantic waves chandelle forward. Slicing, and dicing each other to pieces like razor sharps kitchen-knives. The whole ocean explodes with fierce intensity. The choppy gale-force wind howls violently to itself. It fuels the monsoon like gasoline in a oil-fire.

Just in shot, to the right: a gigantic crimson cargo ship bobs roughly up and down in the inclement seas.

CAPTION
Wednesday 31st December 2008.

CAPTION
Atlantic Ocean.

I'm thinking it's a little better. It's still rough. Still maybe needs some work. But it's better than Public Enemy, right? Please, tell me that it is. I re-read the making of a comic on Dark Horse. And I read the script throughly. And now, I'm trying to implement more complex descriptions. Give it a bit more Oomph!

Maybe I've still failed.

What to do now?

I'm really concerned about the Public Enemy Graphic Novel. I am convinced it's total tripe. So what do I do now? I am really tempted to abandon it and just concede that I can't write comic books. As much as I would love to write one. I simply don't have the talent. So what's next?

I don't want to give up on Jodie Summers. She's my baby. Yeah. Yeah. She's fictional. But Jodie wouldn't give up on me. And I feel guilty that I can't finish a creative work with her in it. It's been two years since I created her. I've attempted hundreds of works featuring her. But none finished.

She's just too hard to write. I always fail with her. Always. So what's next? I have several options. I could return to theatre and write another play.  I could write a Radio drama. Or I could write a novel. I'll be rubbish at all three. But I have no other option. March has proved to be a disastrous month for me.

Comics are just too hard. Too painful. I want to do Jodie so bad. I owe her one. So I just have to try and think of something else to put her in. Maybe a play. Maybe a radio drama. I've tried Novels before. And I have completely failed. 

It's description I'm terrible at. And dialogue. And characterization. And EVERYTHING! Why don't I have any talent? I'm always getting screwed over. I'm just bad luck. If only I had some rope... or  a shotgun or something. I could put an end to my stupid, worthless, life in an instant.

But I don't. So I'll have to struggle on.

Extract from Killing Jake Play

This is my finished detective play: Killing Jake. It stars my other favourite character Prodigy (Amy Anderson). To give you some background. It's the Year 2044. Prodigy is a broke, and out of luck detective with a Coke problem. And throughout the 55 page play she has to solve a great conspiracy involving Mutants, Androids and bankrupt corporations. And it all starts with a lost dog.

Here's Scene 1.

ACT I

SCENE 1

PRODIGY ENTERS. Curtain/lights are down.

Prodigy's a young, beautiful english rose. She's around twenty-two years old, and has shoulder length pitch-black hair. That has brilliant WHITE STREAKS glazed through it. On the LEFT HAND SIDE of her head, is a little PINK BOW.

PRODIGY
Welcome to the future. Twenty Forty-Four. To be precise. Capital City, England if you want more detail. The future isn't the best place for a young girl like me to grow up in. We have our fair share of crime, and disasters. I guess like anyone else. But what truly separates us from you is the rise of Mutants and Androids. I'm not a mutant myself but I live among them and they treat me as their own. I don't fit in with the Norms as we call them. Mutants emerged from the aftermath of the Nuclear War of Twenty-Twenty-Two. They have bodily deformities that have outcast them from traditional human society. And Androids? They appeared in Twenty-Thirty from Syntax. The leading technology company in the world.
(Pause)
My name is Amy Kathryn Anderson. In case you were wondering. But I prefer to call myself Prodigy. Most of the mutants do. How I got that name? That's beyond the time arc of this particular play. But you'll find out soon enough. When the time is right.

Prodigy EXITS.

AT RISE: WE'RE in Prodigy's quaint little office. There's a wooden desk, with a computer on, and a swivel chair behind it. Two ordinary chairs sit in front. Prodigy is at the window. The blind is half drawn, and she is looking out into the street. THUNDER, LIGHTNING and RAIN sweep across the street. It's not a nice night. Prodigy has a CIGARETTE in one hand, and with the other is peeping through the blind. The window reads - AMY ANDERSON, PRIVATE DETECTIVE.

PRODIGY
Ohhhh...!! Why isn't anyone coming? What am I doing wrong? I desperately need a new case to investigate. I'm running low on funds!
(turning away from window)
I guess I might as well call it a night. No-one's going to show up at this time. It's nearly 11pm.
(Inhales cigarette)
Hmmm.. That's better. Nothing like a good fag to calm me down. It seems to be my only friend these days.
(Crashes into swivel chair behind desk, and places head in hands)
Why did I take up this job?
(inhales more cigarette smoke)
It's all because I got that Sherlock Holmes novel, 'The Hound of Baskerville' for christmas when I was a kid. I knew it. I knew it right there and then that I wanted to be a private detective. But my dad he kept trying to talk me out of it. Maybe I should have listened to him now.
(Leans back, and inhales more smoke)
I need a fix-er-up-er.
(Opens top desk drawer and takes out a piece of wrapped up tin foil and a credit card)
This old thing has expired now. But I still have other uses for it.
(Unwraps foil and sprinkles a bit of the cocaine inside onto the desk, then uses the credit card to dice it into a thin line.)
This always does the trick when I'm feelin' blue.
(Digs into wallet, and pulls out five pound note. Rolls it up into a tube and sniffs the line of coke in one shot.)
Ahhh... That's better.
(Sniffs hard to ensure all the coke has gone up her nose, then rubs it.)
Oooooohh. I feel good all of a sudden. I could dance right now.
(Carries on smoking)

FOOTSTEPS approaching. Prodigy jerked forward in her seat, and waited for the inevitable knock.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

PRODIGY
(Douses out cigarette into tray, and folds her arms.)
Come in.

MRS. WARNER ENTERS looking rather distraught. She shakes off the rain from her UMBRELLA, and steps to Prodigy. Mrs. Warner is an elderly lady in her late fifties, with wrinkled skin, and thick sloshes of make up on her. She was wearing a pretty little red hat that was perched on top of her head. She looks posh, and fancy.

PRODIGY
(Smiling as cheerily as she could)
Can I help you?

MRS. WARNER
Yes. I've lost my baby. I don't often come to these parts, but my son wanted a toy from around here, and now....
(Sobs)
I've lost my baby!
(Sobs some more)
My husband will be so upset with me if I don't return home with him. I would go to the police, but it seems so trivial for them. I saw your office and wondered if you could help.

PRODIGY
I certainly can. Mrs...?

MRS. WARNER
Mrs. Warner.

PRODIGY
OK. Mrs. Warner. I just need to take down some details. Nothing to complicated. I'm sure this is a difficult time for you.
(Dumps tin foil into top draw, and pulls out a notepad and pen.)
So your name is Mrs. Warner.
(Writes it down.)

MRS. WARNER
(Sits down)
That is correct.

PRODIGY
And where were you last when he ran off?

MRS. WARNER
I was by the old haunted house. Just down the street. I turned my back for a brief second or two, and then he was gone.
(Wipes tears on napkin)
I hope you won't think of me as a lesser person because of it.

PRODIGY
(Writing down details)
No, No. Of Course not. It happens to all of us. Do you have any pictures of him that I could borrow for my search?

MRS. WARNER
All I have is this.
(Pulls of old, crinkled photo)
This is the most recent I have of him.

PRODIGY
(Takes photograph, and frowns.)
It's a DOG.

MRS. WARNER
Yes, Yes. He's my baby. You do pets don't you?

PRODIGY
Yeah. I guess.

MRS. WARNER
Thank you. Thank you. I can pay you quite handsomely if you find him.

PRODIGY
(Perks up in seat)
Really?

MRS. WARNER
Oh yes. We're a very wealthy family. My husband works for that Android company, Syntax.

PRODIGY
(Passes across notepad and pen)
If you could write down your details, that would be most helpful.

MRS. WARNER
(Writes down details)
There you go dear.
(Stands up.)
Call me the moment you find him.

PRODIGY
Will do.

Mrs. Warner takes her Umbrella, and EXITS. Prodigy leaned back in her chair, and lights up another cigarette.

PRODIGY
Damnit! Damnit!
(Thumps fists onto desk)
I thought I had a real case there.
(Breathes in smoke)
Never mind, I guess. A case is a case. Money is money. I hope I can make a lot for this. I don't particularly want to drag my sorry ass through these soggy streets looking for some over pampered Dog. But a Job is a Job. It all helps in the end.
(Stands up, and takes several puffs of cigarette before distinguishing it in the ash tray.)

Prodigy EXITS. END SCENE 1. (BLACKOUT)

This is the play that I got that compliment for. Doesn't seem that good now. What was I thinking!? I sent it off to the Soho Theatre a few weeks ago for a free script feedback. They'll probably just write back with CRAP written across it. :-(

Public Enemy Graphic Novel, Page 3

Here's the third page from my spy-thriller Graphic Novel: (starring my favourite character Jodie Summers)

PAGE THREE: (3 PANELS)
PANEL ONE

SIDE ON VIEW. Jodie sprints across the street. WE'RE about half-way across. Another alley-way just out of sight to the left. WE CAN SEE down the street. And mostly importantly the city-backdrop. There are hundreds of tall, glistening, depressing SKYSCRAPERS. With that odd DOME SHAPE at the top. And a nice needle rising high into the blackened air.

Jodie continues to PUFF, PANT and WHEEZE. Her PSG-1 slops from side to side in tune. The FULL MOON is dead center in the chilly-sky. A few clouds here and there, but the sky remains clear. Jodie's running over the sewer-grate. HAZY-STEAM swallows up her young-legs.

CAPTION
"This city stinks. Why did I ever move here? I was much happier in Great Yarmouth. Quiet, little seaside resort. Where everyone knows your name. Heaven."

PANEL TWO

BEHIND SHOT. Jodie dashed up the alleyway that's now in SHOT. WE'RE still at the beginning of it. To the LEFT-HAND SIDE is a broken, rotted wooden fence. Pieces of wood are missing from it. Some have half-collapsed. Graffiti has been spoiled onto it. Random slogans: FX, PRODIGY, 3:16.

Through the gaps in the fence WE CAN SEE overgrown grass that looks almost dead. It's a very dull GREEN-COLOR. There's a shopping trolley dump on it, as well as other heaps of household waste. To the RIGHT-HANDS SIDE is a building wall. It's covered by SOOT, DIRT and GRIME. There's chips in the brickwork.

A cracked set of concrete slabs that have spilled OIL on them lead up the alleyway. There's two METAL-TRASH CANS with the lids missing, and flies buzzing round the overflowing garbage. Also some BLACK-RUBBISH SACKS that have been dumped by them. Maybe there's a split in one where some trash creeps out of.

CAPTION
"Look at this city. How'd it get so bad? Do people round here just not care? Are people these days just too lazy to clean up?"

PANEL THREE

A SMALL PANEL skewed on the end. WE HOLD the same SHOT. But Jodie's disappeared up the alleyway. She's a mere shadowy figure now.

No matter how hard I try. It just seems to suck. :-(

Thinking about praise I've received

I was thinking just a few moments ago, after the post about how crap I am. About the praise that I've received for some of my work. I haven't had many. But that's because I've barely finished anything. But I did finish my theatre play Killing Jake.

I sent it off to PFD. And Although it was rejected. I got this nice little compliment. It's not much. But it made me feel good.

I've now read the play and I am afraid that, although I do see that you write well, it's just not to my taste. Obviously, my reaction is purely subjective.

That was from Giles Smart. Although, rejecting my play like that. He doesn't seem that smart. (hehehe). And that's basically it. I definitely need to finish more stuff and get them sent off. Otherwise, I'll never make it as anything.

I have so far this year, finished two plays. Killing Jake (as mentioned) and Killing in the Name. Both of them are short. Between 55-60 pages respectably. And I was hoping to write a longer one. But, ah, never mind.

I'm on my Graphic Novel at the moment. But it's not going well. I find it very painful, and arduous to write. And as mention in the post below. My descriptions seem utterly crap. I need to improve. I need to improve. I need to improve.

Hopefully I will. I've been getting better. That's a positive at least. I mean the first four versions of it were the most crappiest thing you've ever seen. Take my word for it. They were plain shit. But with this fifth draft. I have completely seen an improvement. But I'm afraid it's still not good enough to be published.

I must try harder. I must try harder. I need to improve. I need to improve.

Why don't I have any talent?

So, I was reading Making Of A Comic on Dark Horse, and comparing their script with mine. Well, how do I put this politely? My descriptions seem so lazy and basically shit. What's wrong with me? I thought my opener to Public Enemy was at least semi-decent. But it seems so unbelievably terrible.

I don't know what to do. Should I rewrite now? Or finish it and then rewrite? I've attempted this spy-thriller four times already and never got past page 49 because it was just plain rubbish. I kept giving up on poor Jodie. I mean, I know she's fictional. But she seems so real to me. In my thoughts and dreams. I promised her I wouldn't quit this time. But I'm having second thoughts.

I'm in love with her! Yeah. Yeah. She's not real. Damn. I need a girlfriend. Any offers?

Didn't think so. Oh Jodie. What am I going to do with you? You seem such a brilliant character in my mind. Strong. Sexy. Smart. But on paper you lose all that. You seem so flat and uninspired.

Why was I born without any talent? I'm shit at just about EVERYTHING!  I can't believe Mother Nature/God (whoever) screwed me over so bad. I'm not mad at God though. Maybe I do deserve it. After all, I find myself blaspheming a lot. I'm not just a crappy writer. I'm a crappy Christian too. :-(