Hey y’all,
The internet informs me that this is the last day of “Will Eisner Week”. And though I’m not sure why this time of year is set aside to honor the work and life of one of the great comics pioneers, I do think it’s always worth taking a moment and revisit his contributions.
Way back in 2017, I was invited to contribute a comic to a newspaper collection of stories celebrating the 100th anniversary of Eisner’s character THE SPIRIT. I was really honored, and I’m (shockingly) still pretty proud of my strip. So before we get started with the newsletter proper, here’s a look at that comic and some of the work it took to make it:
If you’re looking to hunt down a physical copy of the Newspaper, maybe start: HERE. Or reach out to its curator, the esteemed Sean Phillips.
And now, with that out of the way, buckle up for a little self-mythology…
My first real foray into looking for work as a comics pro was over two decades ago on the floor of my very first San Diego Comicon.
I was in my very early 20s, fresh out of a public liberal arts college that had armed me with a bachelor’s degree in the strategies of 4-player Golden Eye. Exhilarated and terrified to be 3000 miles from home all on my own, finally chasing my dreams.
Now it should be made clear that these were still the days when SDCC was still very much a comics-driven space. So the rare chance to stand in line for a portfolio review from a real comics editor was a great lure. If you didn’t live in New York, where the publishers were headquartered, then such a chance was rare. And since no editor was going to come looking for me—I’d finally flown west looking for a way to tunnel under the wall around the impenetrable Comics Fortress.
Now, I had stood in a portfolio line before. As a 16-year-old. When an assistant editor for Marvel made the trip south to Heroes Con. At the time, I was confident to the point of cocky, watching with contempt and glee as that editor handed a business card to every sap with crudely drawn samples. Knowing with absolute certainty that if those were his tastes— then I was going to melt that poor fucker’s brain.
But of course, like any supervillain origin story, my triumphant coronation as the next benevolent king of comics— ended up as ten brief but undying minutes of red-faced, embarrassment. Skewered publicly. Barred from entry. I scuttled home, cursing that idiot editor, the mother stupid enough to have him, and most of all myself. Determined to redraw every page.
The “fuck you” I plopped on the table the next day astonished, bewildered, or impressed him enough that he rendered unto me my magic carrot. A consolation prize of a business card stamped with Marvel’s address and a generic submission editor’s email.
It felt like I’d won the Super Bowl.
It was victory enough to propel me forward with my delusions. And in the time leading up to that first SDCC, I’d actually written and drawn dozens upon dozens of comic strips starring my own characters. A practice developed mostly out of necessity, that was starting to yield a lot of confidence in my ability to cartoon and pace a story from imagination. The writing was of course pretty shaky a lot of time, but I’d done enough reps to begin to realize the power and satisfaction of charting my own course. Warts and all.
The portfolio I lugged around under my arm that weekend in San Diego was mostly six-page samples of very basic superhero plots. Stories I’d drawn with the standard practices at the front of mind. The prevailing strategy of the day centered around the idea that moving a sample story from a basic real-world setup and through a costume change/inciting incident was largely enough to show a superhero editor that you were both a good enough draftsman and storyteller to be trusted to draw Superman’s flapping mullet.
Lame as that might seem today, there was always a great buzz of initial excitement and nervousness in those cattle calls, as most of us really believed that we truly were the next American Idol. Of course what those judges were really looking for was anyone’s guess, even their own. And I was really bad at staying within the simple parameters of my own strategy. Every time I sat down to do something simple and straight forward, it would bloom uncontrollably off model. Ultimately leaving me with what was the beginnings of a full fledged fan fiction. Great practice for an aspiring writer and cartoonist, but I knew it was a riskier proposal than just showing editors a couple of characters punching each other in the street.
For most, the one-on-one portion of portfolio reviews was as bloody and brutal as surgery on a Civil War battlefield.
There were tears. Screams. The rending of Jar Jar Binks t-shirts. Most of the fresh amputees limped off into the plastic sea of the show floor— perhaps to learn perspective, or figure drawing, or to decipher who this Scott McCloud fella was and what the fuck he actually understood about comics.
At a time when presenting comics as “realistic” was considered essential to changing the temperature of the superhero waters— My samples were very cartoony. And it soon began to dawn on me that on top of forcing my fan fic down their throats— I was standing there expecting someone to change their business practice to accommodate what I wanted to do.
But just as I began to feel prepared for outright rejection. I received something far, far worse— hollow praise.
“I like your work, kid. But I can’t do anything with it right now.”
“This is great. Best of luck.”
Etc. Etc. Etc. On and on.
If you tell most people that they’re not ready to achieve their goals— it doesn’t matter if they agree or disagree with that assessment. A judgment they can refute or understand tends to solidify their choice about staying the path or stepping off of it. But being told that you’re good enough, but there’s no room for you is more unmooring. What do you do with the knowledge that the great gate is unlocked, but there’s nothing for you on the other side?
Now all of this happened relatively quickly, on a single fateful Thursday afternoon. That left me with 3 punch drunk days to drift around the show completely on my own, with no hotel room to hide out in (that’s a story for another time).
I wanted to quit. I was afraid to go home.
I vividly recall spending what felt like half a whole day just sitting against the wall of the convention center. Frozen.
But eventually, my stomach rumbled as loudly as the black cloud hanging over my head, forcing me to set out in search of a corndog for “lunch”.
Now, if you’ve ever been to Southern California in summer you’re probably familiar with June Gloom. A weird time of year where the skies are almost unshakably overcast. But rounding the corner off of the trolley tracks into the Gaslamp District, the sky seemed to open. Beaming down a single shaft of sunlight like the casting of a spotlight. Stage direction seemingly crafted for the introduction of the character set to walk into my little melodrama.
Standing there, center of the cobblestone path, under a hanging streetlamp, as if he were purposefully imitating one of his own drawings…
Was Will Eisner.
Will FUCKING Eisner.
The man that the comics’ own Oscar was named after. The man who literally wrote the book on sequential storytelling.
Surrounded by a handful of aspiring artists and fans, he was giving what seemed to be the end of an impromptu dissertation. Though easily in his 80s, he seemed to radiate energy as he flowed on and on about comics and their possibilities. The audience stood rapt, too dazed to even collect his crumbs of wisdom for our pockets.
But as Mr. Eisner began to trail and repeat his points, his handler wisely suggested that it was time for him to take a break from the spotlight. But as they began to turn to leave, I instinctively pushed my open hand forward past the small crowd—
“Mister Eisner, I just want to thank you.”
Loosely clasped in his grip, he smiled and, in what was most just likely an effort to close off the loop of his trailing thoughts, he looked DIRECTLY into my eyes and said—
“Never forget— that writing and drawing your own stories will always be the future of comics.”
And then laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.That was it. No further conversation was had or needed.
Message delivered.
The next day I put aside my superhero sample pages. Focusing instead on handing out the Xeroxed ashcan comic strip collections that I’d sheepishly tossed into my bag at the last moment. One copy even interrupted Matt Groening as he was racing to the bathroom. And from it he gave me my first job, coloring SIMPSON’S comics.
I never stood in another portfolio line again
Welp. I think that’s all for this week. As always, I really appreciate your continued support. If you’re a paid subscriber, and you’re interested in some tangible rewards for your trouble, then please don’t forget to email me a mailing address.
And if you enjoy this newsletter, please do me a favor and spread the word. I have some cool plans for the coming year and this space will likely be a big part of facilitating those.
Hope y’all have a great weekend.
More soon…
-j
Another gem. Fascinating to see your early work, wow you sure shed those influences (Mignola, Oeming, Kurtz?)! Eisner would be astonished with how far you came. Met him in Dublin in the early nineties, lovely fella, very kind about my portfolio (Sienkiwicz, McKean, Williams, Muth heavy stuff); unfortunately I didn't heed his advice; life got distracting 😀. Really amazing to see how far you've grown.