Oh My Gourd

I have been unusually social lately, which is to say I’ve been a little bit social.

It started when my desk moved to the other side of the office, closer to my boss (and farther away from the constant gossips who never acknowledged my existence). Sitting nearby was the new girl whose neo-eighties look I admired from a distance. And, completely unlike me, I introduced myself and engaged in a few long conversations with her.

As an introvert who becomes more of a hermit with each passing day, I’m fine not talking to people, and in fact, I prefer it. But there’s a difference between my new neighbors giving me space and my old neighbors not even acknowledging I exist.

For example, I overheard one of my new neighbors say, “… for when you rip your arm off …” I turned around and said, “What the HELL are you talking about?” And they laughed and included me and filled me in. My old neighbors would have laughed and carried on like I wasn’t there. I may be quiet, but I’m not opposed to conversation.

Anyway, eighties girl was not alive in the eighties, but like 80 percent of the girls I knew who were, her name is Jennifer. She moved desks a few days after I met her, out of sight, out of mind.

What typically keeps me from introducing myself to people is that I feel like I need an excuse. I don’t want to be (anymore awkward0. With Jennifer, it was telling her I liked her style. However, with the other new girl who just started last week, my excuse was she was my counterpart at the other journal we publish. I made myself available for questions, and I did the unthinkable: I asked her out to coffee.

(I don’t think I should have to say this, but I’m going to say this anyway to clear up any potential confusion: this was not a date. I’m ace, and she’s getting married in March. This was a friend date at the most.)

But what really alarmed me was when the boss’s boss’s boss put out a call for the Pumpkin Carving Committee. I volunteered, only to find out that all of the other volunteers knew I was an artist. (I photocopy pages from my sketchbook and hang them up in my cubicle, but I didn’t think anyone noticed.) So not only am I a part of a work-related fun activity, but I kind of took charge. I gathered everyone’s email addresses and contact the group with updates. Naturally, I designed it, marked it up for cutting, and also walked to the art store with the corporate credit card and bought paint. (Based on the recommendation of the gurus there, I purchased paint markers, which don’t dry out and are more convenient if I want to graffiti the place on my last day.)

I’m not going to do anymore to the pumpkin. As I told the committee, I’ve been hogging up the fun. My boss volunteered to gut, but no one is stepping up to give it a face. I am reasonably sure the pumpkin will go unfinished. But I don’t care because look what I did!

That begs the question, what has gotten into me?

Call It A Draw

I’ve been prepping for a while now, and I have one more pre-production task to do, but this weekend, I’m going to start working on my third comic (technically my seventh, but the other four were done roughly two decades ago). I’m looking forward to this. I’ve got a script that’s been broken into pages and panels, and a lot of the obnoxious stuff has been edited out. All I need to do is finish layouts before I pull out the Bristol boards.

I learned some lessons from the last two comics I did, and I want to incorporate them into this one:

  1. Don’t rush. I’m not on a deadline, and no one is clamoring to see it. I need to take my time on each page.
  2. Don’t settle. I have an eraser, and I can use it as much as I need to. I’m never happy with the art I finish because I’m frustrated or I just want to get it over with.
  3. Watch the eraser. I’ve come to realize that the larger erasers I’ve been using are smearing the paper. I need one I can control.
  4. Backgrounds, backgrounds, backgrounds. I need to put as much work into those as into what I’d rather be drawing. A good background is invisible, and an over-simplified or missing background is glaring.
  5. Most importantly, practice. If I don’t know how to draw something, I shouldn’t learn on the page.

On the last point, the first page of my new comic focuses on children. When you’re used to drawing adults, it’s tough to remember that they’re not miniature adults. Take this panel from acclaimed comic artist, John Byrne. These are toddlers.

Mindful of this, I gave it a try for myself (while also practicing how to do a playground and mountains, both which also feature on page 1). I did way better than acclaimed comic artist, John Byrne.

On the left is Max Fuentes, Criminal Mastermind of the Third Grade. To the right is his enforcer, Lisa Green.

Another problem I have is likenesses. My former neighbor, the eccentric bombshell Cleo, guest stard, so I gave that a shot (while also working on backgrounds). I still need to do her roommate, Brandyn, who also puts in an appearance, but I have plenty of time to practice until I get there.

No more excuses. Time for layouts so I can get started. Wish me luck!

$&*#)%!#$&^$#%^&!!!!

An Essay by Jeremiah Murphy

This is something that’s been low-grade bugging me for a while, and I’ve decided that I’m going to come right out and complain about it. I know several of you do this, which has stopped me from saying anything.

Before we go on, I want you to know that there are certain words I’ll never say, and they are all slurs. Most of them, I just don’t say at all. For example, there’s a seven-letter word that starts with W that refers to a person of Mexican heritage. I don’t say “W-word.” I don’t hint at it at all. There is no reason for me to say it, ever, so there’s no reason to bring it up, even obliquely.

In the case of a very bad word to refer to Black people, this one is so rooted in this culture that occasionally, you have to refer to it (hopefully without using it as intended), and “N-word” will do. There’s the case of the “R-word,” an attack on people with certain disabilities, I don’t use that word either, neither in its pure form or the abbreviated version. (Confession: in a moment of anger a few years ago, I used the real word to refer to Senator Tom Cotton, but that’s because he was acting like an R-word. I apologized to my audience immediately.)

There’s the “C-word,” the one that’s not that big a deal in the United Kingdom but is the worst word in America. I’ve never said the word aloud, but I’ve written it a few times in my novels, for shock comedic effect (like when I had a prim and proper mother call a ten-year-old girl a C-word). It’s best if you limit it to one C-word per novel. Other than that, there is no need for me to even say “C-word.”

You may have figured out my point, but I’m going to spell it out. If you’re not going to say or write it, don’t. It’s one thing to bleep out a word on Arrested Development. It’s another thing to bleep repeatedly for comedic effect. It’s yet another thing to be bleep out movie clips because YouTube’s draconian ratings system won’t let you monetize unless they can control your language. (There was one video I couldn’t get through because they bleeped out the word “sex.” In an essay about Ezra Miller.) But the people I’m complaining about aren’t even bleeping.

The aforementioned video about Ezra Miller put transcripts on the screen. When the word “sex” came up, which it did because it’s Ezra Miller, they spelled it like this: “s*x.” Why didn’t they just say sex? Are the potentially offended people supposed to read that and think, “That Ezra Miller person sure loves the saxophone”?

And that brings me to you. I see posts from friends and relatives where they will write f**k, and there’s no reason to censor the word “fork.” Sometimes they will go so far as to say “f*ck.” Why? I mean this sincerely, why? First off, why are you censoring yourself in the first place? Is it because you don’t want to say a bad word? You’re saying it. There is no difference between “fuck” and “f*ck.” It doesn’t fool people into thinking you’re not a bad person. You wrote “fuck.” Are you worried about offending someone? You said “fuck,” and they will be offended anyway, even if it’s a quote. The same goes for “s**t,” “a**hole,” “c*ck,” “d**k,” and, yes, I’ve even seen “c*nt.”

I have a potty mouth, and I have since I was a kid. In the musical Guys and Dolls, they extoll the virtues of the past by saying, “Good authors too who once knew better words; now only use four-letter words writing prose; anything goes.” I had a teacher in high school steal and read my journal and write in the margins that I cussed too much. So many people have told me that it’s a sign of laziness to use swear words. Well fuck all of you.

I can self-censor. I’ve don’t use the word at work. It is rare that I will make a Facebook post that has foul language in it (not counting my essays, in which anything goes). But I don’t understand what is so taboo about bad words. They’re a part of our language. They have rich meanings, and they’re very descriptive, not just in their literal sense or shock value. They even have very specific rules. For example, if you want to insert the word “fuck” into “absolutely” for emphasis, there is only one syllable it fits between. Otherwise, it’s like trying to say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious after you’ve had a root canal. I fantasize about using the word “fuckery” in a work email because there’s no other word that describes what I’m dealing with.

I’m not trying to turn you into potty mouths. I have friends who don’t swear, ever. (I did have a friend who never said fuck until the time he whispered it in my ear with no witnesses around, then denied it, just to fuck with me.) Most of the time, I don’t notice until they are about to say a swear word (mostly when quoting someone) and bleep themselves out. They don’t call me foul-mouthed for saying bad words, I don’t call them prudes for not. But one thing they don’t do is shut the “f*ck” up. They’ve made their commitment.

The people who write “f**k” understand the value of the word. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t use it. They’re not fooling anyone. You won’t commit to swearing, you won’t commit to not swearing, and that’s pretty weak. Say it or find some other way of expressing it. It’s time to sh*t or get off the pot.