Cartoonist & Writers Diary V

No Spring Chicken

Today I decided to go and have a wander through my woodland to see what Autumn was doing to the leaves, when all of a sudden, about 20 yards to my left, I espied a magnificent pheasant who was just standing watching me.

He stood fixedly against a backdrop of golden brown hues as a gentle breeze ruffled his feathers. He looked majestic. He looked regal. He looked at one with his world.

Slowly I took my camera out, zoomed in and reeled off a few shots. The pheasant, sensing I was no threat, started walking over to me, cawing gently: I couldn't believe my luck.

As it got closer I continued to take photo after photo after photo and still it kept on coming.

When it actually came up to about two feet from me I switched to the video, making the most of the 'Attenborough' moment; still it continued cawing and rooting around as I calmly assured it that I meant no harm.

It froze, fixed me with a gimlet eye then my whole world turned to spit and feathers.

The pheasant went ballistic; rising into the air like a seriously miffed Phoenix with open wings, and oh boy those wings were big, bigger than I thought they would be. I tried to fend him off but he was having none of it. I was on his land and he was going to evict me.

I screamed and flapped and swore, and at one point I think I even told him this was my land and I had the deeds to prove and and he didn't?

Not being able to follow my cutting legal logic my attacker carried on his relentless assault and within a short period of seconds he had gained more land than the British army did in two weeks at Passchendaele.

I realised that if I didn't do something fast I was about to crash into the road and ran the risk of getting flattened by a passing car, and it was only the thought that my death certificate would read: Death my pheasant attack that I was spurred on to greater things. So I picked up a stick and started beating him back.

After what seemed like an age and a battle that would've inspired the gods to poetry I eventually pushed him over a precipice that led to the lower quadrant of my forest. He hovered in mid air, beating those fearsome wings, cawed one more time, his eyes raging with the fury of his dinosaur ancestors then turned and flew down to the woodland below.

I rested against a tree, fighting to get my breath back while he just looked up at me with an expression that said:
"Kicked your ass didn't I?!"

As I walked away, a little shaky, I thought:

'I don't believe it, I've just been mugged by a bird'. Is this even possible?

Dear reader, this is a cautionary tale. Nature is red in tooth and claw out there and should be taken further than simply at face value. 

It's all well and good when you are driving aimlessly about the countryside from the security of you towns or cities, and when you come across pretty birds wandering about, you automatically 'coo' and 'ah'. But don't be fooled by these little subversives. Don't let their rustic and seemingly harmless demeanour fool you, these little thugs are the skinheads of the countryside and have the skill sets and dead eye expressions that wouldn't look amiss on a Taliban enforcer.

If you like what you see, and want to see more, then please sign up to my email list and have every blog notification sent direct to your email box, assuring that you'll never miss a single post ever again.

I sincerely hope you enjoyed this post. If you did then please share it like a demented sharing person and keep coming back for more of the same, and a whole lot besides.

So where do you get all your ideas from? II

If there is one question that all cartoonists get asked more than anything else its 'Where do you get your ideas from?' and frustratingly enough its the one question we really don't have a concise, go-to answer for. So we tend to roll out stock answers every time the question arises.

So in this, the second post of my new, semi-regular feature: So where do you get your ideas from, I intend to have a crack at answering this question, one cartoon at a time.

I still wont be able to give you a definitive answer to the perennial question, but what I can do is show you a cartoon I've already produced and talk you through the process from blank page to finished illustration. 

Like I said: it's not a cover all answer, but with every example I show you, you will probably get a better viewpoint as to how these mystifying little things get created. I may even seek out guest cartoonists to take you through their gag writing process.


So without further ado, lets get into it.

Once again I'll be using one of my NoodlePates cartoons to illustrate the process. NoodlePates is a regular cartoon feature I draw and post mainly on my Facelessbook page and update here from time to time on, the Diary of a Cartoonist & Writer.

As winter turns to spring, a young man's fancies turn to NASA...they don't? okay so it's just me then is it?...Again...and yes I do know it's Autumn and not spring so I guess the whole analogy thing fell down---thank you for letting me know.

Ahem...let us begin again.

I was staring out of the window looking not unlike an inmate from 'One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest' (see why I chose the first analogy?), when my mind started to wander. This feeling, or sensation, is how I personally recognise the arrival of the 'gag writing muse'.

I stay perfectly still and I let it randomly select a subject---ching---then a scene--ching---then comes the anomaly ching-ching

Now it's the anomaly that ultimately gets the gag, because it is the discrepancy in any situation that will usually lead to the oddity that leads to the gag. But that said, you cannot have an anomaly without first having a subject and then a scene. So the anomaly is a little like the straight guy in a double act; without the straight guy, the comedian is simply not as funny.

Clear? Good. Lets move onto dissecting this baby.

I was looking out of the window, as stated before, and my mind turned to what's up there that we cant see, y'know, what is floating about that we put up there. Then my mind started thinking about big brother and the state spying on us via a billion and one satellites, then I got a little paranoid and fled to my lead-lined cubbyhole with the kettle and 4,000 tins of peaches, sardines and assorted crisp packets. After that I donned my tin foil hat and proceeded to eliminate myself from the internet...AGAIN!!!

Okay, maybe that didn't happen, but paranoia is a powerful thing when you have an over active mind.

No, what really happened was my mind shifted from  what's up there to who put them up there: NASA...Ching! the subject.

Then I thought about what NASA is most famous for: Rocket launches...Ching! Now I have the scene.

Then all that was left was time to start looking for that elusive Ching-Ching moment--the anomally.

In this case I imagined the rocket ready for launch. Then I thought about the pilots sitting in there, all nerves and expectations. Then my mind moved onto their training and the millions that NASA had invested in them, and finally I thought about the tech guys.

Now when these brianiacs came into my mind I started to remember the theory I have that incredibly clever people often ruin their brilliant ideas with an act of breathtaking stupidity by adding something very dumb---last minute and without telling anyone---just because they can.

Then I though: what if in that super-heated moment of numptiness/brilliance they added a reverse stick.

Then I thought about the poor astronaut, completely unaware of this new addition and still looking around the cabin in an attempt to calm his nerves.

Then I imagined him spotting the gear shift with the big 'R' on it.

Then I thought: What would I think if I were in his position and suddenly presented with an object that wasn't mentioned on any of the days of rigorous flight school training?

Then I realised exactly what I would think. I would think:

"Hmmm, I wonder what this does?" 

And in an equally crazy moment of human numptiness I would hit it. Just to see what it would do.

Then...Ching-Ching! We have just hit eureka, Huston. I have my moment. I have my anomally, and you have a new NoodlePates cartoon.

Like I say, this may not be how everyone reaches their gag nirvana and it isn't how I always reach mine. But more often that not, this is how it happens for me.

Hope you liked what you read, if so please leave a comment and keep coming back as I will be doing more of them.

Hopefully, and if I can talk any of them into it, I will be coaxing other cartoonists to let you in on their eureka moments.

Speaking of NoodlePates, next week I'll be putting up some new samples and talking about an exciting new project for me that hopefully you will like to. So see you next week.

If you like what you see, and want to see more, then please sign up to my email list and have every blog notification sent direct to your email box, assuring that you'll never miss a single post ever again.

I sincerely hope you enjoyed this post. If you did then please share it like a demented sharing person and keep coming back for more of the same, and a whole lot besides.

A New Sleepy Hamlet Short Story---OUT NOW!

Well the post header just about says it all.

Yes I have produced a new Sleepy Hamlet short story and I've just started letting people know of its existence.

You can go to its Amazon page by clicking on the image on your left or by doing the same on the My Store tab.

Sleepy Hamlet-Invasive Action

When Mrs Markle, the village post mistress and head puritan, discovers an invasive patch of Himalayan Balsam Weed growing on the banks of the River Brimsmal---right on the edge of the grounds belonging to the country seat of Lord and Lady Hamlet---she enrols the massed ranks of the village idiot elite along with the extremely easily led Lord Hamlet, to join her in its removal.

But when Mrs Heppleheimer---an octogenarian Bavarian barm-pot who is the scourge of the village and its surrounding areas---brings along her Himalayan Balsam Weed Eradicator, or 14lb Mountain Howitzer Cannon as everyone else calls it, all hell breaks loose. This crazy old lady blasts trees, plants, shrubs, bushes and at least three quarters of a newly arrived party of spawning salmon out of the water.

Add to this a villager led rush on cotton wool, the belief that the village is under attack by aliens and a village hall meeting that turns into a battle ground between the Lord of creation and the Norse gods, and you have just another typical 24 hours in the life and times of the Villagers of Sleepy Hamlet.

So now that I've told you a little bit about the tale---whetted your appetite, so to speak--- all that's left for you to do is, read the taster sample below then hop on over to Amazon, form an orderly queue, hand over your 99p and disappear into the eccentric world of my mind and the Village of Sleepy Hamlet.

Enjoy, my friends.

 Invasive Action

1

Mrs Markle, the village post mistress, stomped heavily down the street that ran through the village of Sleepy Hamlet. She cornered violently and turned into her post office causing the little bell to spasm with shock.

“SOMETHING JUST HAS TO BE DONE!” she shouted to Miss Vera, her frightened little field mouse of an assistant. “This simply cannot be allowed to continue; the very existence of the countryside is threatened and from a foreigner. A foreigner, I tell you, and the very worst kind of foreigner ---an invasive foreigner!” She stood, stock still like a frizzy haired Mussolini, hands on hips in the middle of the fruit preserves section with her herculean bosoms quivering like two very angry jellies.

As usual, Mrs Markle had spotted something on her afternoon walk that had offended her to the very core of her being; not a difficult thing to do when you had a fuse as short as Mrs Markle’s and were a puritan, and as such felt it your moral duty to become agitated at least four times a day.

“Well, aren’t you going to ask me what I’m so fired up about?”

Miss Vera didn’t want to ask. She knew that it would lead to an out pouring of futile anger and frustration on behalf of her employer. She knew that if she asked ‘what was the matter’ Mrs Markle would stomp around the store, shouting so loud the shops’ mullioned windows would vibrate, her ears would ring and her nerve endings would jangle. But she also knew that to deny Mrs Markle her valve releasing moment of fury was tantamount to mutiny. So she gulped the gulp of the nervously dispositioned and enquired:

“What is upsetting you, Mrs Markle?”

“HIMALAYAN BALSAM WEED!”

The sudden outburst sent Miss Vera crashing into a display of Arran Island Knitting Patterns, causing them to scatter.

Mrs Markle ignored her shrew like assistant as she scrambled around, picking up the slippery plastic pattern cases, while attempting to re assemble the stack. Instead Mrs Markle stomped and stamped her way around the shop, snorting like a bull at her inner turmoil.

“HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW INVASIVE HIMALAYAN BALSAM IS?” Miss Vera shrugged her shoulders and gave Mrs Markle a weak smile before continuing with her re construction duties.

“DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT HIMALAYAN BALSAM IS, MISS VERA?!” Once again, the timid shop assistant shrugged her shoulders in the universal expression of ignorance.

“Well I’ll tell you what Himalayan Balsam is, Miss Vera. IT’S AN INVASIVE RIVER WEED OF THE FAMILY IMPARTIENS WALLEREIANA--- A PLANT THAT USED TO BE CONTENT TO LIVE IN THE PLANT POTS OF A GRATEFUL AND JOYOUS NATION. THAT WAS UNTIL THE LITTLE SUBVERSIVES GOT BITTEN BY THE NOMADIC BUG AROUND 100 YEARS AGO AND MOVED ONTO THE NATIONS RIVERBANKS AND BEGAN A CHOKING COLONISATION OF THEM. AND ON MY WALK TODAY I NOTICED THAT A LARGE GROUP--- PROBABLY AN ADVANCE SCOUTING PARTY---- HAS TAKEN UP RESIDENCE ON THE FAR BANKS OF OUR VERY OWN RIVER BRIMSMAL!”

And with a petulant huff worthy of an over pampered pop star, Mrs Markle stormed off to the back of her village store

Miss Vera, who had tightened her eyes against the tirade, slowly began to open them. Gingerly, she opened the right, then the left. She began to slowly scan the room; all appeared to be quiet on the western front. She looked again---just to be sure---and having satisfied herself that everything was as it should be, she turned her attention to where her employer had been standing but a scant few seconds ago.  But Mrs Markle was no longer there.

She began to scan the shop again, just in case this unlikely vessel for fun and frivolity had decided to hide in the shop with the express intention of leaping out upon the unprepared Miss Vera with blow ticklers a-plenty and party hats set upon her ginger frizziness--- at a rakish angle, of course--- and then fill the previously leaden atmosphere of the village stores and post office with a hearty ‘Hey-Ho!’ an ‘Avast ye swabs’ and positively oodles of joie de vivre. But it was only when she heard the familiar noises of the little hand printer being pumped into action that she raised her eyes heaven wards and sighed.

Mrs Markle had inherited a small hand printing press from her grandfather who had run a successful print business and Village Newspaper many years ago out of what was now the village stores. Mrs Markle lovingly looked after the antique Adana print press and made great use of it for her many leafleting campaigns on behalf of the damned and gossipy souls of her fellow villagers.

Miss Vera put the last few knitting patterns away and followed the ‘chugga-kachugga-kachuga-kachuga’ noises into the back room. When she peered around the door frame Mrs Markle was violently pumping the printer and churning out a hastily prepared leaflet. One of them came out at such a velocity that it cleared the collection tray and flew towards Miss Vera before halting mid air and dropping to a soft landing where it slid along the sparkling storeroom floor to a halt at the sensible shoes of Miss Vera. She picked it up and read.

NOTICE TO ALL VILLAGERS.

WE ARE BEING INVADED BY FOREIGNERS

PLEASE COME TO THE VILLAGE

HALL TONIGHT TO DISCUSS TACTICS!

A TALK TO BE GIVEN BY MRS MARKLE

Free cup of tea and individual

Cherry Bakewell on entry

8 til late

Miss Vera would have liked to tell her employer that the leaflet was a bit over the top and that the language used was a tad emotive. But before she could pluck up the courage to put voice to these concerns, she was being brushed aside by Mrs Markle who had grabbed the freshly printed bundle of flyers and was heading towards the door.

“Mind the shop for me will you, Miss Vera, I’m off to distribute these around the village” and before she could raise a finger of enquiry, the door had been opened, slammed shut again and the booted feet of Mrs Markle were disappearing into the village.

Miss Vera looked at the leaflet again. ‘Oh my’ she thought ‘I just know this isn’t going to end well’

The afternoon rolled on and the villagers began to file into the store in ever larger numbers to discover more about the invasion force that was being unleashed against them. Mrs Markle held court but stayed tight lipped, insisting that yes, they really were under attack and yes she would explain all later and yes there really was going to be Cherry Bakewell’s (the official pudding of Sleepy Hamlet) with their cup of tea and no, Mr Barton couldn’t have an extra one for his wife who would’ve loved to come but was too busy grouting the bathroom walls. She even managed to keep the terrifyingly Germanic Mrs Heppleheimer at bay, who’d turned up prepared for war--- resplendent in her World War 1 helmet topped off with the spike--- and her steel toe-capped fluffy slippers. But to each and every one of them Mrs Markle remained resolute in her tight lippedness, insisting that they all wait until that night to hear all the facts.

If you like what you see, and want to see more, then please sign up to my email list and have every blog notification sent direct to your email box, assuring that you'll never miss a single post ever again.

I sincerely hope you enjoyed this post. If you did then please share it like a demented sharing person and keep coming back for more of the same, and a whole lot besides.

Parting is such sweet sorrow

Sometimes you just have to let go. And this week I learned all about that.

I have been planning for the new year, cartoon and publishing wise, and had what I thought was the whole package sown up. How wrong I was.

I have been drawing, redrawing, writing, drafting and formatting Pixy Wood in one shape or form for over thirty years. I have tried it as a comic strip, a single panel feature, greeting cards, children's books and most recently a webcomic.

But every time some new wall just plonks itself unceremoniously in front of me with out any warning and says
'Hey, I'm a wall and there ain't no getting around me.'
The final straw was when I announced on Facelessbook that I was about to launch the strip in the new year---with what I thought was a bit of forward marketing--- but someone hot footed it over to GoDaddy and registered pixywood.com as a way of ripping my dreams to shreds.

How do I know they did this? Simple. The day before I marketed it, it wasn't taken and when I went to find out what the new site was I was re-directed to GoDaddy where they informed me that an unnamed broker had just purchased it but was
willing to sell me the name for around £1,000.00.

Way to go GoDaddy.

So I am giving formal notice that as of today I will be quitting my attempts at a Pixy Wood webcomic. I have other plans for it instead and will, of course keep you all informed. Just not on Facelessbook, where a greedy broker can cash in on my creativity again.

But that aside, here's the three pages I had completed before the broker put his capitalistic brick wall in front of me.

If you like what you see, and want to see more, then please sign up to my email list and have every blog notification sent direct to your email box, assuring that you'll never miss a single post ever again.

I sincerely hope you enjoyed this post. If you did then please share it like a demented sharing person and keep coming back for more of the same, and a whole lot besides.