How I write comics, by Jim Shooter

2008

I never want to do anything typical or standard. For instance, I didn’t feel the need to go any particular direction for any VALIANT title. For each new title, I went with the best idea we had at the time. All I cared about was making each one good, gutsy and groundbreaking. 

I start by thinking about events that might be in the story, the effects those events might have upon the characters and, conversely, how the characters would shape the events. I think about what is, or might be at stake, both in plot terms and in human terms. This is very much a freewheeling process—I play “what if…?” a lot and imagine recklessly. No thought, no idea is too far out at this stage. Nothing is out of bounds. Usually, I write down pages and pages of notes—ideas, snippets of dialogue that occur to me, character bits, scene ideas, real events from my own life that relate, events from the lives of people I know or have heard tell of that relate; whatever. I make lists of words or things that relate to the ideas that come up—for instance, if the story might involve the sea, I’ll probably make lists of nautical terms, fish, ships, etc. Free association. I do a great deal of research into the ideas that come up.  At first, the research is speculative—just poking around for more items to include in my notes and lists—but as I become more sure that something is going to end up in the script, the research becomes more focused. I even make sketches.  

While doing all of the above, I’m also thinking about what I have to say about the subjects that emerge. Do I have any insight I can offer? A new thought, a new way to look at something…or an “observation about the human condition,” as a former publisher I knew used to say. I’m not talking about building a corny moral into the story, or some stupid lesson; not just a stupid irony, or even a clever O. Henry-style irony. I’m talking about things that make the reader say, “I never thought of things that way before,” or “I’ve never seen anything like that before,” or “I know just how that character feels,” or “I understand that more deeply, or in a different way, now,” or…whatever.  

For instance, my Legion of Super-Heroes story, entitled “One Evil,” has a subplot about a leadership crisis. I know about such things from both sides—being the leader of an organization in difficult times and being a follower in such a situation. I have plenty to say about that subject, plenty of insights to offer. If I can convey to the readers something new via the characters involved, what they go through and the way they go through it, that’s a good thing.  

Those are the kind of things that can touch the reader, involve the reader and make a story personally meaningful. And, that’s the hard part. Often, I fail spectacularly. Once in a while, I think, I succeed. At least a few times in my life I’ve succeeded, apparently, because a few people have come up to me at conventions and told me that something I wrote moved them.

I remember stories Stan Lee wrote, that I read as a kid, that moved me, and how much they meant to me. It’s a wonderful thing. Rare, in my case, but wonderful. I keep trying.     

Solid structure is not formula—it’s effective communication.

Jim Shooter

Writing a story is architecture as well art. Once I have my ideas sorted out, I try my best to build a story using Aristotelian principles. Solid structure is not formula—it’s effective communication. Most great Western literature is built using Aristotelian principles, as are pretty much all television and movies.  

Summing it up, you need a good story to tell and the ability to tell it effectively.

My scripts are very detailed. I provide the artist a great deal of reference—photos, web links, even sketches, sometimes. I’ve seen some other writers’ “full scripts” that are less than 3,000 words for 22 comics pages. Mine are generally 12-15,000 words. I work things out pretty thoroughly. That doesn’t seem to stop some artists from high-handedly “interpreting,” though—and ignoring things, and just plain butchering things. Sometimes, what they do is extremely disappointing. “Look what they done to my song, Ma….”

When I started at Marvel in 1976, the common “wisdom” among many big-name editorial/creative people was that certain kinds of books “don’t sell.”  The genres on the “don’t-sell” list included Westerns, romance, science fiction, fantasy, comedy and more. What idiocy! Every time someone in my presence said anything like, “Science fiction books don’t sell,” or “Westerns don’t sell,” I would say, “Show me a good one!”  

Two former Editors in Chief of Marvel actually said to me that “good” books don’t sell!  Their opinion was that all the readers wanted (they referred to these generic readers as the fans from “Fudge, Nebraska”) was to see the Hulk slam the ground and make the shockwaves that knocked the soldiers over—again and again and again. They often cited lower-tier books like Jim Starlin’s Warlock, McGregor/Russell’s War of the Worlds and anything Chaykin did as “proof” that good books don’t sell. Again, what idiocy! I can give you dozens of reasons those books didn’t do as well as the Fantastic Four or the Amazing Spider-Man, none of which have to do with them being “too good.”

Sales of comics in the United States these days are generally pathetic. When I was EIC at Marvel, we’d cancel any title that fell near 100,000 copies a month. Our line average was around 300,000! Today, few books reach as high as 100,000 a month. Most mainstream books from major publishers scrape by with pathetically low sales numbers, many under 30,000.  Fortunately, the economics of the business have changed so that titles can survive at much lower sales figures than when I was at Marvel.  Small indies can hang on with sales of only a few thousand copies. This has opened up a lot of niches.

Therefore, today, the good news is that there is a much wider variety of genres available. The bad news is the same as before—too many books in every genre just aren’t good. “Show me a good one!” still applies.  

Some will tell you the reason for low sales is lack of distribution. Nonsense.  I believe that if there were comics racks in every store in America, it would make little difference. The overwhelming majority of comics published here are not only not good—they’re unreadable.  

The art in comics is generally better than ever, the writing is often clever and glib, but in spite of that, far too many comics are utterly impenetrable.  

Anyone can pick up almost any novel off of the rack—and they’re able to read it and understand it. Anyone can turn on almost any episode of any TV show—even if they’ve never seen that show before, they can get the gist and follow it. Anyone can go to almost any movie—and they can make sense of it. But if anyone other than a hardcore fan picks up a dozen comics at random off the rack, I’d be surprised if they could make sense of/understand/follow even one of them.  Even hardcore fans find many comics daunting to follow! 

The craft of comics storytelling is all but lost. A Who’s Who of industry bigshots have privately agreed with me when we’ve discussed exactly this subject, but it’s a tough problem to fix, given the often huge egos of the creators, general creative anarchy, and lack of trained editorial people. 

Good craftsmanship doesn’t inhibit creativity—it ignites creativity.

Jim Shooter

I had a similar problem when I became Editor in Chief of Marvel in 1978.  I slowly dragged the creators kicking and screaming toward better stories and especially better storytelling, and, oh, by the way, that led to Marvel surging to leadership of the industry—almost 70% market share—and a truly amazing era of incredible creativity! Good craftsmanship doesn’t inhibit creativity—it ignites creativity. Our VP of circulation used to say that the reason we were so successful, even if other companies out-promoted us, had better production values, marketed better, had more well-known characters, whatever, was that we “beat ’em between the covers.” Better stories better told.

Genre is the least of our concerns. We need to produce brilliant and accessible work—a lot of it, for a long time. 

When Watchmen came out, it brought a lot of new readers into comics shops.  They enjoyed Watchmen, thought, “Hey, comics are cool!  Who knew?”  They went looking for more good stuff. They were disappointed to find too few other accessible, entertaining things. We, as an industry, need to produce things that sweep the nation—and have more good things waiting for people who get swept up into comics. 

I think that a lot of what the big companies produce is driven by marketing concerns—foolishly. I think they’ve worn out the mega-crossovers and Crises. They need to think of something new. I think a lot of the indie creators worry about and hope for movie and merchandise deals way too much.  They should learn their craft and focus on that. Too many writers and artists spend too much time playing permutations—recycling old characters and old stories. We need to create! And, again, as an industry, we need to learn our craft.