Warren Ellis
British author of comic books and graphic novels.
We're deathly afraid of that stabbing word "pretentious," the word that students use to curse each other's ambition. It's a young person's word, a shortcut-to-thinking word. I'm a big fan of pretension. It means "an aspiration or intention that may or may not reach fulfillment." It doesn't mean failing upward. It means trying to exceed your grasp. Which is how things grow. [6/1/09]
During this week, I've been leaving the house only once a day, to clear my lungs before returning to my death bed. So I've been getting a single snapshot of the weather each day. And it's no wonder I'm fucking dying. Yesterday, blazing heat, not a cloud in the sky, people moving in slow motion under the oppressive radiation. Today? Black skies, pissing down with rain, gales turning people's umbrellas inside out. It'll be snow tomorrow. Or hot hail.
What I loved best about The West Wing is how the characters spoke. People would say, well, real people don't speak like that. And to this day I fail to understand why that matters.
Writing comics? Still the best job in the world. I sit around all day making shit up and see it illustrated, in 99% of cases, exactly as I imagined it, if not better. I've been doing this a long time now, and I'm going to do it until I die. Which probably won't be long, given the constant insane deadline pressure. But fuck it. Anything worth doing takes work. Some people do question if it's worth it, given that the industry makes no friends and takes no prisoners and is not kind to people without the chops or the commitment or a thick skin. You know what? I've got forty books out there that some people wear on their fucking skin, and I didn't manage that by arsing around on the internet all day. That's right. I managed it AS WELL AS arsing around on the internet all day. I have powers.
I am, in fact, Internet Jesus. Hurrah.
Chris Claremont once said of Alan Moore, "if he could plot, we'd all have to get together and kill him." Which utterly misses the most compelling part of Alan's writing, the way he develops and expresses ideas and character. Plot does not define story. Plot is the framework within which ideas are explored and personalities and relationships are unfolded. If all you want is plot, go and read a Tom Clancy novel.
"We're archaeologists. We'll dig you up and work it all out in a couple of years."
Finding a take on a female character is always hard, because I never want to find myself writing a man with tits, you know?
"You people came looking for a mystery. But there is none. There's just us."
"Did he say "Justice"?"
"No. Just us."
Bring back Christians vs Lions, that's what I say. That'd be some television. Don't lie to me. You only watch the Winter Olympics to see the skiers wipe out on the downhill slopes. I'd wear that shirt and go to the sports bar. "I'm a Lions fan!" "Me too!" "Have you ever met a Christians fan?" "Only in Oklahoma and South Dakota. But they say God invented lions anyway, so they're kind of torn. Which is funny, really, because that's what happens to the Christians on a Saturday afternoon anyway..."
My back is killing me. I can feel things moving around in it. It is a singularly unpleasant sensation. Almost as bad as watching Xmas television. Caught part of a documentary on the recording of "Fairytale Of New York" last night. What the fuck happened to Shane McGowan's head? It's shrunk.
Do yourself a favour, you tragic-looking old pisspot... go someplace and eat a lightbulb.
We crisscross the world, making it right, making it strange, and the people never see our coming or our going.
What a classy plane this is. I can almost hear the cellophane flapping in the windowframes.
And the end result is that at least several thousand people get exposed to the creativity of female readers for a change. Which I think is a good thing. And I get pretty pictures out of it, so I win. As ever.
Now, I am not a stupid man. I am aware that I am not dead. Believe it or not, this has not improved my day. I mean... there I was, laying in the empty shop that scally twatcoffin and Bloody Jack dragged me into to be eaten by rats. And that is a separate fucking conversation I'm going to be having with some people. Dead. And I thought... This is a bit shit, really.
Stopping off in the pub to recharge before heading into town to complete Phase Two Xmas Food Shopping. Phase Three is tomorrow, when we go to our butcher to pick up the goose, and stop off at the local beer specialist to get a case of heather ale and maybe some Samiclaus (sp), the superpowered Christmas beer that pours like treacle and paralyses the brain.
I will accept death as an alternative to the pain of being awake, at this point.
Does the Emperor wear no clothes? Or are you simply imagining him naked?
I have decided that I'm going to drink myself into a coma tonight. Join me?