The Hopeless Vendetta started life as the newspaper for a fictional island. These days, the site is a mix of fiction, whimsy, and news about other Hopeless, Maine projects.
Hopeless, Maine is a haunted island off the coast of America. It first put out its tentacles as a web comic and blog. This has since led to graphic novels, prose novels, poetry, live performance and more.
I’ve made a Hopeless Handbook to help people orientate themselves. Hopeless is a large, many tentacled entity lurching in at least three directions at any given time.
If you have questions the handbook doesn’t currently answer, please wave, and answers will be forthcoming.
The Hopeless Vendetta started life as the newspaper for a fictional island. These days, the site is a mix of fiction, whimsy, and news about other Hopeless, Maine projects.
It was, by Hopeless standards, a reasonably fine night. The fog had thinned, and there was only the faintest suggestion of rain on the breeze. High above, the bright autumn moon smiled upon the gentle gnii, their numbers much depleted these days, and ripped through the thin grey rags of mist with ease.
“By Jove, since arriving on Hopeless, I have never seen the moon shining quite so brightly,” exclaimed Reggie Upton.
Winston Oldspot nodded in agreement.
“I can even see Drury lurking over there by the ash trees,” he said. “I wonder what he’s up to?”
“Probably no good, knowing Drury,” said Reggie.
Drury was an old rogue, to be sure, but Reggie’s voice could not hide the affection he felt for the skeletal hound. The pair often accompanied Winston, the Night-Soil Man, on his rounds. Having no sense of smell, Reggie was one of the few people who could stand to be around him.
For once in his after-life, Drury was innocent of all mischief. His attention had been drawn to something odd, which seemed to be happening in the gap between the ash trees. To you or I there would be nothing obviously amiss, but there were hidden forces in action, and these are what Drury’s keen senses had picked up.
*
Far away, high in the Himalayan Mountains, Durosimi was preparing to meet – and hopefully control – a genuine Tibetan demon. The gomchen, Dawasandup, had given him instructions on how this might be achieved, and brimming with unfounded confidence Durosimi set off for the coniferous forest that lay not far from the village of Bajie, a length of rope slung around his shoulder.
Those of you who have read the tale ‘Welcome Home, Doc Willoughby’ will recall that Dawasandup had told Durosimi to put a noose around his neck and tie himself to a tree. After remaining there for three days and three nights, without food or water, the demon would come to him in the form of a tiger.
Most people would have immediately decided that this was maybe not the ideal manner in which to confront a demon, but Durosimi was not most people. Besides this, his knowledge of tigers was, at best, sketchy, never having actually seen one.
Twenty four long hours had passed and Durosimi was already feeling thirsty. The rope around his neck was beginning to chafe, and his stomach was rumbling. He really hoped that suffering all this discomfort would be worth it.
Suddenly there was a movement in the trees, some distance behind him. Durosimi knew that it was unlikely to be one of the villagers, as the forest was widely known to be the haunt of demons, and the locals wisely gave the area a wide berth. No, there was something large barging through the undergrowth. A cold shiver ran down the sorcerer’s spine; if this was the demon, he was early, and more to the point, sounded to be much bigger than Durosimi felt entirely comfortable with. Then a vast, but familiar, shape burst into view; it was Billy (or possibly Willy), one of the Yeti, the Spirits of the Glaciers, creatures whom Durosimi had met when he had first arrived in Tibet.
“You card-carrying imbecile,” raged Billy (or possibly Willy). “What on earth possessed you to think that you could get the better of a vicious tiger-shaped demon? You are the stupidest, most cretinous human I have ever encountered… a total arse, idiot and dull-brained bottom-feeder of the worst kind.”
Fortunately Billy (or possibly Willy) knew no English and Durosimi could not understand a word of whatever language it was that the Yeti spoke, so all that he heard was a series of barks and growls which he took to be expressions of delight that the huge creature had found him. What happened next, however, was less pleasing. Despite his fear and discomfort, Duroimi still had designs on nabbing a demon.
The Yeti snapped the rope tied to the Himalayan cedar as easily as if it were a spider’s web, then picked Durosimi up and tucked him neatly under his arm. The sorcerer started kicking and shouting in a manner reminiscent of an intransigent child reluctantly being taken to the dentist, but all to no avail. The Spirits of the Glaciers are a proud and ancient race, and they had promised their more diminutive cousin, Mr Squash the Sasquatch, that every last one of them would protect the humans whom he had brought to Tibet.
“It’s time to go home, little human,” growled Billy (or possibly Willy).
*
Drury leapt back fully six feet as the gust of icy wind issued through the gap in the ash trees. There followed a sudden flurry of snow, and the old dog slunk back even further as the immense figure of the Yeti appeared with Durosimi, now as limp as a rag-doll, dangling from his left hand.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie Upton, who, with Winston, had by now had caught up with Drury. “You look exactly as Frankie described you.”
Reggie was referring to his friend, Francis Younghusband, who had led a British expedition to Tibet in 1903.
The Yeti looked quizzically at Reggie.
“Sorry, dashed rude of me not to introduce us,” said Reggie, extending a hand. “I am so pleased to meet you. I’m Reginald Hawkesbury-Upton and this is my good friend, Winston Oldspot.”
The Yeti regarded the pair solemnly, twitched his nose at the strange scent that the younger human gave off, then held out a finger for Reggie to shake.
“I see you have returned Durosimi to us,” said Winston, eyeing the Yeti nervously. There were some strange creatures on the island but he had never seen anything quite this large. He made Mr Squash look like a dwarf.
“Is he dead, do you think?”
“No,” said Reggie. “It’s the effect that travelling through a portal which is meant exclusively for the use of Sasquatches- and apparently their close relatives – has on us mere humans. He’ll be back to his old, irritating self in a day or two.”
The Yeti laid Durosimi on the ground with surprising tenderness.
“Thank you. We’ll get him back to his house,” said Reggie.
The Yeti growled softly, turned, and disappeared into the ash trees, leaving a scattering of snow on the earth behind him.
“I wish I could have an adventure like that,” said Winston, with a faraway look in his eyes.
Reggie smiled wistfully.
“You and I both, old chap,” he said.”But somehow I can’t see Mr Squash opening up that portal again in a hurry.”
He looked down at the still figure of Durosimi sprawled on the earth.
“Come on. Let’s get this fellow home and into his bed.”
Mr Squash did not hear of Durosimi’s return until the following morning.
“Thank goodness things are back to normal,” he thought. “I’m beginning to feel that I am doing this island no favours by staying here. As long as I am on Hopeless there will always be people wanting to escape through my portals. It’s definitely time for me to move on, and anyway, I have neglected my old haunts for far too long.”
Just then Philomena Bucket and Drury came out of the front door of The Squid and Teapot. On seeing Mr Squash Philomena gave a cheery wave and Drury wagged a bony tail. The Sasquatch raised a hand in acknowledgement, turned, and walked into the mist, trying to ignore the tears welling up in his deep, wise eyes.
This October, we’re celebrating our goblins. As you’ve probably noticed, Hopeless, Maine goblins are beings who assemble themselves, and each other, from whatever comes to hand. Their ability to animate themselves is disconcerting.
We invite you to make your own goblin. As you can see from the above image, the odds are good that your kitchen already has everything you need to create a goblin of your own. Sticks, rocks, and shiny things are also a good bet.
If you take photos of goblins that we could share, that would be wonderful, please waft them our way. Hit the comments if you don’t have any other means of getting in touch.
Goblins can also be drawn, cobbled together with image software, collaged out of printed images or exciting combinations of the above. Please no AI. We want to celebrate creativity, and offer a space where anyone would be able to join in. No one needs AI to do something creative.
During the kickstarter, Tom Brown contacted me about his intentions regarding Hopeless, Maine. He’s not been an active contributor to the project since the final book came out this time last year, and he had not been involved with the blog for a lot longer than that.
(I thought I’d illustrate this post with a little cartoon I did years ago – Tom Brown as a spoonwalker.)
Tom Brown has stated that he does not want to be involved in any way moving forward, but he is happy for people to continue Hopeless, Maine without him.
It’s good to have the clarity. I feel this opens things up for us and for anyone interested in future Hopeless, Maine projects. In the coming weeks, I will be overhauling this site and our social media to reflect these changes. We have three people in the team who are going to take up more of the art side. Anyone who would like to be part of that is welcome to get involved – be that with photos, as a maker, or any kind of visual art that doesn’t involve AI.
We’ve got some exciting plans for October – and there will be news of that here very shortly. It’s something you can easily get involved with and it should be a lot of fun.
Hopeless, Maine has always been bigger than the sum of its parts. As James Weaslegrease pointed out, this is not the beginning of the end for the island. It is the end of the beginning. Now we watch to see what all those fascinating wriggly egg sacks have inside them…
Doc Willoughby blinked and gazed warily around the room. It certainly looked like his home, but life had been so strange these last few weeks that he was inclined to trust nothing and no one.
“Ah, you’re finally awake.”
The Doc strained to see who was addressing him, but he seemed to be alone.
“Who’s there?” he asked nervously.
The grey early-evening light took on an ominous shimmer as the ghostly shape of Granny Bucket slowly materialised before him.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, grumpily.
Under other circumstances Granny might have swiftly fired back a barbed comment but, with great restraint, she let it pass today.
“How long have I been unconscious?’ he asked.
“I don’t know,” confessed Granny, “But you were discovered by Mrs Beaten a few nights ago.”
“Mrs Beaten?” Doc looked aghast.
“Yes. You were sitting in her privy,” said Granny, deciding not to go into details, but only because she had promised not to.
“The last thing I remember was being scooped up by something that looked like a huge, hairy snowman,” said the Doc. “Then everything becomes hazy.”
“Things must have been hazy long before that, if you think you were abducted by a snowman,” said Granny.
Her knowledge of the fauna peculiar to the mountainous regions of the world began and ended with the denizens of MacGillycuddy’s Reeks, so, unsurprisingly, she had never heard of the Himalayan Yeti.
Doc didn’t reply. Maybe she was correct and he had been hallucinating.
“I think I need some air to clear my head. A brisk walk to The Squid should do it.”
Doc was barely ten minutes down the road when a surprised Mr Squash crossed his path.
“You’re back!” he exclaimed.
“So it would seem,” observed the Doc, drily.
“Ah… it must have been The Spirits of the Glaciers,” said Mr Squash. “My cousins are good sorts, and they have saved me a trip back to Tibet.”
“Maybe not,” replied the Doc. “Durosimi is still there. He’ll need rescuing.”
He related to the Sasquatch how Durosimi had wandered off, hoping to talk to some hermit fellow or other, and had not come back.
“Knowing Durosimi, I can only imagine that he went looking for the gomchen, Dawasandup,” growled Mr Squash, “and if he finds him, that is not good news.”
“Why not?” asked the Doc.
“Anyone crossing Dawasandup is likely to be chewed up and spat out, possibly literally. Durosimi is little better than a child with a magic set compared with the gomchen. On the other hand, if he acquires even a fraction of Dawasandup’s power we could all be sorry.”
“So what are you going to do?” asked the Doc.
Mr Squash frowned at him.
“Absolutely nothing,” he said. “ I have no intention of scouring Tibet in search of him. If he wants to come back, he can find his own way.”
‘But…” began the Doc.
“But nothing,” said the Sasquatch coldly. “If, by some chance, Durosimi is still alive it means that the gomchen has wished it so, and in that case Hopeless will be better off without him.”
*
Seth Washwell was holding court from his favourite chair, in the snuggery of The Squid and Teapot, relishing the fact of his having been the sole witness of Doc Willoughby returning to the island in the arms of a Yeti.
“They were big,” he said to his audience. “They must have been twice the size of old Squashy.”
“Careful he doesn’t hear you call him that,” said Philomena, “or you might end up being a bit squashy yourself.”
“They sound just like the chaps Frankie Younghusband encountered,” said Reggie Upton, enthusiastically, recalling the expedition his friend led to Tibet in 1903.
Seth took a long swig of Old Colonel. “I hear that they eventually put the Doc in Mrs Beaten’s privy,” he said.
“The less said about that the better,” said Philomena, who had been sworn to secrecy, as had everyone else whom Mrs Beaten had encountered.
*
Meanwhile, half a world away, Durosimi squatted uncomfortably in the small dark chapel that Dawasandup called home. The single room was lit at one end by a tiny window. Incense sticks burning in a niche mingled their fragrance with that of tea and melted yak butter. The gomchen sat upon a pile of threadbare, faded cushions, and gazed at Durosimi with cold eyes. The young monk, Tenzin, who had agreed to be Durosimi’s translator, stood trembling in a corner.
“If you seek wisdom, do not expect explanations,” said the gomchen. “Learn through experience.”
Durosimi nodded, keen to know more.
“There is a place, not far from here, haunted by a demon,” said Dawasandup. “Only by defeating him will you gain his power.”
“I can deal with demons,” thought Durosimi. “There are plenty on Hopeless.”
“You must put a rope about your neck and tie yourself to a tree, remaining there for three days and three nights, without food or water. Be warned, only the strong will survive this encounter, but the rewards are great.”
In Durosimi’s experience, while demons might look ferocious, they held little sway over a magician such as himself.
“I can do this,” he said, “but how will I recognise the demon when it comes?”
“Oh, you will recognise him,” said Dawasandup, with a smile that was less than reassuring. “He always chooses to take the shape of a tiger.”
Durosimi had never seen a tiger in the flesh and, due to their complete absence on the island, he had displayed no interest in learning anything about the creatures. He vaguely recalled that one of his books referred to them as ‘big cats’. That didn’t sound too daunting. What could possibly go wrong?
Frampton Jones was one of the first characters I added to the Hopeless, Maine cast list. He’s the island’s journalist. Back before there was even a webcomic, The Hopeless Vendetta existed as the island’s newspaper, getting Hopeless in front of people. When the comics started appearing as a webcomic, The Vendetta went out in parallel, adding extra dimensions to the tale.
Frampton soon started having his own tales and adventures alongside reporting what was going on. He was the person who first identified the existence of spoonwalkers. It’s hard to imagine now that there was time when islanders had no idea where all their spoons had gone.
He’s a high profile islander, with neatly starched collars that make Mrs Beaten weak at the knees. Frampton considers himself to be a serious journalist, dedicated to the truth. Other people have called him delusional, a rumour-monger, and have suggested that he often has no idea what’s really going on. Given how weird and complicated Hopeless is, and how rarely anyone can agree on what it was that emerged from the clouds, or the sea, or the ground, his is hardly an easy task.
To produce a newspaper, Frampton is obliged to recycle paper on a regular basis. He’s strident about people not using his newspaper for lavatorial purposes. He also has a big blackboard outside his home that islanders can use as a message board or to give feedback. By this means, what happens on the internet can also be fitted in to island life. I have spent a lot of time trying to make all of this make some kind of sense.
Semblance of Truth tells the tale of Frampton’s descent into madness. (Raise your hand if you’ve read too much H.P. Lovecraft.) Frampton owns a camera, and by clever means is able to develop film – this is how The Vendetta gets its pictures. This is one of those times when I have to ask that you please suspend your disbelief for the steampunk elements in the plot.
Frampton finds that what the camera sees is not what he sees, and this rapidly becomes complicated. I do usually try and explain or justify how things work on the island – for my own sanity at the very least. Sometimes we have to just accept that weird items wash in on these peculiar shores, and that said items may be possessed by entities too terrible to describe. The great thing about entities too terrible to describe is the way they let a beleaguered author off the hook in matters of feeling obliged to try and describe them or explain beyond their innate terribleness, how they actually get anything done.
So, it’s a terrible, possessed camera – clearly too terrible to describe, too eldritch to explain etc etc.
In which Keith Errington has things to say about the next Hopeless, Maine book to come out.
Our Welcoming Committee
A big thank you to all our kickstarter backers, whether you are a previous backer of a Hopeless, Maine project or a new vic… I mean… new bloo… err… newbie! Welcome to the island.
Even if you are a long-time fan of Hopeless, Maine you might not be entirely familiar with all the characters featured in the books, so we thought you might appreciate this wonderful illustration of the cast of Book One: Personal Demons created for an exhibition in Osaka, Japan.
Pay particular attention to the fellow in the bowler hat, third from the right, that’s Frampton Jones, proprietor, editor, journalist and photographer and solely responsible for the Hopeless, Vendetta, and he is the reason we know so much (so little?) about the island.
Now, for the first time, his story is told in Semblance of Truth, a novella that is currently only available through this Kickstarter.
“His quest for the truth exposes him to strangeness at every turn. Now someone is leaving him messages written with the remains of fish. The island’s spoon thief may be using his home as their hideout. His camera is probably possessed by something unspeakable. Trying to make sense of the things he encounters is an ongoing flirtation with madness.”
Semblance of Truth is set at about the same time as the first Hopeless, Maine graphic novel (Personal Demons) and fills in some of the background for that story while also expanding on the peculiarities of life on a gothic island.
At the moment you can only obtain Semblance of Truth by pledging at the Everything Hopeless! level, which is one of the more pricy pledge levels, but when you consider you also get the New England Gothic/Oddatsea novel, pdfs and hardback versions of Books One, Two, and Three it’s really quite a bargain. (Remember, you can update your pledge at any time until the project ends – here’s how to update your pledge on the app.)
Finally, we can only get your lovely Hopeless, Maine goodies into your hands if we fund, so please remember to share the project – tell all your friends, family, work colleagues, any influencers you know, people in the street, your arresting officer and any demons you may be personally acquainted with.
Reggie Upton had certainly been in fine voice, this evening.
Walking unsteadily home from a particularly satisfying night at The Squid and Teapot, Seth Washwell smiled to himself at the memory. After a few pints of Old Colonel, Reggie was always good for a tune or two. As usual, tonight’s songs were from his army days, and one in particular had lodged in Seth’s mind. Now, how did it go…?
“I left the line and the tented field
Where long I’d been a lodger.
A humble knapsack on my back,
A poor, but honest soldier…”
You had to laugh, though. Seth couldn’t imagine that Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton had ever been required to carry a knapsack on his back, humble or otherwise. But it didn’t matter; old Reggie was not only a good friend, but an excellent drinking companion.
Seth had probably downed more Old Colonel than was good for him, but it would take more than a few pints of ale to get him drunk; he could definitely walk a straight line without stumbling. At least, this is what he told himself, until an icy blast bowled him over as easily as if he had been a wooden skittle. Dazed, he scrambled to his feet with difficulty, sliding about uncomfortably in a puddle of slushy snow.
“That shouldn’t be there,” he mused, and he was not wrong. Until that moment Seth had been happily wandering through a fine, albeit misty, evening in early fall. By Hopeless standards the weather had been positively balmy, but now, from nowhere, a bitter winter wind, with snow upon its breath, was weirdly raging through a gap between the ash trees.
“Well, that’s sobered me up,” thought Seth, but immediately revised his opinion when a vast, white figure, fully fifteen feet tall, appeared.
“I’m going to give up the booze, I’m hallucinating,” he thought. “But why am I seeing an overgrown snowman in September?”
Before the thought had left his, admittedly befuddled, brain, the hallucination became doubly disturbing when yet another overgrown snowman materialised, apparently bearing a comatose Doc Willoughby in his arms.
In order to make sense of all that is going on, we must backtrack a few hours and travel some seven thousand miles in an easterly direction. We need to go to Tibet, where, you will recall, Doc Willoughby and Durosimi O’Stoat had been recently sojourning in a Buddhist monastery and, needless to say, outstaying their welcome.
I have no idea what the names of Seth’s identical ‘hallucinations’ might be, and even if I did, it’s unlikely that I would be able to pronounce them. So, for the sake of easy identification, I will refer to them as Billy and Willy. They belong to a species known to Tibetians as ‘The Spirits of the Glaciers’, but to the rest of us simply as ‘Yeti’.
When a sudden avalanche completely blocked the portal through which Mr Squash, the Sasquatch (a close relative of the Yeti) had taken the Doc and Durosimi to the high Himalayas, there had been a nagging worry that they would be marooned there forever. This, as you might imagine, would have tested the monks’ patience, not to mention their policy of non-violence, to the limit. Something needed to be done, and done quickly, so Billy and Willy had been given the job of removing the offending rocks, before things got entirely out of hand.
The work had taken next to no time to complete; the pair could throw huge rocks around with ease (indeed, rock-tossing has long been a favourite sport of the Yeti, as many a nervous Sherpa will testify). The next part of their task, however, was less easily accomplished. The abbot, or rinpoche, of the monastery suggested that, rather than waiting for Mr Squash to appear, Billy and Willy should waste no time in returning Doc Willoughby and Durosimi to Hopeless. This was easier said than done. You may remember from the tale ‘The Hilly Layers’ that Durosimi had gone to visit the gomchen, Dawasandup, and was nowhere to be found. Doc Willoughby, on the other hand, took fright at the prospect of being left in the care of the Spirits of the Glaciers, and hid under his bed. When he was eventually discovered it took little persuasion for a couple of monks to drag him out by the feet. As he scraped across the floor, Doc could not help but notice that the monks seemed to be enjoying their work a little too much.
Once through the portal, Billy and Willy wandered into Hopeless with a certain amount of trepidation. Yes, they may have been fifteen feet tall and weighed a ton and a half each, but they were strangers in a strange land, and, as you well know, there are few stranger lands than Hopeless, Maine. For a start, there was no snow. How could there be no snow? This was beyond their experience. There were no mountains, either, and the sky was obscured by mist. They looked in wonder at the things with tentacles that scurried out to observe them, and having registered that these large hairy creatures were not to be messed with, the things with tentacles hurriedly scurried back.
“Let’s get rid of this fellow and get back home,” said Billy. “I don’t like this place.”
Willy had to agree. He had just noticed the sea in the distance, and didn’t like the look of it at all.
“There’s a little shed over there,” said Billy. “We can put him in there. Someone will find him in the morning.”
Although the shed doorway seemed unnecessarily narrow, they managed to ease the sleeping Doc through the gap and onto a handy seat, which was perfect for their purposes. Having made sure that he was not going to topple over, the pair hurried thankfully back to the portal between the ash trees, confident that the Doc, who would probably be totally dormant for the next few days, had been deposited somewhere where he could be easily discovered.
Mrs Beaten had always strongly disapproved of chamber-pots, viewing them as being vulgar beyond words. Now, fast approaching the age when ‘calls of nature’ could occur at the most inconvenient times, she was beginning to regret this decision. Midnight on Hopeless is not the best time to be wandering to the end of the garden, but needs must. Luckily it was a moonless night, so even if someone was out and about at that late hour, they would not see her.
The darkness within the walls of the privy was positively stygian, but being a small space, and very familiar, she had no difficulty in negotiating her way in. With a sigh of relief, Mrs Beaten lifted her nightdress, and gently lowered herself onto the lap of the silently sleeping Doc Willoughby…
Author’s note: Should you be interested, the song that Reggie had been singing in The Squid and Teapot was ‘The Soldier’s Return’, a popular ballad adapted from a poem by Robert Burns, “When Wild War’s Deadly Blast Was Blawn.”
A wonderful hardback version of the graphic novel Sinners is now running as a project on Kickstarter.
Sinners is Book Three in the Outland hardback series and Book One: Personal Demons and Book Two: Inheritance are also available as pledges in the Kickstarter, as well as a hardback edition of New England Gothic and Oddatsea combined, the fabulous Tarot deck and a brand new novella, A Semblance of Truth.
In fact, this Kickstarter is the only way at the moment to get this new novella.
There are also limited edition pins and original artwork on offer.
For more information and to pledge, please head over to the Sinners Kickstarter page. Your support on this project would be most appreciated!
Early on in the life of this book, the working title was Sins of the Fathers – as that’s very much what’s driving the story. Specifically, the fathers of our main characters.
Salamandra O’Stoat is the daughter of a rather unpleasant occultist called Durosimi who – with more ambition than wisdom – has managed to become a vampire. With the whole vampire/consumption plot under way, Salamandra has the awkward issue of dealing with a problem that has probably been caused by her father.
Owen Davies is the son of Reverenced Davies and we’d be getting into the realm of plot spoilers if I told you too much about his plot line through this book. Fair to say that none of it is easy for Owen as his father does something truly terrible.
If you’re a regular on the blog, you’ll mostly know the fathers from their regular appearances in The Squid and Teapot. here we find their more everyday selves. Reverend Davies tends to be austere and ineffectual, Durosimi is always plotting something but seldom gets what he wants. They’d both be a lot more harmful if they were competent, but thankfully most of the time they are not that effective. In Sinners, they both manage to cause a lot of harm.
Sinners represents the first of my writing on the Hopeless, Maine story. When I came to the project, Tom had already created a few pages in which Owen returned to the island and found a whole situation with consumption, and vampires. This draws on New England folklore that blamed consumption on vampires. I included Tom’s original story fragments in these graphic novels, and managed to weave them into a larger tale.
I’d written all kinds of things prior to Hopeless, Maine, but never a comics script. I had explored radio plays, so I drew primarily on this. Comics call for a really different approach to prose – you can’t have much narration, for a start. If you’re trying to describe scenes and action for an artist, you have to do that in a way that will sit on the page. At the outset, I didn’t have much sense of how anything was going to sit on the page, or how to pace things, or what anything should look like.
By the time these scripts were being translated into book form, I had more idea of how to make the text work. What came out in the Sloth editions was greatly pared down from the first draft. As a younger writer, I tended towards longer and more wandering sentences. Characters were circumspect, their intentions obscure, their speech misleading. I was all about the ambiguity. Frankly there’s only so much of that you can get away with in a comics page. I kept what I could of the flavour, but sometimes I had to cut the script to the bone and focus on getting the story across.
Comics are not my natural habitat. I’m too interested in the inner lives of characters, in thought and feelings, and as a young writer, I wasn’t big on action. As I’ve got older, the amount of action in my stories has increased considerably. Shedding literary pretentions like the dead skins they were, has helped a lot. Having more life experience has helped a lot too. There was such a long time between the first draft and the final script that I changed a lot as a writer along the way.
Initially, I wrote Hopeless (starting with Sinners) as a single script, because it looked like it was going out into the world as a webcomic. Also I had no idea how much script represented a page, or how big a book ought to be. I really had no idea what I was doing. That lead to a later process (when I did know what I was doing) of breaking the story into book length chunks, and then figuring out chapters, and specific pages. It took a lot of work, time, learning and thinking. I went from having no clue as to how a graphic novel works structurally, to having a pretty good idea.
I occasionally have thoughts about doing a small comic on my own – so far I’ve not got beyond three or four beat comic strips, but it might happen.
