Exactly 4 years ago, I wrote the first piece here. This is the 600th and final youdothatvoodoo blog. Nothing ever ends though, and in this case some of you will already be aware that I’ve started a new site, writebyyourside. It’ll still be me, and I’ll continue to write roughly the same mix as I’ve been presenting here. The difference? You’ll receive the pieces by signing up. And I’ll be changing the mix that I’ve established here. For one thing, I’ll be featuring occasional interviews with some of the writers, filmmakers and other creatives I’ve got to know, some of them since youdothatvoodoo started. And there’ll be a new focus on prose, which coincides with my renewed enthusiasm for short stories. One commission I really enjoyed a few months ago was for a short story, and I’m now reading more fiction again having spent a long time focusing on non-fiction other than in the form of comics.

Writebyyourside is also an exercise in adapting to the evolving situation for writers that the online world presents, and is itself still evolving as some fine-tuning takes place. I’ve bundled together nearly 200 pieces from youdothatvoodoo into two volumes, one on the craft of writing and the other with reviews written from a writer’s perspective. A third volume rounds the package out with previously unavailable scripts and treatments that are compiled with the intention of giving writers a practical idea what the industry expects. All of this has been done with the invaluable support of Edd Hillier, who is also responsible for the sound and music of the video at the new site.

Working with Edd is a good example of the way I approach the business of being a writer. For a start, it’s about recognising where your strengths are. And mine don’t include much in the way of computing skills. So, I reached out to Edd in the same way that I’ve approached producers and directors, with a view to making something happen. This comes under the heading of what many call networking, and which is second nature to those who flourish in the creative sector. It’s also, interestingly, a strategy that helps increase the quality of the work produced by all those within a network. The number and quality of ideas rises as people join forces, and that’s true whether you’re looking to make a feature film or do something online.

‘Something’ is the interesting word there, since it’s in the nature of what a lot of interesting people are doing online these days that there are no strict definitions and boundaries for what’s being brought to life. I was sent an email the other day by someone I’ve worked with in the gaming world, looking for beta testers and funding for a gaming experience that integrates a number of geographically-focused social media programmes into a realtime vampire-hunting game where people try and turn the tables on their supposed undead overlords. There’s something very interesting going on there, with participants using the same sort of suspension of disbelief that would typically be employed passively in front of a cinema screen to participate in a shared fiction.

I can only suggest that more of this will be happening in the future, as immersive media and gameplay and new uses of technology allow us to cast our imagination into the world. That’s part of the journey I’ve been on for a couple of years with artist Andy Tudor as we continue to develop a multi-platform concept including animation, games, and theme park attractions for a concept that we’re collaborating on, and which we’ve attracted the attention of a highly successful international entrepreneur with.

All of which is to say that writing is alive and kicking, and that there’s no shortage of opportunities for writers. In my case, I’m realising that I’ve got the makings of a businessman too, and it’s something I’d urge any writers reading to consider. The world is at a very interesting point right now. Rather than rely on dinosaur institutions which haven’t got your best interests at heart – whether they’re publishers, broadcasters, or studios – why not embrace the potential presented by the digital scene? As a warm blooded mammal with a brain, you’re more agile and adaptive than the lumbering beasts that have dominated the media landscape. It’s not so much about taking them on as doing your own thing, and enjoying the rewards.

Thanks to everyone who’s read, got in touch, and enjoyed. Here’s to a great 2012.

A woman discovers her husband is missing, presumed dead, just before Christmas. And sets about ensuring that her children – his children – have the best festive season ever. It’s a situation that could play out all kinds of ways. Broadly speaking, approaching it in fiction, there are two camps. In the first, you’d emphasise the alleged reality of the situation, and concentrate on the grim emotional aftermath of the loss of a father. In the second, you instead sidestep the issue and keep it in the background by putting something else front and centre.

The first route is what a lot of people believe to be the responsible one. It lends itself to the sort of stories that newspaper reviewers get excited about, perhaps because commenting on other peoples’ stories is an inherently frivolous way of making a living and that by imbuing it with apparent moral seriousness it can seem to be a job worthy of the name. The second route takes us into the realm of the imagination, which serious types find deeply suspect when it’s employed to its full. We should be reading worthy novels by emotionally constipated puritans and nod to ourselves how right they are about the short and painful lives we lead. Yes, keep our heads bowed, and don’t look up. Up to the skies, where you might just see reindeer flying, and a TARDIS whizzing past.

The scenario with the putative widow and the fabulous Christmas is this year’s Dr Who festive special. And what a treat it was. Bringing together elements of Narnia and eco-fable, it once again brought home that the power of love wins over everything. Even, in this case, the possibility of death. The lost airman returned, but his flight home was won and won truly through the faith and love of his wife and children, who lived their lives to the full in his absence and discovered that he was at the other end of their adventure on another planet. Had they done what most grown-ups recommend you do, and get all serious and tearful and wear black, they’d have been so involved in that indulgence they wouldn’t have allowed themselves to enjoy the possibilities that imagination presents.

Fiction allows us to explore the possible through presenting the impossible. Sure, you’re unlikely to ever explore another planet in the course of your grieving…but approaching your future as an astronaut is going to make life rather different than wearing sackcloth and ashes. The Doctor is special because he’s not bound by conventions of time and place that happen to have emerged through historical accident and got taken seriously by people who prefer things that way because doing what the others do saves them having to exercise free will.

After my brother died, my mother went to a grief counsellor who could have stepped straight out of an Anne Rice book. All in black apart from a single red rose affixed to her, she insisted that my mother talk to her about the details of Nigel’s death. She didn’t know some of the particulars then, and doesn’t now. Therapeutic orthodoxy has it that you have to confront the truth. At any rate, that version of the truth that’s sanctioned by bleak conformity. Mum had the sense to back away from the vampire, and choose to live her own way. Not that it was an easy choice, but it was the right one for her. Twenty years on, people say she’s looking and acting years younger than her age…she used her imagination to find a way forward that was preferable to the one that was offered by someone who wanted her to stay in the darkness.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

You may be aware that this site is folding pretty soon; with the next entry in fact. Fear not, it will live on. New site writebyyourside gives you the chance to buy a downloadable anthology of the best of the pieces here, along with previously unavailable material selected to support writers. And there’ll continue to be articles and reviews as here, with an expanded remit including interviews and a focus on prose. See you there!

I went to my first party of the festive season last night. I have reached an age where there’s an equal number of children and adults at such gatherings. And that was interesting in all kinds of ways, not least when the matter of taking young children to see films came up. One couple were sensitive about their young son’s reaction to depictions of evil and moments of tragedy in stories. Not because they wanted to shield him from them. Their concern was about how to introduce him to the emotions that stories can provoke in a way that he could cope with. They wanted him to be affected, but not overwhelmed.

A lovely memory came out of the conversation, as the subject of a panto came up. Don’t know which panto it was, but bad magic was involved to do wrong to one of the good guys. At which point one of the kids had hysterics, and ran out of the auditorium…only to come across a fully-costumed Good Witch who – rapidly realising what had happened – stepped in with a promise to put matters right. Cue satisfied child, who was now happy to return with accompanying parent to the production.

All of this was discussed as children did their best to watch Merlin in a room where adults supped mulled wine and socialised. Noisily, at least as far as the kids were concerned. Didn’t they know important television was happening, and we were talking over it? No wonder kids think adults are hypocrites: grown-ups insist on smaller people being quiet when the news or soaps are on, but parents are happy to talk over key moments in their childrens’ favourite shows.

Meeting in the middle wasn’t going to happen. The kids were rightly absorbed in Merlin, which seemed to be a well put together show with high production values and a reasonable script. The main issue for some of the adults was a female character, who according to one of the party guests looked like a contemporary urban youngster wearing a Wonderbra. The kids were having none of it: she was a smuggler, run afoul of the powers that be, and caught up in a fight where Arthur Pendragon and Merlin failed to save her life.

And I remember my own childhood, and my demand that whatever we were doing on a Saturday, we got home in time for the latest episode of Dr Who. Much of the time we made it, and I don’t suppose I thanked my parents for their decency in honouring that request. But sure as hell I’d castigate them if we missed any of the episode.

Stories matter. They’re how we explain the world to ourselves, and ourselves to the world. Is it any wonder kids get upset when adults talk over their favourite programmes? Or that parents feel likewise when children interrupt theirs? And it’s this that I’m conscious of as I set about developing stories for what, if I’m lucky, will be a major part of what I do with my life in the next decade. A story that wouldn’t exist without all the other stories that I’ve read, seen, and been told one way or another. A story that has been brought to life with an artistic collaborator whose character designs have brought to life characters who in some cases were not quite known to me before I saw them in drawn form.

Well, we shall see. I was lucky enough earlier in the year to secure seed money from an investor to develop that story into a form that makes sense in business ways. And he was attracted by that work to request a costed strategy for bringing the project to market. Which is what I and my collaborator Andy Tudor are waiting for news about as this year comes to a close. Wish us luck, and you’ll be among the first to hear the good news if and when it comes. And that might be soon, or could be weeks away. It doesn’t matter, in truth. What does matter is the journey, and the knowledge that we as children would be proud that the adults we’ve become are engaged in it on their behalf.

If you’re interested in finding out how brilliant people get to be brilliant, how do you do so? One route I’ve discovered useful, given my interest in writing, is to go to talks by writers doing publicity tours. All kinds of good stuff comes out, and you get the chance to ask questions as well. Which is what I’ve been doing tonight…

I went to see thriller writer Michael Connelly, author of heaps of crime books that have sold in bucketloads internationally. Now, I haven’t actually read any Connelly at this point, but it strikes me that if you’re going to learn from people familiarity with their work is no obstacle if what you’re interested in is the structure of how they do what they do. That was very much the case: a good chunk of the questions came from people fascinated by this or that character he’d written about, which is fair enough. My eyes and ears were open to other matters, and had I been a devotee I might have been too fascinated by the content to notice the things I did come away with.

Time and again it becomes apparent that you can’t divorce what someone does from the life they’ve lead. There is no way that Connelly would be writing what he writes, and approaching it the way he does, without his particular background. He worked as a journalist in Los Angeles, and was troubled by a reality of the job: the city had so many murders that they vied for the front page. Only the most ‘interesting’ ones – with a celebrity angle, or an especially gruesome aspect – would be singled out for coverage.

There’s a moral stance within that perspective which informs Connelly’s worldview. It’s at the heart of his interest in the stories he writes, and I got real insight into how he develops his books through his description of how he put together his latest novel. I asked a question that built on that revelation, which made things all the more fascinating, and the following is my take on how to approach writing in the same fashion as Connelly.

The key element of what Connelly does is to use a striking image as an organising principle for a story. His newest book, The Drop, takes its structural inspiration from the twin helix formation of DNA, which can be found – for instance – in a drop of blood. That’s one of the meanings of the title, and it has two more: the drop a body takes from the roof of a famous hotel that his hero investigates, and the LAPD acronym DROP which relates to the hero’s forthcoming retirement.

So, what we have in this instance is two stories which circle around one another but never meet, which struck Connelly as being more representative of reality than stories which do coincide. His choice many years ago that protagonist Harry Bosch would age in real time is also important, since it accounts for the fact that he is facing the end of his career after a long sequence of books. And each of them features repeated thematic aspects, concerning the growing role of technology, the nature of evil, and Bosch’s relationship with Los Angeles.

That’s one example. Another is a forthcoming book that coincides with a 20th anniversary, and to explore that Connelly has gone back to 1992 and his vivid recollection of a riot that he witnessed as a journalist. Etched in his mind is the memory of a bottle of Southern Comfort being thrown towards him, in such detail that he can recall the writing on the label. That specific visual will feature at the climax of the story, as other key images have shaped the structure of other books Connelly has written.

Even if you’re not planning to write a novel, the idea of having an image as an organising principle to work towards is one that can usefully be explored. Ken Campbell used a candelabra as the inspiration for the structure of a one man show. The influence of that image may not be apparent to the audience, but if it helps a creator shape the material they’re working with then it is invaluable.

In Connelly’s case, he has such faith in that process he does not need to plot out the story in detail, allowing himself to be surprised by what comes up. But then, why wouldn’t he be? One way to describe what he does is that he experiences a trance through focusing on a detail, allowing the whole to emerge in its own special way. Hmm. That reminds me…

A long time back, I interviewed comics creator Dave Sim, who said something very similar:

Sim As Neil Gaiman put it, it’s as if you’re building a bridge, but you’re not building a bridge sequentially, the way you have to do it in the physical world. The moment you start building it on this side, it starts growing from the other side. And you just start trying to predict where all the curlicues and whatnot are going to be, and all of a sudden one of them shows up, and you’ve got a chunk of the bridge about 30 feet out in mid-air that’s about 15 feet higher than you thought it was supposed to be.

AR And you don’t know how the hell it’s going to work.

Sim You don’t let that trouble you. You just start building the rest of it, and eventually some dramatic curve comes in and you go ‘Oh, alright, it’s going to rise up in some way and hook up with this side. And I can see now looking at all this stuff that’s getting built on the other side in my unconscious mind that yeah, this could be quite attractive when it’s done. You know, it could be quite symmetrical.’

There’s a long tradition in jazz of adapting popular tunes for line-ups featuring trumpet and sax and whatnot rather than whatever instrumentation they originally had. Miles Davis did covers of the likes of Bye Bye Blackbird, giving himself and his band a chance to do a new take on a ballad of the day, or one which had become a jazz standard. Perhaps the ultimate example of this is John Coltrane and his dazzling reinvention of My Favorite Things, taking the apparently unpromising raw material of a Julie Andrews song from Sound of Music and transforming it magically.

That notion of taking what someone else has done and doing your own version of it has a long history in the arts. I can look back at some of my early work and the efforts to ape someone who knew what they were doing show through. And that’s fine. It’s a stage you go through on the way to finding your own voice, and having the confidence to use that and not attempt ventriloquism. Some creators who’ve demonstrated their chops continue to drink from the well of those who went before. One such is Alan Moore, much of whose career rests on a Coltrane-like ability to imbue what was apparently pop culture detritus with substance.

Such reinvention is what Moore did with Miracleman, itself a British knock-off of the American superhero model, which he offered back to the world in a form that transcended its source material. He repeated the trick to brilliant effect in Swamp Thing, taking a rather silly bog dweller and using the character as a vehicle for powerful and poignant horror stories where the genre elements were fused with a socio-political sensibility unusual in the medium.

Most of all, Moore did that reinvention with Watchmen which — remember — was intended to be done with a bunch of characters from defunct publishers Charlton. No need to go into the historic significance of the 12 issue series that redefined what was possible in the medium. Well, at least to those who hadn’t been keeping their eyes out for the similarly inventive but less self-conscious steps that the likes of Howard Chaykin was making with American Flagg, and Frank Miller with Dark Knight. And all of them, Moore included, were building on the work of innovators including Will Eisner, Jack Kirby, George Herriman, Steve Gerber, and many many others.

Watchmen being the one that got the most press, it’s been Moore who has got the most press since those days. Which is why we know the ups and downs of his relations with publishers and collaborators, his feelings about the state of the industry, and why you really shouldn’t make films of his work. And now, without his blessing — not that such needs to be granted, any more than Moore himself asked for permission to use out-of-copyright characters from 19th century fantastic fiction to create his League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen – DC has commissioned stories set in the same world as Watchmen.

These stories don’t exist, but the messageboards are ablaze with people decrying them, and calling for them to be stopped in their tracks. It’s all very…predictable. Moore occupies a place in the firmament that means he’s accepted unquestioningly. In some respects, he’s become the Bob Marley for smarter teens — a poster child whose wild hair and wilder ideas (and epic consumption of cannabis) mark him out as a counterculture hero.

Thing being, we won’t know what this new work will be like until it’s out there. And you don’t have to buy it if you don’t want to. I might be tempted by some of it, since Darwyn Cooke is one of the creators supposedly involved and I am a big fan of his work. But I don’t expect the quality of most of it to be up to much, any more than I suppose that whoever follows Ed Brubaker on Captain America will deliver the goods that Brubaker has consistently done.

As for the rest of it; the bluster about Watchmen’s canonical status, and Moore’s sainthood…it’s irrelevant. I’m sympathetic to Moore about some of the travails he’s experienced, while feeling that taking legal advice would be a better remedy for some of the situations he’s been through than expecting others to abide by an ethical code that is important to him but not binding for others. And however good or bad the Watchmen spin-offs turn out to be, the original will always be there. If ‘original’ has any meaning, that is, in a world where the definitive take on a work might not be first out of the gate…

A little while back, my co-conspirator Andy Tudor and I attracted the first chunk of investment money to realise a multi-platform creative concept we’ve devised. ‘Multi-platform’ meaning we’re looking at something which could, in the long run, straddle gaming apps, social media games, an animated series, merchandise, and more. Our investor has cannily given us enough money that we can start to make progress on some of the above, but not so much that we can convince ourselves that we’ve got it made. We haven’t. We’re in the early stages of a long journey, and the job at this point is to prove what we’re capable of.

All of which makes our current situation a fascinating one. And Andy and I have no shortage of ideas of what we’d like to do. We’re also blessed in knowing a seasoned coach/consultant who works with big grown-up organisations at board level and helps them clarify where they’re going, how they’re going to get there, and what needs to be done to make it happen. That friend, Annie, spent a highly productive day with us in which we set out what we’re going to do in the next three months — primarily with the intent of impressing our backer so he’ll continue to invest in this project and have us majorly involved in its development, and not just coming up with concepts for work that others then undertake.

We’re in a privileged position. And we want to make the most of it. So Annie got us to dig into our motivations, what drove us to come up with this project in the first place, what we hope it can become, and use that impetus to ensure we follow through on a whole series of meetings with people in games and digital media and animation we need to befriend to get all of this off the ground. The buzz is palpable, and the timing good — I’m about to go to London for a weekend workshop on immersive writing, ie exactly the approach that’s necessary to create a stimulating experience for people who come across some or other aspect of what we’re up to, and encourage them to find out more.

A key part of this plan of action is the creation of a 3 minute animation to capture the core of our concept. All of which sounds very dry and dusty, as maybe a lot of this will since I can’t at this point share anything of what we’re up to. But I can share this: the inspiration for the short animation is the famed sequence in Up where the old guy’s past is revealed, in a stunning and moving montage that some people have said is a triumph of cinema. Well, if you’re going to have a benchmark, it might as well be an impressive one, and the reason I honed in on that sequence as inspiration is for its emotive power.

This will not be news to regular readers. I consider the most significant aspect of any narrative to be its emotional impact. That’s why we listen to, or watch, or share stories in whatever form. And I want people’s first glimpse of the project Andy and I have been developing for the past three years to be something which has real impact on them. It’s not enough to impress people at a technical level. Or become the envy of your peers for getting a project off the ground. For it to become what we want it to be, it needs to connect with audiences. And that’s something we need to get right from the start. Especially given that we’ve got a science fiction setting for our concept, and all too often science fiction stories are reliant on the latest CGI techniques to impress audiences. Sure, we want our baby to be all shiny — but most importantly, we want people to feel the love.

There’s much frustration among musical types about the way things are going in that world, where MP3 formats are a challenge both to the economics of the business, and sound quality. Put simply, MP3 compresses sound and the results can be unsubtle. While many in the scene are caught up in arguments about it, Bjork has found another way to deal with the situation. The new work that she’s releasing at present under the Biophilia tag in a series of apps as well as in more conventional forms is designed to capitalise on the limitations of the MP3 format and sound good within its parameters.

Well, of course. Treat the situation as a challenge and work with it. The same applies to filmmakers. How do you make an impact with a low budget feature when there’s not much in the kitty for effects and name actors? Hmm…nice though those are, what’s wrong with going back to basics and writing a good script with some striking (and inexpensive) moments?

That’s the solution that a few interesting filmmakers have hit on. Rather than emulating something where your lack of budget really will draw attention to the shortfall between intention and reality, come up with a milieu of your own where you set the rules. Hal Hartley is an excellent case in point. His second feature Trust relies on arch scripting, performances that don’t acknowledge the humour of what’s happening, and some moments guaranteed to make the viewer sit up and take notice.

Those moments? How about putting your boss’s head in a vice as you quit the place? Having an awkward conversation with a mother who suggests that her oldest daughter will be good in bed? Going to the abortion clinic when you find your boyfriend in bed with your sister after your mum got him drunk and put him there? None of those are ideas that cost money. They’re all about having an imagination, and — beyond that — a sensibility.

Sensibility is an interesting one…some people have it, some people don’t. It’s a function of worldview and style. You can see it in the work of Woody Allen or Jim Jarmusch. Less so Michael Bay or George Lucas. The joy of a sensibility is that people will come and seek your work in the hope of experiencing it some more if it appeals to them. Hmm, maybe we could use the word ‘aesthetic’, as long as you realise that it doesn’t mean it’s about making things look good. Not at all. But a distinct look is often part of a sensibility, and both can be realised with little or no budget.

Anyway, Trust is a delight, an underplayed curio that will appeal to some, but not all. And that’s another of the things with having a sensibility. Those that get it, get it. But that number will invariably be fairly small. Still, you can make that work as a career if you’re lucky: Quentin Tarantino and the Coens have got by pretty well through having an idiosyncratic worldview that’s distinct from whitebread Hollywood offerings.

Which brings us back to Bjork, kind of. There’s a distinct sensibility about her work that carries through across projects. It’s there in the choices she makes, and the people she chooses to work with. And it’s present at this point in the way she manages her career. She’s an excellent role model for anyone aspiring to a modern media career, straddling different artforms and collaborating with people known for the quality of what they do. The apps for Biophilia are interesting not just in their own right, but as a business model, with the developers and Bjork each getting half of the proceeds. Which is a much more attractive proposition than the kind of deals monopolistic distributors and broadcasters are partial to. Just a thought…

These are interesting times. It’s looking like the multi-platform entertainment concept for children that I’ve devised with artist Andy Tudor has a seriously credible and business-savvy backer, who is putting money into what we’re doing to allow us to develop our ideas further in collaboration with people who have expertise that we admire. That’s majorly exciting stuff, and I was buzzing when we concluded our meeting at the St Pancras branch of Carluccio’s.

Still in the station, I wandered around prior to getting my train back and came across a book I’ve been aching to read: Grant Morrison’s Supergods: Our World In The Age Of The Superhero. It was at full price, but it was a signed copy, and I couldn’t conceive of a better treat to celebrate the start of a new phase of things. And who if not Grant Morrison is going to be a good guide to what happens when reality dissolves and something bigger and grander appears in its place?

The book is a delight. Grant, it turns out, is a fine non-fiction writer as well as being perhaps my favourite comics writer. He’s without a doubt my favourite comics character, and the book is in part a chronicle of the way he invented and reinvented himself. There’s Grant the working class lad whose parents’ politics and reading matter shape the young Scot’s development. He was creating comics alongside friends to share with them at an early age, so by the time he approached the industry for work he’d already got quite a bit of experience.

His capabilities recognised by DC back when Vertigo was starting, Grant and the other Britpack writers cultivated by editor Karen Berger were encouraged to present themselves as hip young things, and made the most of the opportunity. Those were extraordinary times, which gave rise to Pete Milligan’s Shade, Neil Gaiman’s Sandman, and Grant’s calculated reinvention of Animal Man, the audacity of which led to continued work in America.

The book covers all that, along with tales of Grant’s adventures in magic, psychedelics, and uncategorisable experiences. Some will dismiss those aspects of what he discusses, but having experienced parallel adventures myself I can only applaud him for being so honest about what he’s been through and what he believes it means. Besides, there’s no doubting that Grant walks his talk: a huckster wouldn’t have the energy for the concepts Grant spins casually, and which form a central thread to his work and life. To pick up on a joke in the book about an exquisitely painful fan encounter, he’s the surreal deal.

Besides, look at what Grant’s approach leads to. Encountering someone dressed as Superman at a point when he was puzzling how to reinvent the character, Grant engaged him in conversation as if he was the icon he purported to be. He was impressed by how relaxed this big fit guy was. That registered: why wouldn’t Superman go round in a casual fashion, when there’s pretty much nothing on the planet that can harm him? That conversation was one of the threads that came together to form All Star Superman, the collaboration with Frank Quitely that’s unquestionably the finest the hero from Krypton has been written, and drawn.

As well as Grant’s own story, you also get his generous and perceptive account of the work of heaps of other creators working in the field of superhero comics. It’s clear that Grant loves what he does, and has a unique and fascinating vision of the field that’s coloured by a quiet radical optimism about not just the artform, but about humankind as a species.

One ways that smart writers differentiate themselves long term is being able to come up with new facets to the way they think about their stories, or indeed the medium. Not something you’re likely to see from Jimmy McGovern, who puts ten or more angry hours of writing a day into tv drama about how the British working class have been betrayed. There’s a place for that, sure. But given a choice of role model, I’d rather opt for someone less guilt-ridden and liver-damaging. Which is one of the many reasons to look to Joss Whedon as the career to emulate.

Now, you could say that Joss Whedon is to teenage girls what Jimmy McGovern is to angsty Catholics. But I know whose characters have more fun, and which would be more enjoyable to write. In Buffy, Whedon created a template for stories that ran several seasons on tv and created a subgenre in the process. And having done so, and made a fortune in the process, decided that he’d like to continue the concept in comics. Not that there’s any serious money to be made there — but Whedon likes the medium.

And this is where the smart thinking can be seen. Whedon stayed with the concept of the Slayer, a teenage girl who can kick vampire butt, and did something new with it. He took the story into the future, and made his new heroine someone who had no idea of her destiny. Smarter still, he made the reason for that part of the story itself: his heroine Melaka Fray had a twin brother. She’d grown up fast and tough, he’d been tormented by knowledge of Slayer ancestry. And drawing on what he knew, became the Big Bad of the eight issue series.

All of which demonstrates some nimble thinking on Whedon’s part. The kind of thinking that can extend a franchise into all kinds of directions. It seems obvious to the reader, because it fits in well with what’s come before. But developing a concept where the core elements are so distinctive and having room for variance that adds to character and story potential shows real smarts. Which is why I’m writing about Whedon, and Whedon’s not writing about me.

Another writer wtih intelligence about his medium is Warren Ellis. Part of his talent comes from his study of comics as a form. He knows how a page works, understands the implications of different lettering styles, how to turn black and white printing to his advantage when he’s working for a publisher who can’t afford colour. With new project SVK he’s gone a stage further still, coming up with a way of using what could have been a gimmick that is utterly congruent with the story he has developed.

The gimmick? Invisible ink. Some parts of the comic are printed in an ink that can’t be seen unless it’s exposed to ultraviolet light. Which is where the second twist comes in. SVK comes bundled with a cute uv torch branded in line with the world described in the comic. It’s a nod to the very British tradition of giving away novelty toys with comics: 2000AD had a space spinner and who knows what other sorts of plastic tat in its early days.

The real coup of SVK is that all the gimmickry exists in the service of a solid near-future tale of corporate espionage. Which is very much Warren’s thing: he’s good at that stuff. For me though, the best moment was one of pure emotion, when a character realises that his girlfriend really does love him. It’s a reveal that happens when he gets to read her thoughts which, you guessed it, were invisible until exposed to UV. And going for that emotive payoff rather than something tricksy is a powerful reminder of Ellis’s ability to go above and beyond where most other writers would reach.

I decided to check out the new Transformers movie. Sure, I knew it would be trash. But Michael Bay trash has a certain something. Not least shapechanging robots who behave like adolescent boys. And who doesn’t enjoy a bit of giant robot action from time to time? Hey, I grew up on 2000AD, Dr Who, and Asimov: of course I’m going to get there sooner or later.

Only, it wasn’t quite that simple. I left the house, headed down the street. Where I live, there are terraced houses, and some of them have arched passageways to the rear, with gates at the front. I passed one, and a man looked out at me. He gestured to a cloth on a car parked outside the house, and said “Can you pass me the tissue?” in an East European accent. I passed him the tissue. This was all a bit odd. Why couldn’t he get it himself? The gate was closed. Was it also locked? He was smiling. Was he a prisoner, or reassuring me that everything was fine?

I texted a couple of friends about the incident on the way into town, and settled down to watch the film. Seems Americans landed on the moon in 1969 to check out evidence of an alien presence. Doubtless there are some on the internet who claim this as a fact, and that the film is a cover-up designed to make the idea ridiculous. Anyway.

Stung by accusations that the last Transformers film was a piece of meretricious racist shit, Bay has furrowed his brow and decided that this new opus needs weighty themes, and a substantial script. In practical terms, this translates as having the kid from the previous films being older now, and looking for his first proper job. See, real world resonance, social commentary — Bay is exploring new territory here, which maybe explains why it’s so hamfisted.

Oh, and it’s all in by-the-numbers film vocab. Meaning that the hero’s parents don’t arrive in a week like they’re supposed to, they turn up on the doorstep while he’s still jobless, maximising his humiliation. There is probably a name for this particular kind of character reveal happening at this moment, but frankly I don’t care. Besides, there was a thought nagging at me –

But hey, not for long. Turns out the bad guys have among their number a sneaky snaky piece of work who can move through buildings like a sea serpent would. If sea serpents existed. And travelled through masonry rather than water. That was a mondo cool display of software magic, the equivalent of a showcase guitar solo in the arena cinema that Bay traffics in.

Only, something wasn’t working. For all the heady excitement of shapechanging robots, lunar missions, Chernobyl and the hero’s leggy girlfriend, my mind was on other matters. The Polish man asking me to pass him some tissues. Really, what was that all about?

It’s a good sign that a film is failing to capture your attention when you spend more time mulling over an odd incident from earlier in the day than being engrossed in what’s happening on screen. Only, that’s exactly what I was doing. Realising the parallel between my curious encounter and those folk tales where a farmer meets a trapped goblin. In those stories, the goblin rewards the farmer by being of service to him and making his wishes come true.

Maybe I’m due to reap some karmic reward by being a benefactor the the trapped Pole. Maybe not. I do know that the incident fascinated me more than anything happening in that cinema. So I left. Early. And ran into a friend who as far as I know was supposed to be miles away on a silent Buddhist retreat. Only there he was, before me. I wasn’t fooled for an instant. Obviously this was his tulpa, a psychic thoughtform that looks exactly like him, of which there’s a long tradition among Buddhist adepts. All of which goes to show you’ve got to be pretty nimble to make your stories more enticing to audiences than what’s already going on in their heads…