Author: admin

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a post about the most annoying meme of all time. Unfortunately, in some corners of comics social media, it ignited another writers versus artists debate, which was not my intention. Someone lamented that they wished my essay brought something new to the debate. Since I hadn’t intended it to be a part of the debate, that hadn’t even occurred to me—I just really hate that meme!

That said, I started thinking about how I collaborate on projects, how we can reframe the way that we define our collaborations. and how I’d like to be treated if I were approached with a work-for-hire gig that sounded good. Regardless, there are many creative approaches to make a collaboration equatable.

In the first part of this essay, I talked about giving your collaborators an ownership stake in the project.

Here are a few ideas…

My Privilege

I’m fortunate. I mostly work with friends, and my collaborations are the result of years of friendship with peers and colleagues. We share ownership, and most of my projects are back-end payment. Most of my collaborators aren’t neophytes, have had their share of ups and downs in comics, and have realistic expectations of how much (or little) money there is in independent comics. Many of them work in other fields, like storyboarding or illustration, to earn a living. Again, there are realistic expectations all around, we trust one another, and value the friendships over the collaborations.

An Arranged Marriage

I realize that not everyone is so lucky. For a lot of writers, they’re coming into this cold, with no connections to artists. And once you find an artist and agree to collaborate, how can you be sure it’s a good long-term fit? How can you, in good conscience, give away half of your dream project to someone you’ve just met, who you may or may not see eye-to-eye with in the long run? Can you and an artist you just met sustain a harmonious relationship over the course of years to tell this story—and possible sequels?

Of course, there’s no way of knowing if a collaboration will work, and it would be foolish for you to sign on to give away half of your project to a complete stranger.

Going from Contractor to Collaborator

You meet an artist, hit it off, and both are excited about the project. Maybe after a few pages, their enthusiasm wanes and they ghost you. Perhaps they’re halfway through your first issue and they get another gig—one that pays better—and leave you high and dry. Or maybe they finish the first issue and quit immediately afterward. Whew! It’s a good thing you didn’t offer them co-ownership, right?

Now flip it. Look at it from the artist’s perspective. Your page rate has you strapped (comics are expensive!), but maybe they’re making about $6/hour on your book. As much as they may like you, and may like the book, their return on investment is comparable to a McJob.

If you really did hit it off with this artist, and really do think it could be the start of a long-term partnership, consider graduated vesting. Maybe after 4 issues of work-for-hire pay, your artist has earned 20% ownership of the book. You could even incentivize it something like this:

• issue 1: 4% ownership share
• issue 2: 8% ownership share
• issue 3: 12% ownership share
• issue 4: 20% ownership share

Make the vesting contingent upon completing 4 issues, so that if they bail after 2, you’re not out anything. But there’s an incentive to continue working together, and a promise that when the first arc is completed, there’s a bump in ownership. Issues 5–8 could work in a similar fashion, getting the collaborator up to 40%. Maybe issue 10 is the threshold where they become fully vested at 50% ownership.

These percentage examples are a little arbitrary, just to give you an idea how you can approach it. You can tailor it to your specific situation, of course, possibly with higher percentages per issue, or a longer/shorter time until reaching a full ownership share. The idea is to give your collaborator a sense of agency, rather than just feeling like a gig worker.

Be Flexible

Maybe your collaborator is cooking along and has to take an issue off due to family issues, deadlines at the day job, etc. If they’re not quitting but jut need a fill-in issue, maybe you pause the vesting and resume when they return, instead of them losing what they’d accrued because they missed an issue.

Advances Against Royalties

“How can I pay an artist a page rate and give them 50% ownership? It’s not fair to me.” You’re absolutely right. Even though art is a more time-consuming process, your working arrangement should be fair to all parties—you included. If you’re paying your collaborator(s) out of pocket, and they have a share of ownership, it’s entirely fair for their royalties to be paid after you’ve recouped what you’ve paid them, and after you’ve paid yourself the same amount that you’ve paid out. That’s fair.

So maybe it works like this: You pay the rate(s), Kickstart your book, and, from the profits, pay yourself. Only after you’ve been repaid and earned as much as your collaborator(s) have, will they see a share of the money earned from the campaign (or the direct market, or whatever).

Not Just for Artists

Yes, I used “artists” as the main example of collaborator here, but it’s applicable across the board. You can divide this down as much as you like: pencillers, inkers, colorists, letterers—all are valuable members of your team, and, at your discretion, can be given ownership shares. For books I’ve created or co-created, colorist Jason Millet has a share in Athena Voltaire, Ghoul Scouts, etc, editor Chris Murrin has a share in Ghoul Scouts, Evie and the Helsings, etc. It’s up to you. There aren’t any rules for how you can or should define your collaborations. Just make them work for you.

Get It in Writing

As always, and especially with friends, get it in writing, with help from a lawyer specializing in intellectual property.

A week or two ago, an annoying meme resurfaced on comics social media.

It’s funny, right?

No. No, it’s not. There’s an implication that indie comic writers are somehow treated unfairly, or that they’re being taken advantage of by other, more mercenary creators. But that’s just not the case.

As a writer/artist, who started off freelancing for other writers, I learned an important lesson. “Your dream project isn’t necessarily your collaborators’ dream project.” 

 There are a lot of potential reasons for this. I’ve seen scripts where the artist is treated like a wrist-for-hire—whose sole purpose is to bring the writer’s vision to life—instead of that of a collaborator. These scripts dictate camera angles, pacing, and general page composition, removing any sense of agency the artist has and lessening their personal investment in the project. (There’s nothing wrong with writing a script this way, if your personal vision is that strong. But doing so can potentially reduce the personal investment of your collaborators. It’s probably good to understand this going in.) 

 I’ve seen writers refer to their collaborators as “my artist” all over social media, reducing the artist to a cog, rather than a collaborator. Same thing when the writer refers to it as “my book,” “my comic,” or “my series.” I’ve seen plenty of work-for-hire contracts where the artist has no royalties and no stake in ownership.

While it can be important to establish this relationship, in terms of protecting your intellectual property (especially when working with a complete stranger), it can serve to lessen the artist’s engagement in the success or failure of the project. There’s no incentive for the artist to treat the book as anything more than a paycheck.

There’s nothing wrong with any of these gigs. It’s perfectly fine to do; after all it’s your dream book (as all books should be viewed by their creators).
But if, when dictating those terms (even, in terms of protecting your IP, when establishing a WFH arrangement), a writer feels like they’re getting ripped off because they’re working for free…remember it’s YOUR dream project, not your collaborators’ dream, and that that no one else has an ownership stake.

Remember, YOU sought out the artist, the colorist, and the letterer to work on YOUR book.

I’m not insinuating that anyone is “doing it wrong,” or that making their dream book isn’t a bunch of hard work and unpaid labor. I’m just pointing out an additional insight that may not have occurred to everyone.

Back to the meme that launched this thread: “I’m only making $100 per page!” There’s an implication that the indignant artist, who’s ONLY making $100/page is ungrateful…especially since the poor, taken-advantage-of writer isn’t making anything.

$100/page sounds like a lot of money to most people, until they do the math. Depending on an artist’s style, it can be 10-20 hours work. $5-$10/an hour doesn’t sound quite as appealing, especially when considering revisions, etc. 

With this in mind, the part of the meme that says, “At least you’re being paid,” has a whole other implication: “Shut up. Even though you’re making less than minimum wage, at least you’re making money…now get back to work on MY book.”

“Your dream project isn’t necessarily your collaborators’ dream project” has shaped how I view collaborations. And after having been treated like a wrist—in freelance RPG and comics projects—has shaped how I collaborate with other artists on our books. I’m grateful for every collaborator I work with. I know that they have their own ideas and I appreciate that they’re choosing to work with me on something instead of creating something themselves entirely on their own.

When I launched my Patreon, I included support levels for original art commissions. Commissions give me the chance to shake the rust off and work traditionally from time to time (I’ve been mostly digital since 2013).

I revamped my Patreon in November 2023, removing all of the original art levels of support. It’s not that I don’t like drawing commissions—I do! But I like making comics more than I like doing commissions. And with time limited, I’m focusing on more comics—specifically, more Athena Voltaire comics. I’m currently serializing Athena Voltaire and the Devil’s Sea over there, with updates every Tuesday. Check it out.

In the meantime, here’s a look at some of the commissions I’ve been doing. Digital pencils in Clip Studio Paint, 6×9 ink on Bristol board.

Okay, maybe not worthless, but I got your attention, didn’t I?

At best, an idea is a sketch. But realistically, it’s more like a doodle. And unless you’re Pablo Picasso, no one’s lining up for your doodles.

An idea doesn’t have plot, or characters, or conflict, or resolution. It’s a high concept, or a vague idea for a character, or a title. As good a concept, character idea, or title that you have, it’s not worth reading.

Yet.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Why is it worthless? Because everyone has ideas. I know, because at every convention I attend, I meet someone who’s convinced that they will revolutionize fiction, or comics, or film/television with their brilliant idea. The mechanic who fixes your car has ideas. So does the cashier at the grocery story. Or the person sitting next to you in class. Or the guy that cut you off in traffic. Everybody.

Everybody has ideas.

I know plenty of comic creators who see similar ideas in movies, tv, or other comics and immediately shout that they’ve been ripped off. They may have been—I can’t speak for every instance—but it’s more likely that someone else on this planet filled with millions of people thought of something similar. It happens. A lot.

The reality is that ideas are plentiful.

Here’s an idea: Young person is gifted with tremendous power/abilities and is burdened with the responsibilities that go along with it.

Am I talking about Harry Potter? Or Frodo? Or Percy Jackson? Or Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Or Luke Skywalker? Or Spider-Man? And, if it’s Spider-Man, are we talking about Peter Parker or Miles Morales?

Or a baby is sent away from certain death and grows up to inspire those around him. Is it Superman? Or Moses?

People don’t fall in love with concepts. They make connections with characters. They try to anticipate what’s next on the journey. They celebrate when there’s a satisfying resolution.

An idea doesn’t become a beloved story without these things.

Let’s say you have a man who’s a monster hunter. Now what? Why does he hunt monsters? Does he do it solo? Is there a larger organization that he works with/for? Are they trustworthy? Are the monsters unintelligent? If not, are they organized, part of a cabal? Does your monster hunter have loved ones? How do they feel about him hunting monsters?

Or maybe you have a woman who’s an assassin? Why does she do what she does? Is she part of an organization or freelance? Whether she’s part of a larger organization or an independent operator, does she have a moral code about her targets? Or is she broken and it’s all just a job—if she’s broken, did the job do it to her, or did she seek out the job because of that?

And on and on. It’s this stuff that makes your characters and their world come to life.

And brilliant character designs, too. Comics are a visual medium, after all.

How does your character dress? Is your monster hunter armed to the teeth or do they have a go-to weapon? Is your assassin nondescript or flamboyant? The visual choices your characters make are further demonstrations of who the character is. And those designs, and the designs of their associates and the world around them, are what make your ideas breathe.

And that’s not even considering how shape language defines a character’s personality, visually. Or what their silhouette tells the reader, or their body language, or various costuming details.

All of these elements combine to refine and expand an idea into something worth reading, watching, or playing.

Until then, your idea is worthless.

Lots of creators sell prints at conventions. They’re an economical side hustle for creators who make comics, and they’re an end unto itself for exhibitors who specialize in selling prints exclusively.

Print Walls

If you’ve been to a comic convention, you’ve seen them: the massive walls of prints towering over other creators’ displays.

I know a lot of creators who hate these behemoths. I’m largely indifferent to them, unless they’re blocking the view of the table of their neighbor. For the most part, I view these booths the same way I do T-shirt booths at shows—as souvenir stands.

These artists’ prominence corresponds with the influx of people casually attending comic conventions. Casual attendees were introduced to the term “comic con” through shows like the Big Bang Theory, with its constant references to Comic-Con (specifically, San Diego Comic-Con). At this point, the designation has become a blanket term for comic conventions big-and-small across the country.

“Oh, you went to Comic-Con in San Diego? That’s so cool! I went to Comic-Con in Springfield!” Disproportionately different scale and event, but the enthusiasm is neat.

As a result, these folks attend a con, enjoy the experience, and want a souvenir. Prints and T-shirts are a great way to commemorate their visit.

There’s nothing wrong with inviting casual fans into our awesome medium. And there’s nothing wrong with giving them something to remember the experience.

Dipping a Toe in the Water

For the most part, I haven’t really done prints in the past. I’ve done small runs on lightweight cardstock of commissions I’d drawn, but never made a concerted effort to actually produce real prints. This year, I did four prints for San Diego Comic-Con.

The prints sold well. The most interesting distinction was that people who bought the prints weren’t interested in my comics or original art and the people who bought my comics and/or original art weren’t interested in the prints.

Souvenirs.

However, there was one special interaction that I had and it only happened because I made these prints. One print, specifically.

On the first day of the convention, a young Spider-Gwen cosplayer stopped by my table. They said they wanted to thank me for including the trans flag in the background of the Spider-Gwen print. They choked up as they explained that the scene in Across the Spider-Verse where Gwen reveals her identity to her father—color coded in the colors of the trans flag—resonated because it reflected how they felt when they came out to their father as gender fluid.

I responded by telling them that I’m a parent to a trans child and that the scene in the movie hit me, too. Of course, as I was saying this, I started choking up.

The next day, “Gwen” brought their dad by to introduce us.

Thanks, “Gwen,” for what is easily one of my best convention experiences ever.

(I know their actual first name and have a pic of “Gwen” holding up their print, but didn’t ask permission to share it in this context, so we’ll just go with “Gwen.”)

Representation

In my Character Design class, we start by dissecting what makes good designs, and we also have an exercise where the students redesign characters. As a part of this, we discuss fan art. In their excellent essay, Fanart Activism: Fan Participation as a Tool for Representation and Diversity Awareness, Tereza Walsbergerová states that “due to [fan art’s] visual character it has much bigger potential of becoming a special kind of sociopolitical activist tool by raising awareness about representation and diversity amongst fans of all ages from all over the world.”

Walsbergerová continues, “Depicting characters as female in male-dominated genres may certainly feel empowering to not only female fans of the show, but to anyone who does not necessarily identify as a straight male.”

My experience with “Gwen” and the connection we shared added an additional texture to my perception of prints at conventions.

Indie Band or Cover Band?

After the response I got from my four prints, I can certainly see the appeal of making prints exclusively. As an indie comic creator telling my own stories with my own characters, conventions can be a slog at times.

At a con, indie creators tell their elevator pitch over and over, frequently meeting with indifference. There’s a certain appeal to the electricity generated when someone recognizes a character they love and enthusiastically comes to the table, cash in hand—which happens regularly with fan art prints of popular characters.

The best comparison I can come up with is the difference between performing in a bar as an indie band—playing your own material—and being in a cover band that specializes in top hits or classic rock.

The indie band works hard to win the crowd over on every song, and the hardcore fans are there for them and them alone.

The cover band benefits from well-executed performances of established, beloved material, and forges a connection with their audience over this common ground.

Both contribute to their respective biospheres, providing a different kind of experience. I think it’s the same with prints at comic conventions.

But the print towers shouldn’t be in artist alley. Put ’em next to the T-shirt vendors and we’re good. 😉

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Direct Market, crowdfunding, and publisher relations. I’ve had books solicited in the front of the Diamond catalog and in the back. I’ve had relationships with publishers where everyone I signed on to work with was edged out of the company.

I haven’t landed many work-for-hire gigs, and the ones I’ve gotten have been under bad circumstances (my dad having a stroke and dying during my first gig for a publisher, low rates, or an editor on his first book and a 4-week deadline).

But I’ve built a loyal audience for my niche and have been lucky/fortunate/blessed to see that support demonstrated in my crowdfunded books.

No comics publisher that set out to be an IP farm has ever succeeded.

I’m talking about the publishers that only publish creator-owned/shared ownership books, control the ancillary rights, and pump out new series after new series, growing exponentially.

I’m not talking about the publishers that carefully curate a limited line of books, and I’m not talking about companies that boast a diverse line of licensed and creator-owned books, statues, toys, art books, lunchboxes, etc, like Dark Horse, IDW, and Boom Studios.

The IP farm publishers fall into 2 categories:

1) Those backed by outside funding. These companies are created with the specific intention to launch film and television projects. Their books read like proof-of-concept for screenplays.

With the outside funding, these publishers can offer page rates on creator-owned and shared-participation books. Instead of a back-end deal for no guaranteed money, creators can be paid for their work as they do it.

Publishers in this category have a few staff members/executives who will end up attached to every project that’s greenlit. These are the Chief Executive Officers, Chief Creative Officers, etc. They’ll get a producing credit (and fee) before the creators of the books do.

They get investors who see those big MCU dollars and convince them to fund an IP farm. Maybe one or two books get optioned, but that’s as far as it goes. Eventually, they run out of investor funding and the company folds, or declares Chapter 11 until new investors are found. When this happens, the creators are usually the ones on the hook with unpaid invoices, or the rights to their IPs are tied up with the company’s bankruptcy, or both.

2) Publishers that pay creators on back-end, but control the publishing and media rights for the books.

Their appeal is that of “legitimacy.” Comic fans and creators have been trained to believe that only books distributed to comic shops (usually thru Diamond) are professional. Every month, you see celebratory social media posts like, “Woohoo! I’m in Previews this month!” from creators all over the world.

That promise of validation allows IP farm publishers to take advantage of creators with predatory contracts that don’t really get them anything. These contracts give the publisher a stake in the ancillary rights, and, frequently, control over those rights, too.

Sometimes, the publisher works with an agent to shop the IP. Other times, they have in in-house person. This allows the publisher to keep the agency percentage.

These publishers, without page rates to pay, gobble up properties almost indiscriminately, like Gollum coveting the Precious, and frequently end up with books in competition with themselves. Kid mystery books? Sure, let’s publish three! Girl-with-jetpack books? Two is even better than one!

Not only does this cannibalize the audience—pitting the publisher’s books in direct competition with one another—it dilutes the appeal of the book, by making each one less unique. Readers get their fix after picking up 1, 2, or 3 different series and move on, dropping them all.

So why do these publishers do this?

Simple. The more books they have, the more opportunities to pitch. If they get that meeting, they come in with their war chest of dozens of titles. “Oh, you don’t like that one, how about this one?” on and on and on down the line.

To an IP farm publisher, quantity is the appeal. Instead of curating a line and creating a unique publishing voice, they take the shotgun approach, hoping that one of the many, many IPs they control will get traction. It doesn’t matter to the publisher which one hits; they get paid just the same.

Creators are interchangeable. The books and characters don’t matter as much as the potential revenue.

Series and creators aren’t cultivated or developed by these publishers. Instead, they’re seen as “content creators” generating fuel for the constant churn to chase potential media revenue. Comics are just a means to an end. “Content” is the currency that drives the machine.

What is a creator to do?

I’ve made more money in crowdfunding than I did in 15 years of working with Direct Market publishers. The problem is that fans, conventions, and other creators frequently see crowdfunding as less legitimate than working with even the smallest publisher.

In a successful crowdfunding campaign, the cost of printing books is covered. Once printed, every book sold at a con is pure profit, instead of buying a book for 50% of cover price from the publisher and paying for shipping—meaning you make about $5 on a book w/a $15 cover price.

The problem is what to do with all those books. Just selling at shows won’t move the entire inventory. That print run of 500, 1000, or more takes up a lot of space. And a few successful campaigns can necessitate renting storage space to house it all.

The obvious answer is to distribute through Diamond, Lunar, etc.

The problem is that you’re a comic creator. You got into this to create comics. Sure, crowdfunding generates some money, but it’s a ton of work on top of creating  comics—the reason you’re here in the first place. To add the tasks and responsibilities of being a publisher to your already busy schedule of creating and crowdfunding would mean that you’d end up doing a lot less creating. A lot.

I’ve thought before about how the ideal solution would be for a bunch of like-minded self-publishers/comics-crowdfunders to band together and function as a publisher. Everyone does their own thing, gets their books printed on their own, and solicits as a group.

Realistically, though, that’s a tax and accounting nightmare. And it’s completely unrealistic in terms of division of labor. Who is the point person for distributors? Does one person handle Diamond and another does Lunar? What if one person is late on fulfillment?

Not a realistic solution. It just wouldn’t work.

I’ve wondered if there’s a publisher out there would would be willing to take on books that have been crowdfunded and printed, functioning, essentially, as a distributor to Diamond and Lunar. It’s a turn-key operation for them. No risk in terms of print cost.

For the creator, the print run is paid for, and it makes use of additional stock beyond what can be sold at shows. That’s worth splitting revenue from the Direct Market and sparing the creator a ton of hassle.

For instance, look at my book The Catch. It’s printed on 80 lb paper with a 12 pt cover, both heavier stock than used by most small publishers. It’s designed like that because I wanted to make a beautiful book. The print run is also already paid for.

Take a small publisher who has a small line of books. Another book gives them another solicitation in the Direct Market catalogs without the risk of generating more printing bills (because it’s already printed). It gives them more catalog visibility, again, without risk.

What about the publisher’s brand? If you’re self-publishing, the publisher you’re partnering with doesn’t have their logo on the book.

Again, using The Catch as an example, there’s any empty space on the back cover where a sticker with the publishing partner’s logo could go.

Sure, it’s not a perfect idea. There are a couple of potential pitfalls:

1) The publishing partner wouldn’t get any of the media rights. Because of the potential value of these, this is a sticky subject, even though, as demonstrated above, IP farms don’t work.

2) Launching a new series in the direct market works best with serialization first, as it allows the publisher and creator to promote each issue before the collected edition comes out. That continued promotion, and seeing issues on the stands, creates increased visibility.

Releasing a trade without 4–6 months of individual solicitations, tweets, instagram posts, newsletter mentions, etc is risky. Instead of promoting the book every time a new issue solicits and again when that issue is released, promotion is limited to one solicit and one release. 

But does that really matter? The collected edition’s print costs are paid for, and each copy sold is already at a profit. It’s an instantly evergreen book that a publisher now has in its library, and can be resolicited a couple of times during the year. And subsequent volumes can drive the sales of the first volume (again, “evergreen”).

I dunno. It makes sense to me.

Full disclosure: I’ve jumped into bad publishing deals more than once and that informs my stance. Maybe I’ve just made bad choices or had bad luck, though.

I did a batch of drawings for the ol’ October daily drawing challenge his year. You can see them on the Inktober page of this site, or just follow this link.

And they’re for sale for $50 each, so email SteveBryantArt@gmail.com to get yours. $10 Priority Mail shipping ($10 if you buy one or if you buy a bunch). International shipping? Email me for a quote.

Here’s an overview with which ones have been claimed. I’ll update these as pieces sell.