Manga Bookshelf

Discussion, Resources, Roundtables, & Reviews

Katherine Dacey

Osamu Tezuka’s MW

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mw_coverInvoke Tezuka’s name, and most readers immediately think of Astro Boy, Buddha, and Princess Knight. But there’s a darker side to Tezuka’s oeuvre that dates back to 1953, the year in which he brought Dostoevsky’s tormented Raskolnikov to life in a manga-fied version of Crime and Punishment. It’s this side of Tezuka — the side that acknowledges the human capacity for violence, greed, and deception — that’s on display in MW, a twisty thriller about a sociopath and the priest who loves him.

The central event of MW is a military cover-up. “Nation X,” which maintains a base on Okinawa Mafune, has been stockpiling a top-secret chemical weapon known as MW.1 An explosion releases a poisonous cloud, killing everyone on the island except for two visitors, Iwao Garai and Michio Yuki. Though Garai and Yuki are equally traumatized by this holocaust, their lives diverge wildly over the next fifteen years. Garai embraces the light, becoming a Roman Catholic priest, while Yuki embraces the darkness, embarking on a spree of kidnappings, murders, and extortion schemes meant to punish the politicians, businessmen, and military officials who profited from the subsequent cover-up.

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Osamu Tezuka’s MW

by

Invoke Tezuka’s name, and most readers immediately think of Astro Boy, Buddha, and Princess Knight. But there’s a darker side to Tezuka’s oeuvre that dates back to 1953, the year in which he brought Dostoevsky’s tormented Raskolnikov to life in a manga-fied version of Crime and Punishment. It’s this side of Tezuka — the side that acknowledges the human capacity for violence, greed, and deception — that’s on display in MW, a twisty thriller about a sociopath and the priest who loves him.

The central event of MW is a military cover-up. “Nation X,” which maintains a base on Okinawa Mafune, has been stockpiling a top-secret chemical weapon known as MW.1 An explosion releases a poisonous cloud, killing everyone on the island except for two visitors, Iwao Garai and Michio Yuki. Though Garai and Yuki are equally traumatized by this holocaust, their lives diverge wildly over the next fifteen years. Garai embraces the light, becoming a Roman Catholic priest, while Yuki embraces the darkness, embarking on a spree of kidnappings, murders, and extortion schemes meant to punish the politicians, businessmen, and military officials who profited from the subsequent cover-up.

Superficially, Yuki’s plans might be understood as an eye for an eye, but Yuki is no righteous avenger. He’s a serial killer who relishes torturing his victims, who exploits the secrecy of the confessional to torment Garai with details of his crimes, who uses his androgynous sex appeal to seduce both men and women, and who impersonates his female victims with the skill of a kabuki actor. (And just in case we haven’t yet grasped the true extent of Yuki’s depravity, Tezuka suggests that Yuki has a rather intimate bond with his dog Tomoe.) Even Yuki’s motivation for exposing the MW scandal is purely selfish: Yuki is dying from its lingering effects, and wishes to take millions of people with him to the grave. Though Father Garai hopes to redeem Yuki, he lacks Yuki’s certitude, instead violating his priestly vows — especially that pesky oath of celibacy — as he tries to prevent Yuki from harming anyone else.

MW can certainly be enjoyed as a potboiler. Tezuka spins an entertaining, slightly preposterous yarn, serving up more plot twists, car chases, and gender-bending costume changes than Dressed to Kill and The Manchurian Candidate combined. But it’s also very talky. Characters frequently describe their plans at length instead of just carrying them out; voice-overs interrupt the action to educate us on the history of chemical warfare; and thought balloons reveal little about the interior lives of the characters that couldn’t be inferred from their actions.

MW can be more profitably understood as a meditation on US-Japanese relations during the Vietnam War. The gas attack takes place around 1960, the year the Japanese Diet ratified the Treaty of Mutual Cooperation and Security2, while most of the action takes place in the 1970s, as left-wing student groups were taking to the streets to protest American military presence in Japan. Though MW does include a few demonstrations, Tezuka doesn’t try to dramatize the left wing’s activities so much as the spirit of the movement: “Debunk false democracy!” The politicians in MW are greedy, foolish, and entirely too cozy with “Nation X” military brass. Yet the student radicals don’t fare so well, either; Tezuka renders them as an ineffectual lot whose agenda is riddled with inconsistencies. Only in the ambivalent Father Garai, who desperately wishes to enlighten the public about MW, does Tezuka present a decent, sympathetic figure, someone struggling mightily against hypocrisy and deceit, even as he succumbs to his own sexual demons.

Of course, there’s another level on which MW can be appreciated as well: the artwork. MW is Tezuka at his most restrained; there are no doe-eyed critters, no slapstick, no characters breaking the fourth wall to crack wise about cartooning conventions. (To be sure, there are moments of playfulness: in one memorable sequence, reminiscent of the grand parade in Cleopatra, Yuki impersonates the great gorgons of Aubrey Beardsley’s work, from Salome to the Lady in the Peacock Skirt.) Most of the pages have a surprisingly direct, clean presentation, a neat and orderly progression of squares and rectangles that run in counterpoint to the orgies, bank robberies, high-speed boat chases, and fist-fights they contain. From time to time, however, Tezuka thinks outside the grid, with dramatic results. When Gari and Yuki find themselves on Okinawa Mafune, for example, Tezuka doesn’t depict the actual gas attack. Instead, Tezuka shows us only what Garai and Yuki see after the cloud has dissipated: a mosaic of faces, each contorted into a grotesque death-mask. It’s a potent, haunting moment that suggests both the survivors’ horror upon discovering the bodies and the victims’ excruciatingly painful deaths.

As with all of Tezuka’s works, MW is sprinkled with characters and scenes that may make contemporary readers uncomfortable. The women of MW, for example, are either passive victims — one is rendered an emotional and physical invalid after Yuki rapes her — or venal shrews, with only a brief appearance by a sane lesbian newspaper editor to balance the parade of unflattering female stereotypes. Tezuka’s depiction of homosexuality is similarly frustrating. On the one hand, the newspaper editor refuses to embarrass Garai by outing him in the press, telling him that “gay love is accepted outside Japan”; on the other hand, Garai’s relationship with Yuki has a strong whiff of pedophilia — at least in the opening pages — as Garai is an adult and Yuki a boy at the time of their first encounter. Similar issues dog Apollo’s Song and Swallowing the Earth, yet in MW, Tezuka’s decision to focus exclusively on the problems of Japanese society prevents the story from spinning out of control or sinking under the weight of a few ill-informed portrayals.

Fans of Apollo’s Song, Buddha, and Ode to Kirihito won’t be surprised to learn that Vertical has done a fine job of showcasing Tezuka’s work with a crisp translation, quality binding, and signature Chip Kidd dustjacket. MW won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but if the thought of Tezuka channeling Brian DePalma and John Frankenheimer sounds appealing, you’ll want to add it to your library.

1 MW is pronounced “moo.”
2 The treaty reaffirmed the US military’s commitment to defending Japan against hostile forces, pledged to return captured territories, and extended the US occupation of Okinawa for an additional ten years.

This is a revised version of a review that appeared at PopCultureShock on October 29, 2007. Click here for the original text.

MW • BY OSAMU TEZUKA • VERTICAL, INC. • 582 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

10 Great Global Manga

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Among certain parts of manga fandom, global manga (or OEL manga) is viewed as the comic-book equivalent of New Coke: the packaging might be similar, but the taste is different and, as these fans would have it, not as good as the original. It’s a shame this attitude persists, because there’s a growing community of artists in Europe and the United States whose work isn’t just a slavish imitation of popular Japanese models, but a unique synthesis of Eastern and Western styles. Below, I’ve highlighted ten global manga that best embody this fusion, and throw in a few honorable mentions for good measure.

A few caveats about this list. First, I’ve focused primarily on American artists, as my readership is based in the United States. If there are Canadian, European, Australian, or South American artists who I’ve neglected, please feel free to educate me below. Second, my list does not include manhua or manhwa, as those traditions are more established, and draw on some of the same artistic and cultural traditions as manga. And third, my list does not include such YA franchises as Maximum Ride, Odd Thomas, or Warriors, as I wanted to focus on original works. Got some additional recommendations? Please share them in the comments!

dreaming10. THE DREAMING

QUEENIE CHAN • TOKYOPOP • 3 VOLUMES

Not long after identical twins Jeanie and Amber Malkin enroll at a boarding school in the Australian outback, one of their classmates disappears, triggering a series of eerie, unexplained events. Queenie Chan creates the perfect atmosphere for this Picnic at Hanging Rock meets The Orphanage ghost story; with its Gothic architecture and period furnishings, the school looks like something from a Hammer Studio film, filled with walled-off chambers, mysterious paintings, and apparitions in Victorian dress. The first two volumes are solid and smartly paced, but the third suffers from a bad case of compression; one wishes that Tokyopop had given Chan four volumes instead of three so that Chan could show more and tell less. Still, it’s impossible to deny this emerging artist’s considerable talent, and easy to see why Del Rey hired her to adapt Odd Thomas from novel to manga. (Originally reviewed at PopCultureShock on 12/6/06.)

offbeat19. OFF*BEAT

JEN LEE QUICK • TOKYOPOP • 2 VOLUMES (suspended)

Off*Beat, an ambitious mixture of science fiction, realism, and romance, focuses on Tory, a smart, lonely teen who lives with his mother in Queens. When a boy his own age moves in across the street, Tory becomes infatuated with Colin, observing and recording Colin’s behavior in a journal, and angling to become Colin’s math tutor. Midway through the story, Jen Lee Quick introduces a subplot that hints at Colin’s involvement with something called the Gaia Project — an organization that may be responsible for Colin’s mysterious blackouts. Unfortunately, Tokyopop pulled the plug on the third and final volume; we’ll never know if the Gaia conspiracy is real or a product of Tory’s vivid imagination. Either way, Off*Beat is an engrossing read that vividly evokes urban life and thoughtfully explores the boundaries between same-sex friendship and romance.

bluemonday18. BLUE MONDAY

CHYNNA CLUGSTON • ONI PRESS • 4 VOLUMES

Though Chynna Clugston’s artwork suggests a strong manga influence, her take-no-guff female characters are a welcome departure from the plain Janes and trembling wallflowers found throughout shojo mangadom. Blue Monday charts the ups and downs of Bleu Finnegan, a California teen whose enthusiasms are all over the map: Adam Ant albums, Buster Keaton flicks, vintage mod fashions. Bleu spends most of her time hanging out with a small posse of friends that include Clover, an Irish ex-pat; Alan, a sex-addled player; Victor, a reformed Goth; Erin, a scheming frenemy; and Monkeyboy, an underclassman who hides behind a curtain of hair. At times, the stories feel a little frenetic, but Clugston does a fine job of capturing this co-ed group’s dynamic, from the endless your-mama jokes to the earnest pop culture analysis. Too bad no one from Minx thought to commission a book from Clugston, as Blue Monday‘s frank, free-wheeling humor and girl-positive message would have been a welcome addition to their line.

japan_ai7. JAPAN AI: A TALL GIRL’S ADVENTURES IN JAPAN

AIMEE MAJOR STEINBERGER • GO! COMI • 1 VOLUME

In ten charmingly illustrated chapters, animator and avid cosplayer Aimee Major Steinberger documents her 2007 trip to Japan, where she visited otaku hotspots from the manga shops of Akihabara to the back door of the Takarazuka Revue. Steinberger’s simple but evocative art does a beautiful job conveying both the essential strangeness of being a tall American woman in Japan and the sheer joy of being a fangirl in the otaku motherland. The only drawback to Japan-Ai is the packaging: the sparkling pink cover and bubbly font — presumably derived from Steinberger’s handwriting — may deter male readers from purchasing a book that looks suspiciously like a SnoBall. That’s a pity, because Steinberger’s narrative is funny and informative, filled with the kind of interesting digressions on kogal fashions, Takarazuka fan culture, and onsen etiquette that any budding Japanophile would find enlightening. (Originally reviewed at PopCultureShock on 12/19/07.)

empowered16. EMPOWERED

ADAM WARREN • DARK HORSE • 6+ VOLUMES (ongoing)

Empowered is a unique crossover, a manga-influenced comic that parodies tights-and-capes conventions with raunchy gusto. Its heroine, Elissa Megan Powers, a.k.a. Empowered, is a superhero who struggles with self-esteem issues and social anxiety — two problems compounded by her utterly unreliable super-suit, which is prone to ripping and exposing her at inopportune moments. In less skillful hands, Empowered would be pure cheesecake, but Adam Warren manages the difficult trick of drawing a heroine whose costume failures do more than just titillate (if you’ll pardon the expression), they shed light on the objectification of female superheroes in mainstream American comics. Warren also has a ball satirizing manga, as Empowered’s best friend is a reformed villainess imaginatively named Ninjette. Rude, silly fun.

12days5. 12 DAYS

JUNE KIM • TOKYOPOP • 1 VOLUME

When Jackie’s ex-girlfriend Noah dies in a car accident, Jackie decides that the best strategy for coping with her grief is to consume Noah’s ashes in the form of a daily smoothie. Over the course of twelve days, Jackie punishes herself with this gruesome ritual while confronting painful memories of Noah and sparring with Noah’s brother Nick. Though the smoothie conceit is self-consciously literary — Jackie’s ash-drinking ritual has an analog in classical antiquity — June Kim’s book remains true to life, filled with lovely, quiet observations about the way we grieve, define family, express desire, and remember moments of hurt and betrayal. Kim dares to fill up pages with nothing more than realistically drawn close-ups of faces and hands, allowing us to experience the characters’ emptiness for ourselves. Some poor design choices on Tokyopop’s part — namely, a hideous font — mar, but don’t ruin, Kim’s carefully composed layouts. (Originally reviewed at PopCultureShock on 12/6/06.)

kingcity14. KING CITY

BRANDON GRAHAM • IMAGE COMICS/TOKYOPOP • 1+ VOLUME (first volume was reissued by Image Comics in shorter installments; series is ongoing)

King City was one of several titles stuck in limbo when Tokyopop restructured its global manga initiative, eventually finding a new home and a new (floppy) format at Image Comics. The larger trim size suits the material, giving Brandon Graham’s detailed cityscapes and characters a little more room to breathe. The story is an agreeable mess, chronicling the adventures of Joe, a twenty-something dude with a talent for picking locks and getting mixed up in dangerous (read: illegal) activities. Aiding him is Earthling J. J. Catterworth the Third, a cat capable of transforming into whatever tool Joe needs — a weapon, a periscope — and Joe’s geeky sidekick Pete. Though the story sometimes has a forced zaniness to it, Graham is an imaginative cartoonist capable of drawing anything from super-sexy Gothic girls to dinosaurs. His affection for manga is evident throughout the series, most notably in his use of evocative but silly sound effects, and in his fondness for extreme camera angles… just because.

yokaiden_cover23. YOKAIDEN

NINA MATSUMOTO • DEL REY • 2 VOLUMES (suspended)

Nina Matsumoto made a splash back in 2007 with a manga-fied rendition of the entire Simpsons cast. What could have been a passing moment of Internet notoriety helped open doors for her, however, leading to an offer from Del Rey to pitch an original story. The result is Yokaiden, a supernatural adventure about a young boy whose knowledge of and trust in yokai is put to the test when a vengeful kappa steals his grandmother’s soul.  Among the many pleasures of Matsumoto’s smartly paced series are the yokai themselves; her demons would be right at home in the Hokusai Manga or an eighteenth-century scroll painting. The script is a little tin-eared at times, but the humor and stylish artwork more than compensate for a few clunky passages.

nightschool-22. NIGHTSCHOOL: THE WEIRN BOOKS

SVETLANA CHMAKOVA • YEN PRESS • 4 VOLUMES

At first glance, Nightschool looks the product of a teen focus group, a mash-up of Twilight, Harry Potter, and a dozen other fantasy series starring vampires and wizards. A closer look, however, reveals that Svetlana Chmakova has fashioned an engrossing supernatural mystery from elements of domestic drama, horror, and humor: an eye-of-newt solution comes with a “may contain peanuts” warning, a beleaguered headmaster finds an ingenious solution for including vampires in the high school yearbook. (They don’t show up on film.) Chmakova doesn’t skimp on the action, either, staging scenes of nocturnal combat with great aplomb. Perhaps most exciting thing about Nightschool is seeing the degree to which her storytelling has evolved since she burst on the scene in 2005; though Chmakova’s trademark style is immediately recognizable, the layouts are looser and more dynamic than Dramacon‘s, playing a more integral role in advancing the plot.

scottpilgrim51. SCOTT PILGRIM

BRYAN LEE O’MALLEY • ONI PRESS • 6 VOLUMES

In case you’ve been living under a rock, here’s the deal with Scott Pilgrim: this goofy series documents the romantic misadventures of a twenty-three-year-old slacker who must defeat The League of Evil Ex-Boyfriends, a loose consortium of his new girlfriend’s previous lovers. Scott’s travails are an apt metaphor for the way most of us feel when we embark on a new relationship: we’d like to leave our baggage behind and make a fresh start of things, but it usually takes a whole lot of effort — and maybe some Mortal Kombat — to get there. Though the plot is fun and fast-paced, what really makes Scott Pilgrim work is the deft way Bryan Lee O’Malley pokes fun at hipster culture; everyone has something to knowingly laugh at, from classic video games to indie rock lyrics. (Originally reviewed at PopCultureShock on 11/14/07.)

HONORABLE MENTIONS

GOTHIC SPORTS (By Anike Hage • Tokyopop • 3 volumes, ongoing): This German import focuses on Anya, a transfer student desperate to join one of her new school’s top-ranked sports teams. Her efforts are frustrated both by her lack of skill and the school’s limited opportunities for female athletes. Anya refuses to be sidelined, however, and forms a co-ed soccer team notable for its inclusiveness and its stylin’ uniforms. The pacing is a little slow, and the backgrounds aren’t nearly as well rendered as the characters — or their elaborate outfits, for that matter — but Gothic Sports serves up a good mix of drama, humor, and game play. (Originally reviewed at PopCultureShock on 9/26/07.)

HOLLOW FIELDS (By Madeline Rosca • Seven Seas • 3 volumes): Nine-year-old Lucy Snow is bound for the genteel halls of Saint Galbat’s Academy for Young Ladies, but bad directions from a stranger lead her instead to Hollow Fields, a.k.a. Miss Weaver’s Academy for the Scientifically Gifted and Ethically Unfettered. Though Lucy’s gut instinct is to flee, she enrolls at Miss Weaver’s school—after all, the tuition is free and her private room has its own bath. What Lucy discovers is that Miss Weaver has been culling the student body, sending the slackers to a detention center from which no one has returned. Looking at Madeline Rosca’s crisp character designs and steampunk setting, it’s easy to see why Hollow Fields nabbed an International Manga Award in 2007: her art is the real deal. The story’s brisk pace and macabre sense of humor are pluses, too. (Originally reviewed at PopCultureShock, 7/12/07).

MANGA SHAKESPEARE: OTHELLO (By Ryuta Osada • Self-Made Hero • 1 volume): I’ll be honest: I’ve been unimpressed with many of Self-Made Hero’s Manga Shakespeare volumes, both for the unpolished artwork and for the editorial handling of the Bard’s best-known speeches. Ryuta Osada’s adaptation of Othello is a notable exception, with strong, arresting visuals, and an anthropomorphic approach to character design that puts a fresh spin on the material. Enjoyable whether you’re tackling Othello for sophomore English or revisiting it for the fifth time.

RE:PLAY (By C. Lijewski • Tokyopop • 3 volumes): Drawing on a variety of musical and manga influences — Linkin Park, Naked Ape, and Tite Kubo among them — Christy Lijewski tells the story of a struggling band whose fortunes change when they meet a stranger busking on the streets. The catch: mystery man Iszak may not be human. The supernatural element sometimes feels as if it’s been grafted onto a more conventional rock-n-roll drama, but the crisp dialogue and unique artwork more than offset a few moments of dramatic weakness. (Click here for my review of volume three at Good Comics for Kids; click here for my 2008 interview with Lijewski at PopCultureShock.)

SORCERERS & SECRETARIES (By Amy Kim Ganter • Tokyopop • 2 volumes) This two-volume romance explores the relationship between mousy Nicole Hayes, an aspiring fantasy writer, and flirtatious Josh Kim, an aspiring ladies’ man. Like many series in Tokyopop’s OEL line, Sorcerers & Secretaries feels pat, as the obstacles in the couple’s way — she wants to write, he wants to take her on a date — are really nothing more than speed bumps. Ganter pulls off the difficult balancing act between respecting her characters’ motivations and recognizing the youthful naivete of their beliefs, however, preventing this sweet, sincere story from becoming sappy. (Originally reviewed at PopCultureShock on 6/7/07.)

TALKING TO STRANGERS (Stories by Fehed Said, Art by Chloe Citrine, Sonia Leong, Nana Li, Win Yun Man, and Faye Yong • Sweatdrop Studios • 1 volume): This six-story collection runs the gamut, subject- and style-wise, from horror to comedy, making it a good introduction to the writers and artists of British manga publisher Sweatdrop Studios. (Click here for my review at The Manga Critic.)

Bride of the Water God, Vols. 1-5

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boftwg1There are two things to know about Bride of the Water God before you begin reading: first, the artwork is stunningly beautiful, and second, the story takes frequent, confusing detours that are almost impossible to explain, given what we know about the characters. If you find yourself vacillating between “Oh, so pretty!” and “Sweet Jesus, that makes no sense!”, know that you’re not alone.

The story begins with a human sacrifice. In a rural village plagued by drought, town elders try to appease Habaek, the water god, with an offering of a “bride.” They place Soah, a stoic young beauty, in a leaky boat and set her adrift on a nearby lake. Instead of drowning, however, Soah washes ashore in the enchanted kingdom of Sugok, home of the water god. Habaek reveals himself to Soah not as the grotesque, man-eating creature she imagined he would be, but as a ten-year-old boy who presides over a lively court of deities. As she begins to explore Habaek’s sprawling palace, her initial relief turns to fear: Nakbin, Habaek’s previous wife, died under mysterious, possibly violent, circumstances that no one will discuss openly.

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Sexy Voice and Robo and Harriet the Spy

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harriet2First published in 1964, Harriet the Spy featured a radically different kind of heroine than the sweet, obedient girls found in most mid-century juvenile lit; Harriet was bossy, self-centered, and confident, with a flair for self-dramatization and a foul mouth. She favored fake glasses, blue jeans, and a “spy tool” belt over angora sweaters or skirts, and she roamed the streets of Manhattan doing the kind of reckless, bold things that were supposed to be off-limits to girls: peering through skylights, hiding in alleys, concealing herself in dumbwaiters, filling her notebooks with scathing observations about classmates and neighbors. Perhaps the most original aspect of Louise Fitzhugh’s character was Harriet’s complete and utter commitment to the idea of being a writer; unlike Nancy Drew, Harriet wasn’t a goody-goody sleuth who wanted to help others, but a ruthless observer of human folly who viewed spying as necessary preparation for becoming an author.

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Sexy Voice and Robo and Harriet the Spy

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harriet2First published in 1964, Harriet the Spy featured a radically different kind of heroine than the sweet, obedient girls found in most mid-century juvenile lit; Harriet was bossy, self-centered, and confident, with a flair for self-dramatization and a foul mouth. She favored fake glasses, blue jeans, and a “spy tool” belt over angora sweaters or skirts, and she roamed the streets of Manhattan doing the kind of reckless, bold things that were supposed to be off-limits to girls: peering through skylights, hiding in alleys, concealing herself in dumbwaiters, filling her notebooks with scathing observations about classmates and neighbors. Perhaps the most original aspect of Louise Fitzhugh’s character was Harriet’s complete and utter commitment to the idea of being a writer; unlike Nancy Drew, Harriet wasn’t a goody-goody sleuth who wanted to help others, but a ruthless observer of human folly who viewed spying as necessary preparation for becoming an author.

Even now, nearly sixty years after Harriet the Spy first appeared in print, it still seems like a radical text. Fitzhugh helped usher in an era of young adult fiction featuring tough, psychologically complex heroines who weren’t always likable, characters like the plain, frizzy-haired Meg Murray of A Wrinkle in Time or the smart, prickly Galadriel Hopkins of The Great Gilly Hopkins. Yet Harriet remains in her own special class. Unlike Meg or Gilly, she isn’t the heroine of an inter-dimensional sci-fi epic or a gritty, realistic drama; she’s the heroine of her own story, a self-mythologizing character who inhabits a highly romanticized version of the adult world.

sexy_voiceNico Hayashi, code name “Sexy Voice,” is a bit older than Harriet — Nico is 14, Harriet is 11 — but she’s cut from the same bolt of cloth, as Sexy Voice and Robo amply demonstrates. Like Harriet, Nico entertains fanciful ambitions: “I want to be a spy when I grow up, or maybe a fortune teller,” she informs her soon-to-be-employer. “Either way, I’m in training. A pro has to hone her skills.” Nico, too, has a spy outfit — in her case, comprised of a wig and falsies — and an assortment of “spy tools” that include her cell phone and a stamp that allows her to forge her parents’ signature on notes excusing her from school. Like Harriet, Nico hungers for the kind of adventure that’s supposed to be off-limits to girls, skipping school to pursue leads, analyzing a kidnapper’s ransom call, luring bad guys into traps. Most importantly, both girls are students of adult behavior. Both Harriet the Spy and Sexy Voice and Robo include a scene in which the heroine constructs detailed character profiles from a few snippets of conversation. The similarities between these moments are striking. In Fitzhugh’s book, Harriet visits a neighborhood diner, nursing an egg cream while listening to other customers’ conversations:

Sometimes she would play a game and not look at the people until from listening to them she had decided what they looked like. Then she would turn around and see if she were right… Her egg cream finished, Harriet summed up her guesses. The boy with the rat father would be skinny, have black hair, and a lot of pimples. The lawyer who won all his cases would be short, puffy-looking, and be leaning forward. She got no picture of the shadeless girl, but decided she must be fat. She turned around.

In Sexy Voice and Robo, we first meet Nico in a restaurant. She’s stationed herself in a booth with a pair of binoculars, studying an assortment of men who have unwittingly arranged to meet her via the tele-club where Nico moonlights. When questioned about her behavior by another patron, Nico cheerfully explains:

See those men down there holding papers? I’m conducting research on them… observing… connecting their voices to the way they look and move.

Like Harriet, Nico is rather dismissive of her subjects, concluding that one man is “fixated on social status” and “needs to feel above the women he’s with” from his “clear but flat voice,” while declaring another is “just after sex” because “he’s got kind of a reedy voice and he mumbles a lot.” But while the accuracy of Nico’s observations go unchallenged, Harriet’s turn out to be a mixture of hits and misses:

At first she couldn’t tell. Then she saw the by with black hair and pimples. She felt a surge of triumph. She looked at what must be the lawyer, one of two men. Then she listened to see of he were the one. No, the other one was the lawyer. He wasn’t short and fat, he was long and thin with a handsome face. She consoled herself with a faint puffiness he had around the eyes.

Well, no wonder she won’t walk around in a slip, Harriet thought, looking at the girl with no shades; she’s the fattest thing I ever saw.

Manga-ka Iou Kuroda never contradicts Nico’s conclusions, though as the story unfolds, we realize the degree to which Nico sees what she wants to see, and not necessarily what’s there. Late in the volume, for example, Nico’s employer dispatches her to retrieve a key from a crafty old woman who, Nico discovers, was a professional spy. It’s a fascinating chapter on many levels; we’re never entirely sure if we’re watching a real event or something from Nico’s imagination, nor is it obvious whether Nico grasps that the old woman led a far less glamorous life than the kind of life Nico envisions for herself. “I did it because I was good with languages and wasn’t very pretty,” the old woman tells Nico. “Sometimes it’s your skills and not your will that sets you on your path.”

The other striking similarity between Harriet the Spy and Sexy Voice and Robo is the degree to which the city plays an essential role in the story, providing an exciting playground for Harriet and Nico to act out their spy fantasies, and shaping their impressions of adult behavior. In Harriet the Spy, Fitzhugh renders Harriet’s particular corner of the Upper East Side in vivid detail, describing its fancy apartment buildings and down-at-the-heels boarding houses, and contrasting the neat, tree-lined street where Harriet lives with the louder, dirtier, bustling streets of Yorktown, then a working class German-Italian enclave. We see the neighborhood through Harriet’s eyes, as a collection of hiding spaces and vantage points for studying adults up close: the plump divorcee who spends all day in bed talking on the telephone, the lonely craftsman who hides twenty-six cats from the health code inspector, the father (hers, to be exact) who retires to his study to nurse a martini or three.

In Sexy Voice and Robo, Kuroda shows us Tokyo through Nico’s eyes, as a vibrant collection of shopping districts lined with places perfect for clandestine activities: cafes, movie houses, love hotels, bookshops, subway stations. Kuroda doesn’t employ the usual shortcuts for establishing the Tokyo landscape — skyscrapers and towers — but offers a pedestrian-eye view of the city, populating each setting with colorful characters, filling shop windows with merchandise, and suggesting street noise with evocative sound effects. From time to time, Kuroda takes us into less familiar places; in chapter eleven, for example, Nico finds the retired spy living in a serene residential neighborhood, her house concealed by a screen of trees and shrubs, while in chapter three, Nico attends a soccer match at a crowded stadium. Though these locations stand in stark contrast to the more built-up urban environment in which most of the story takes place, we can see how both locales complement Nico’s romantic notions about where, what, and how a spy conducts her business; Nico’s adventures never take her anyplace grungy or prosaic, nor do they take her to customary teen haunts. In her mind, she’s more adult than the adults around her, and as a consequence imagines herself living in the grown-up world.

Which brings me back to my original observation about Nico: like Harriet, she’s a self-mythologizer, the star of her very own spy novel. Though we, the readers, can appreciate the degree to which Nico’s fantasies shape her perception of what’s happening, we still find her an appealing, true-to-life character whose pluck and insight set her apart from her peers. Nico, like Harriet, has big dreams that aren’t hemmed in by gender or age; she isn’t the least bit worried about appearances or impressing a boy or solving mysteries for the good of all, but in hustling a few bucks and training for an exciting career as a spy… or a fortune teller. I can’t imagine a more welcome role model for teenage girls.

This essay is one contribution to this week’s Moveable Manga Feast, a virtual book club in which bloggers share thoughts about a favorite series. For additional entries, please visit The Manga Curmudgeon, where host David Welsh has posted reviews, interviews, and links to essays exploring Sexy Voice and Robo from a variety of angles.

HARRIET THE SPY • WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY LOUISE FITZHUGH • RANDOM HOUSE • 300 pp. • AGES 10 AND UP

SEXY VOICE AND ROBO • BY IOU KURODA • VIZ • 394 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

The Box Man

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BoxmanA few weeks ago, Salon columnist Laura Miller offered a radical suggestion for bookworms: make a New Year’s resolution to read outside your comfort zone. Though I like to think my manga-reading habits are broad and adventurous, I cheerfully acknowledge that there are certain categories that I strenuously avoid. All things mecha, for example: I lost interest in Bokurano Ours when I realized that it would be a grim variation on the standard children-piloting-giant-robots scenario. Underground manga, for another: I know as a manga critic I’m supposed to think Short Cuts and Mr. Arashi’s Amazing Freak Show are brilliant, sophisticated, daring, etc., but their disturbing imagery made me kind of queasy. These are blind spots, I know, so I decided to address my hang-ups head-on by making 2010 The Year of Reading Everything.

The Box Man (Drawn & Quarterly), my first experiment, reminded me why I usually shun books that purport to “push even the limitless boundaries of the comic book medium”: that phrase seems to be a coded way of saying “weird stuff that might strike normal folk as ugly, pointless, or offensive.” And indeed, The Box Man certainly challenges the “boundaries of the medium,” if not the boundaries of good taste: the art has a studied naivete, there’s no real plot to speak of, and there are numerous images that verge on tokusatsu porn. (More on that in a minute.)

The Box Man is a collection of trippy set-pieces connected by a baldly literal conceit: a journey. The book opens with a man in sunglasses and his companion, a cat with a carapace, loading a box onto the back of a scooter. The two then set off into the night, encountering goons, wrestlers, aliens, two-headed pigs, VW-sized protozoa, and lounge singers in the back alleys and sewers of an unnamed city. Though they’re chased and menaced throughout the book, there isn’t an obvious rationale for any of the activity; it’s action for action’s sake. The lack of plot isn’t fatal, but when the goings-on include wrestling matches that pit monsters against humans in grotesquely sexual ways… well, call me a nice Irish Catholic girl, but it seems like those sequences ought to serve some clear purpose. (They don’t.) Even my attempts to contextualize these images within the greater history of shunga print-making only went so far; yes, I can see these images’ relationship to, say, The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife, but no, I’ve never had the urge to frame something like that and hang it over my sofa, nor do I find the Creature Double Feature angle a playful update on the tradition.

It’s a shame that these images take up so much space in the middle of the book, as it’s obvious that creator Imiri Sakabashira has a fertile imagination. Sakabashira loves to take the familiar and make it strange, grafting a human head onto a crab’s body, for example, or stocking the local fish market with the kind of toothy critters normally found miles below the ocean’s surface. It’s also undeniable that Sakabashira has serious drawing chops; his streetscapes have a vital energy and specificity that’s missing from a lot of manga, filled with meticulously-drawn signs, clothes lines groaning under the weight of laundry, weedy lots, and tangled power lines.

Yet for all the obvious craft that went into The Box Man, I could never quite abandon myself to the artwork. I’ve always found surrealism one of the shallower manifestations of modernism, an overly intellectualized attempt to repackage Romantic interest in dreams, the supernatural, and the occult as a penetrating critique of positivism. I would never deny the artistry of Dali or Ernst, but I would never put their best work on par with, say, Picasso’s, as those melting clocks and fireside angels always seemed more like stunts than meaningful statements about the modern condition. The same problem bedevils The Box Man: it’s vivid and hallucinatory and nightmarish, yet in the end, all that furious activity doesn’t signify very much.

THE BOX MAN • BY IMIRI SAKABASHIRA • DRAWN & QUARTERLY • 124 pp. • NO RATING (BEST SUITED FOR MATURE AUDIENCES)

The Box Man

by

A few weeks ago, Salon columnist Laura Miller offered a radical suggestion for bookworms: make a New Year’s resolution to read outside your comfort zone. Though I like to think my manga-reading habits are broad and adventurous, I cheerfully acknowledge that there are certain categories that I strenuously avoid. All things mecha, for example: I lost interest in Bokurano Ours when I realized that it would be a grim variation on the standard children-piloting-giant-robots scenario. Underground manga, for another: I know as a manga critic I’m supposed to think Short Cuts and Mr. Arashi’s Amazing Freak Show are brilliant, sophisticated, daring, etc., but their disturbing imagery made me kind of queasy. These are blind spots, I know, so I decided to address my hang-ups head-on by making 2010 The Year of Reading Everything.

The Box Man (Drawn & Quarterly), my first experiment, reminded me why I usually shun books that purport to “push even the limitless boundaries of the comic book medium”: that phrase seems to be a coded way of saying “weird stuff that might strike normal folk as ugly, pointless, or offensive.” And indeed, The Box Man certainly challenges the “boundaries of the medium,” if not the boundaries of good taste: the art has a studied naivete, there’s no real plot to speak of, and there are numerous images that verge on tokusatsu porn. (More on that in a minute.)

The Box Man is a collection of trippy set-pieces connected by a baldly literal conceit: a journey. The book opens with a man in sunglasses and his companion, a cat with a carapace, loading a box onto the back of a scooter. The two then set off into the night, encountering goons, wrestlers, aliens, two-headed pigs, VW-sized protozoa, and lounge singers in the back alleys and sewers of an unnamed city. Though they’re chased and menaced throughout the book, there isn’t an obvious rationale for any of the activity; it’s action for action’s sake. The lack of plot isn’t fatal, but when the goings-on include wrestling matches that pit monsters against humans in grotesquely sexual ways… well, call me a nice Irish Catholic girl, but it seems like those sequences ought to serve some clear purpose. (They don’t.) Even my attempts to contextualize these images within the greater history of shunga print-making only went so far; yes, I can see these images’ relationship to, say, The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife, but no, I’ve never had the urge to frame something like that and hang it over my sofa, nor do I find the Creature Double Feature angle a playful update on the tradition.

It’s a shame that these images take up so much space in the middle of the book, as it’s obvious that creator Imiri Sakabashira has a fertile imagination. Sakabashira loves to take the familiar and make it strange, grafting a human head onto a crab’s body, for example, or stocking the local fish market with the kind of toothy critters normally found miles below the ocean’s surface. It’s also undeniable that Sakabashira has serious drawing chops; his streetscapes have a vital energy and specificity that’s missing from a lot of manga, filled with meticulously-drawn signs, clothes lines groaning under the weight of laundry, weedy lots, and tangled power lines.

Yet for all the obvious craft that went into The Box Man, I could never quite abandon myself to the artwork. I’ve always found surrealism one of the shallower manifestations of modernism, an overly intellectualized attempt to repackage Romantic interest in dreams, the supernatural, and the occult as a penetrating critique of positivism. I would never deny the artistry of Dali or Ernst, but I would never put their best work on par with, say, Picasso’s, as those melting clocks and fireside angels always seemed more like stunts than meaningful statements about the modern condition. The same problem bedevils The Box Man: it’s vivid and hallucinatory and nightmarish, yet in the end, all that furious activity doesn’t signify very much.

THE BOX MAN • BY IMIRI SAKABASHIRA • DRAWN & QUARTERLY • 124 pp. • NO RATING (BEST SUITED FOR MATURE AUDIENCES)

Ultimo, Vol. 1

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ultimo1The scene: a country road in twelfth-century Japan. The players: Yamato, a bandit with a Robin Hood streak; Dr. Dunstan, a Westerner in sunglasses and a flashy yukata; and Yamato’s gang. The robbers surround Dunstan to search his cart for anything of worth, settling on two large crates. Though Dunstan warns them that the consequences of opening the boxes will be dire — “if you wake them, you will die,” he explains — Yamato ignores his advice, prying off the lids to discover what look like two porcelain boys. Both figures spring to life, with Vice — the “ultimate evil one,” in case you didn’t guess from his name — slaughtering six robbers in short order. Though Yamato is badly outclassed — he has a sword, Vice has a variety of lethal powers that would be the envy of the US military — he vows to defend his friends. Yamato’s brave gesture gives the second doll, Ultimo, an opening to jump into the battle and send Vice packing.

Flash forward to the present: a teenage slacker named Yamato is searching for a one-of-a-kind birthday gift for a pretty classmate when he stumbles across an odd-looking puppet in an antique store. Though Yamato has never seen the puppet before, he’s overwhelmed by a sense of deja vu. Much to his surprise, the puppet’s eyes open, and he lunges forward shouting, “Nine centuries, Yamato-sama! Ultimo missed you very much!” Before Yamato can fully ponder the implications of Ultimo’s outburst, Vice appears on the scene, forcing Yamato and Ultimo into a bus-throwing, glass-shattering smackdown in the streets of Tokyo.

…

Read More

Raiders, Vol. 1

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Raiders_v1If I’ve learned anything from my limited study of horror films, it’s this: zombies come in two flavors. The first type are slow, shambling, and stupid, posing little threat to the hero until they reach a critical mass — say, enough to surround the pub or shopping mall where the hero has hunkered down to await help. The second type are swift of foot and mind, making them a far greater menace to humanity. Raiders is positively crawling with the second type, giving this preposterous yet entertaining story a jolt of visceral energy. Figuratively and literally.

Raiders‘ plot hinges on the kind of conspiracy theory that’s the stock-and-trade of Dan Brown. Early in volume one, we learn that Jesus’ blood was collected by His disciplines in five bottles, or chrisms, which were stashed in churches around the world for safekeeping. His blood is a highly desirable commodity, as it has the power to heal life-threatening wounds and resurrect the dead. Not surprisingly, numerous parties are interested in finding the chrisms, though for very different reasons. Professor Wilter Langhem, for example, wants to unravel one of the Church’s oldest and deepest mysteries, whereas Lamia, a zombie with a passion for Gothic fashion, hopes Christ’s blood will end her earthly purgatory.

…

Read More

Happy Cafe, Vol. 1

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HappyCafe01_cvr.inddTwo Guys, a Girl, and a Pastry Shop might be a better title for this rom-com about a teen who waits tables at the neighborhood bakery, as the characters are so nondescript I had trouble remembering their names. The girl, Uru, is as generic as shojo heroines come: she’s a spunky, klutzy high school student who blushes and stammers around hot guys, bemoans her flat chest, and wins people over with her intense sincerity. The two guys — Shindo, a moody jerk whose boorishness masks a kind nature, and Ichiro, a cheerful slacker — are just as forgettable, despite the manga-ka’s efforts to assign them novel tics and traits. Shindo, for example, turns out to be a genius who finished high school at fifteen, while Ichiro suffers from hunger-induced narcolepsy, keeling over any time his blood sugar drops.

The plot, like the characters, has a similarly generic quality. At the beginning of volume one, Uru walks past Cafe Bonheur, overhearing a conversation between two giggling, satisfied customers. She then resolves to land a gig at the “Happy Cafe,” as she calls it, but is nearly defeated by the job interview: she accidentally breaks the front door, endures rude comments from Shindo about her youthful appearance (she looks ten), and nearly falls over Ichiro, who’s sprawled, unconscious, on the kitchen floor. (Shindo administers first aid in the form of a bun, reviving his co-worker.) Undeterred, Uru pleads with Shindo for a job, eventually persuading him to hire her on a trial basis. Broken dishes and spilled coffee notwithstanding, Uru quickly insinuates herself into Shindo and Ichiro’s lives.

…

Read More

Happy Cafe, Vol. 1

by

Two Guys, a Girl, and a Pastry Shop might be a better title for this rom-com about a teen who waits tables at the neighborhood bakery, as the characters are so nondescript I had trouble remembering their names. The girl, Uru, is as generic as shojo heroines come: she’s a spunky, klutzy high school student who blushes and stammers around hot guys, bemoans her flat chest, and wins people over with her intense sincerity. The two guys — Shindo, a moody jerk whose boorishness masks a kind nature, and Ichiro, a cheerful slacker — are just as forgettable, despite the manga-ka’s efforts to assign them novel tics and traits. Shindo, for example, turns out to be a genius who finished high school at fifteen, while Ichiro suffers from hunger-induced narcolepsy, keeling over any time his blood sugar drops.

The plot, like the characters, has a similarly generic quality. At the beginning of volume one, Uru walks past Cafe Bonheur, overhearing a conversation between two giggling, satisfied customers. She then resolves to land a gig at the “Happy Cafe,” as she calls it, but is nearly defeated by the job interview: she accidentally breaks the front door, endures rude comments from Shindo about her youthful appearance (she looks ten), and nearly falls over Ichiro, who’s sprawled, unconscious, on the kitchen floor. (Shindo administers first aid in the form of a bun, reviving his co-worker.) Undeterred, Uru pleads with Shindo for a job, eventually persuading him to hire her on a trial basis. Broken dishes and spilled coffee notwithstanding, Uru quickly insinuates herself into Shindo and Ichiro’s lives.

Happy Cafe aims for a mixture of wacky comedy and heartfelt drama, but doesn’t quite succeed on either count. The humor is mild but not very funny; the few good gags — Uru’s super-strength, Ichiro’s ability to nap anywhere, anytime — are repeated with little variation until they cease to register as jokes. The drama, too, is tepid and predictable; every conflict is resolved so neatly and sweetly that a strong whiff of pointlessness hangs over the whole enterprise. Early in the volume, for example, we learn that Uru is living on her own, thanks to her mother’s decision to marry a younger man. Uru misses her mom terribly, but worries that her presence interferes with mom’s new relationship. So far, so good: the idea of a mother allowing her sixteen-year-old to live alone is a little ridiculous, but the set-up could yield some juicy, emotional scenes. Matsuzuki squanders that potential by resolving the conflict in a matter of three pages: mom and stepdad beg Uru to return, Uru asserts her desire to visit but maintain her independence, and her parents shower her with affection. The end.

Matsuzuki’s artwork is serviceable, if not memorable. Her characters are virtually indistinguishable from the cast of Me & My Brothers, right down to their perfectly messy hair, rail-thin frames, and noseless faces. Matsuzuki struggles with more ambitious perspective drawings; some of her attempts to place characters on different levels in the picture plane result in unnaturally foreshortened bodies. Where Matsuzuki’s art shines is in her characters’ nuanced facial expressions. Uru’s round, open visage registers a convincing range of emotions, from embarrassment to loneliness to indignation. On those occasions when Uru smiles — sweetly or with mischievous intent — it’s easy to grasp why the terminally grouchy Shindo keeps her around, as the character radiates joy.

If I were to compare Happy Cafe with baked goods, I’d say it reminds me of a Duncan Hines cake mix: it’s easy to follow, yields predictable results, and, while sweet, is curiously bland. Readers in search of manga comfort food could certainly do worse than this sugary dramedy, though I’d steer more adventurous souls towards The Antique Bakery or Cafe Kichijoji de, both of which are funnier, tastier, and sexier than this by-the-book shojo title.

HAPPY CAFE, VOL. 1 • BY KOU MATSUZUKI • TOKYOPOP • 192 pp. • RATING: TEEN

On Criticism: Why Editing Matters

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Have you ever read a review that was so riddled with misspelled words, grammatical errors, or nonsensical phrases that you began to keep a mental tally of the gaffes instead of following the author’s argument? I have. And while it would be easy to make light of such reviews, I feel compassion for the writer. I’ve made more than my share of mistakes online, from misspelling an author’s name to penning a sentence so tortured that, in hindsight, I wasn’t even certain what I meant. The majority of these mistakes can be chalked up to one thing: failing to edit my work carefully. Deadlines, job pressures, and personal commitments can make it easy to neglect editing, but failing to do so can compromise your authority as a writer and a critic, and anger creators who want to see their work treated respectfully; it isn’t pretty to be called on the carpet for writing a negative review that’s as problematic as the book under consideration. (Believe me, I’ve seen it happen. In a word: aaawwwwwwwkward.)

Below, I’ve outlined the steps involved in editing a review. These suggestions reflect the many years I’ve spent honing my own writing as a student, a teacher, an editor, a writer, and a Gal Friday with proofreading chops. This outline is not intended to be a one-size-fits-all proscription for catching mistakes, but a tool to help writers develop their own process for assessing and improving their work. Have an online resource that you think would be helpful for writers? Let me know in the comments and I’ll update the post to include your suggestion.

How Do I Edit My Stuff?

Most writers equate editing with checking their work for cosmetic problems—typos, extra carriage returns, and so forth. And while it’s true that proofreading is an important step in the editorial process, it’s generally the final one. The first—and most difficult—stages require you to scrutinize your prose for clarity, consistency, and economy (namely, can you say something in 10 words instead of 15 or 20?). Here’s a rough outline of the steps entailed in editing an essay or story:

Step One: Set the draft aside for one or two days.

There may be times when this simply isn’t possible, but allowing yourself time between drafting and editing will improve your chances of spotting problems.

Step Two: Read the review out loud, asking yourself the following questions:

Do the sentences flow smoothly? Circle or highlight any sentence that sounds choppy or awkward—the grammar may need correction, the word order may need adjustment, or the sentence may need to be shortened.

Do you use the same words or phrases too often? Circle or highlight those passages, then grab a thesaurus and search for alternatives.

Do you needlessly repeat information or opinions? There’s a fine line between elaborating a point and belaboring it; if you’ve described a book as “exciting,” “pulse-pounding,” and “thrilling” all in the span of a single sentence, you’ve said the same thing three times.

Step Three: Make your first round of corrections, then re-read with an eye towards structural issues. Ask yourself the following questions:

Does my review flow seamlessly from point to point? Look for awkward phrases, abrupt transitions, and weak topic sentences.

Have I achieved an appropriate balance between summary and critique? Generally speaking, reviews should be no more than 50% summary. If in doubt, trim any information that may be viewed as a spoiler, or is not addressed in your subsequent critique of the manga.

Have I substantiated my critique with evidence from the volume(s) I’m reviewing? If you describe a book as “dull” or “irritating,” be sure to explain why you feel that way: is it the dialogue? A particular character? The obvious plot twists?

Does the overall tone of my review match my opinion of the book? If you enjoyed a book, that should be evident from your word choice; the same is true for books that you didn’t like. If you’re ambivalent about a title, it’s OK to say so in the opening or closing of your review.

The Discard File

One of the main reasons we have difficulty editing is that we become attached to a favorite sentence or paragraph. Having crafted something that we like, we’re reluctant to delete it no matter how clumsy or inappropriate it may be in context. I have a remedy for deletion anxiety: cut and paste the offending passage into a separate file. That way, you can retrieve a sentence that, on second judgment, seems useful to your argument. Or you can do the eco-friendly thing and recycle a great turn of phrase in a future article. My own discard file has been a terrific resource for overcoming writer’s block, improving a weak review, and preserving kick-ass sentences that amused me but might never see the light of day.

Proofreading Tips

Allow at least a few hours (if not longer) before you begin proofreading, or you’re bound to miss mistakes. I find it helpful to read the document backwards—the strangeness of the experience forces me to look at the prose more carefully, though the technique might not work for everyone.

I have a simple checklist of things to look for when I proofread:

  • Extra spaces or carriage returns
  • Spelling errors, typos (e.g. extra or missing letters)
  • Subject-verb agreement (e.g. “They is” instead of “They are”), switching tense
  • Its vs. it’s, which vs. that
  • Punctuation and capitalization errors
  • Missing words (e.g. forgetting an article, “In this volume, the family gets dog.”)

Two other things on my radar screen are parallelism problems and passive constructions. Most writers don’t realize that when they make a list of items, all of the items of the list need to be structured/phrased in the same manner, e.g. “Among the things she owned were a broken TV, a rotary phone, and a cracked mirror.” Note that all of the items in this list are expressed as article-adjective-noun. The same rule applies to sentences using participles and verbs, e.g. “He enjoys many activities, from playing golf and swimming to gardening and walking the dog.”

One of my other pet peeves as a writer is the kind of vagueness that goes hand-in-hand with passive constructions. Phrases such as “Urasawa is widely acknowledged as a genius” do more harm than good, as they leave your reader to wonder, Who says Urasawa is a genius? His critics? His mother? A better strategy is to rephrase these sentences in the active voice: “Urasawa’s fellow manga artists revere him as a genius.” There are, of course, plenty of times when the passive voice is a perfectly acceptable choice, especially in academic writing, but if it’s possible to identify an agent, do so. Your writing will sound more authoritative.

The final thing to keep in mind when proofreading: be consistent. If you give the name of one city as “Austin, TX,” all the cities in your essay should be formatted that way (as opposed to “Boston, Mass.” or “Yonkers, New York”). If you decide to hyphenate Asian-American, then all occurrences of that word should be hyphenated. And so forth. There are several excellent style manuals on the market (such as The Chicago Manual of Style and The MLA Handbook) that provide the nitty-gritty on hyphenation, capitalization, italicization, etc. Don’t want to shell out the clams for a bound copy? Many universities have posted Cliff Notes versions of these venerable style guides; one that I find useful in a pinch is The OWL (Online Writing Lab) at Purdue.

When Deadlines Loom…

Pressed for time? At a minimum, run the SpellCheck function on your computer, but monitor it carefully—the SpellChecker can add mistakes to your work, especially if you use funky foreign words like fujoshi or gensaku-sha. If these are words you anticipate using in future documents, add them to your SpellChecker’s memory to avoid comically awful substitutions. I’m less enthusiastic about Microsoft Word’s GrammarCheck function. While it seldom misses glaring errors (e.g. “You is my woman”), it may gloss over deeper structural problems or flag a sentence that is, in fact, grammatically acceptable. Use sparingly.

Putting Advice Into Practice

Suppose you’re writing a review of a new series, Dogball D. You’re both bored by and frustrated with the first volume, as the characters’ mannerisms and physical appearance remind you of characters from Dragonball Z. At the same time, however, you recognize that the similarity is intentional. The challenge: how to express that idea effectively.

Version 1: The main problem with Dogball D is that the characters are boring and unoriginal and just like the characters in Dragonball Z. That’s understandable, since Yuki Yamamoto wrote her story for a magazine that was competing directly with the magazine in which Dragonball Z was a big hit for many years before Dogball D came out.

Version 2: Dogball D‘s biggest problem is the characters: they’re pale imitations of the Dragonball Z gang. The similarity is understandable, since Yuki Yamamoto’s story runs in Young Mister, a direct competitor of the magazine in which Dragonball Z was serialized.

In the second version, I’ve compressed the idea of “boring” “unoriginal” characters into a single, more forcefully stated comparison between Dogball D and Dragonball Z. I’ve eliminated several prepositional phrases (e.g. “for a magazine”) and conjunctions, and dropped the phrase “before Dogball D came out,” as the contrast in tenses (“runs” versus “was serialized”) implies that Dragonball Z preceded Dogball D — an impression confirmed by the initial statement that the Dogball D cast is a “pale imitation” of Dragonball Z‘s famous characters. You can only imitate existing models!

Here’s another before-and-after comparison, this one culled from my own writing. The first paragraph comes from my review of Chica Umino’s Honey and Clover; the second comes from the revised version now currently visible on the front page. Changes are highlighted in red:

Original: If you’ve spent any time around an art school or conservatory, you’ve met students like the Honey and Clover gang, a chatty bunch who are eager to share and compare influences, discuss their romantic lives in intimate detail, and wax poetic about their latest enthusiasms. In Honey and Clover, that garrulity reflects the characters’ deep-rooted need for community, both a boundary-drawing exercise — this is what I stand for — and an invitation to join the group. As characters grow closer to each other, however, they often find conversation inadequate to the task of bridging the remaining distance between them, a motif that Chica Umino uses throughout volume eight.

Revised: If you’ve spent any time around an art school or conservatory, you’ve met students like the Honey and Clover gang, a chatty bunch who are eager to share and compare influences, discuss their romantic lives in intimate detail, and wax poetic about their latest enthusiasms. In Honey and Clover, that chattiness reflects the characters’ deep-rooted need to define who they are and how they fit in with their peers. As characters discover common ground, however, they often find conversation inadequate to the task of bridging the remaining distance between them, a motif that Chica Umino uses throughout volume eight.

I decided to revise the paragraph because I found it wordy and, frankly, a little pretentious: “garrulity”? “Boundary-drawing exercise”? The emptiness of those words became even more apparent when contrasted with the review that immediately followed it, as my take on Mixed Vegetables was snappier and easier to follow. So I rolled up my sleeves and made several small but crucial changes by finding five-dollar substitutes for the fifteen-dollar words and eliminating the parenthetical remark from the second sentence. The result: a clearer statement of the same idea.

Conclusion

I’ve learned as much from my errors as I have from my successes, as they remind me just how difficult writing really is. The more I practice drafting and editing my own work, however, the better the final product tends to be. Confronting my own shortcomings keeps me humble, but it also keeps me invested in improving, too — each review presents an opportunity to refine my skills a little more, and a chance to reflect on what constitutes good writing.

On Criticism: Why Editing Matters

by

Have you ever read a review that was so riddled with misspelled words, grammatical errors, or nonsensical phrases that you began to keep a mental tally of the gaffes instead of following the author’s argument? I have. And while it would be easy to make light of such reviews, I feel compassion for the writer. I’ve made more than my share of mistakes online, from misspelling an author’s name to penning a sentence so tortured that, in hindsight, I wasn’t even certain what I meant. The majority of these mistakes can be chalked up to one thing: failing to edit my work carefully. Deadlines, job pressures, and personal commitments can make it easy to neglect editing, but failing to do so can compromise your authority as a writer and a critic, and anger creators who want to see their work treated respectfully; it isn’t pretty to be called on the carpet for writing a negative review that’s as problematic as the book under consideration. (Believe me, I’ve seen it happen. In a word: aaawwwwwwwkward.)

Below, I’ve outlined the steps involved in editing a review. These suggestions reflect the many years I’ve spent honing my own writing as a student, a teacher, an editor, a writer, and a Gal Friday with proofreading chops. This outline is not intended to be a one-size-fits-all proscription for catching mistakes, but a tool to help writers develop their own process for assessing and improving their work. Have an online resource that you think would be helpful for writers? Let me know in the comments and I’ll update the post to include your suggestion.

How Do I Edit My Stuff?

Most writers equate editing with checking their work for cosmetic problems—typos, extra carriage returns, and so forth. And while it’s true that proofreading is an important step in the editorial process, it’s generally the final one. The first—and most difficult—stages require you to scrutinize your prose for clarity, consistency, and economy (namely, can you say something in 10 words instead of 15 or 20?). Here’s a rough outline of the steps entailed in editing an essay or story:

Step One: Set the draft aside for one or two days.

There may be times when this simply isn’t possible, but allowing yourself time between drafting and editing will improve your chances of spotting problems.

Step Two: Read the review out loud, asking yourself the following questions:

Do the sentences flow smoothly? Circle or highlight any sentence that sounds choppy or awkward—the grammar may need correction, the word order may need adjustment, or the sentence may need to be shortened.

Do you use the same words or phrases too often? Circle or highlight those passages, then grab a thesaurus and search for alternatives.

Do you needlessly repeat information or opinions? There’s a fine line between elaborating a point and belaboring it; if you’ve described a book as “exciting,” “pulse-pounding,” and “thrilling” all in the span of a single sentence, you’ve said the same thing three times.

Step Three: Make your first round of corrections, then re-read with an eye towards structural issues. Ask yourself the following questions:

Does my review flow seamlessly from point to point? Look for awkward phrases, abrupt transitions, and weak topic sentences.

Have I achieved an appropriate balance between summary and critique? Generally speaking, reviews should be no more than 50% summary. If in doubt, trim any information that may be viewed as a spoiler, or is not addressed in your subsequent critique of the manga.

Have I substantiated my critique with evidence from the volume(s) I’m reviewing? If you describe a book as “dull” or “irritating,” be sure to explain why you feel that way: is it the dialogue? A particular character? The obvious plot twists?

Does the overall tone of my review match my opinion of the book? If you enjoyed a book, that should be evident from your word choice; the same is true for books that you didn’t like. If you’re ambivalent about a title, it’s OK to say so in the opening or closing of your review.

The Discard File

One of the main reasons we have difficulty editing is that we become attached to a favorite sentence or paragraph. Having crafted something that we like, we’re reluctant to delete it no matter how clumsy or inappropriate it may be in context. I have a remedy for deletion anxiety: cut and paste the offending passage into a separate file. That way, you can retrieve a sentence that, on second judgment, seems useful to your argument. Or you can do the eco-friendly thing and recycle a great turn of phrase in a future article. My own discard file has been a terrific resource for overcoming writer’s block, improving a weak review, and preserving kick-ass sentences that amused me but might never see the light of day.

Proofreading Tips

Allow at least a few hours (if not longer) before you begin proofreading, or you’re bound to miss mistakes. I find it helpful to read the document backwards—the strangeness of the experience forces me to look at the prose more carefully, though the technique might not work for everyone.

I have a simple checklist of things to look for when I proofread:

  • Extra spaces or carriage returns
  • Spelling errors, typos (e.g. extra or missing letters)
  • Subject-verb agreement (e.g. “They is” instead of “They are”), switching tense
  • Its vs. it’s, which vs. that
  • Punctuation and capitalization errors
  • Missing words (e.g. forgetting an article, “In this volume, the family gets dog.”)

Two other things on my radar screen are parallelism problems and passive constructions. Most writers don’t realize that when they make a list of items, all of the items of the list need to be structured/phrased in the same manner, e.g. “Among the things she owned were a broken TV, a rotary phone, and a cracked mirror.” Note that all of the items in this list are expressed as article-adjective-noun. The same rule applies to sentences using participles and verbs, e.g. “He enjoys many activities, from playing golf and swimming to gardening and walking the dog.”

One of my other pet peeves as a writer is the kind of vagueness that goes hand-in-hand with passive constructions. Phrases such as “Urasawa is widely acknowledged as a genius” do more harm than good, as they leave your reader to wonder, Who says Urasawa is a genius? His critics? His mother? A better strategy is to rephrase these sentences in the active voice: “Urasawa’s fellow manga artists revere him as a genius.” There are, of course, plenty of times when the passive voice is a perfectly acceptable choice, especially in academic writing, but if it’s possible to identify an agent, do so. Your writing will sound more authoritative.

The final thing to keep in mind when proofreading: be consistent. If you give the name of one city as “Austin, TX,” all the cities in your essay should be formatted that way (as opposed to “Boston, Mass.” or “Yonkers, New York”). If you decide to hyphenate Asian-American, then all occurrences of that word should be hyphenated. And so forth. There are several excellent style manuals on the market (such as The Chicago Manual of Style and The MLA Handbook) that provide the nitty-gritty on hyphenation, capitalization, italicization, etc. Don’t want to shell out the clams for a bound copy? Many universities have posted Cliff Notes versions of these venerable style guides; one that I find useful in a pinch is The OWL (Online Writing Lab) at Purdue.

When Deadlines Loom…

Pressed for time? At a minimum, run the SpellCheck function on your computer, but monitor it carefully—the SpellChecker can add mistakes to your work, especially if you use funky foreign words like fujoshi or gensaku-sha. If these are words you anticipate using in future documents, add them to your SpellChecker’s memory to avoid comically awful substitutions. I’m less enthusiastic about Microsoft Word’s GrammarCheck function. While it seldom misses glaring errors (e.g. “You is my woman”), it may gloss over deeper structural problems or flag a sentence that is, in fact, grammatically acceptable. Use sparingly.

Putting Advice Into Practice

Suppose you’re writing a review of a new series, Dogball D. You’re both bored by and frustrated with the first volume, as the characters’ mannerisms and physical appearance remind you of characters from Dragonball Z. At the same time, however, you recognize that the similarity is intentional. The challenge: how to express that idea effectively.

Version 1: The main problem with Dogball D is that the characters are boring and unoriginal and just like the characters in Dragonball Z. That’s understandable, since Yuki Yamamoto wrote her story for a magazine that was competing directly with the magazine in which Dragonball Z was a big hit for many years before Dogball D came out.

Version 2: Dogball D‘s biggest problem is the characters: they’re pale imitations of the Dragonball Z gang. The similarity is understandable, since Yuki Yamamoto’s story runs in Young Mister, a direct competitor of the magazine in which Dragonball Z was serialized.

In the second version, I’ve compressed the idea of “boring” “unoriginal” characters into a single, more forcefully stated comparison between Dogball D and Dragonball Z. I’ve eliminated several prepositional phrases (e.g. “for a magazine”) and conjunctions, and dropped the phrase “before Dogball D came out,” as the contrast in tenses (“runs” versus “was serialized”) implies that Dragonball Z preceded Dogball D — an impression confirmed by the initial statement that the Dogball D cast is a “pale imitation” of Dragonball Z‘s famous characters. You can only imitate existing models!

Here’s another before-and-after comparison, this one culled from my own writing. The first paragraph comes from my review of Chica Umino’s Honey and Clover; the second comes from the revised version now currently visible on the front page. Changes are highlighted in red:

Original: If you’ve spent any time around an art school or conservatory, you’ve met students like the Honey and Clover gang, a chatty bunch who are eager to share and compare influences, discuss their romantic lives in intimate detail, and wax poetic about their latest enthusiasms. In Honey and Clover, that garrulity reflects the characters’ deep-rooted need for community, both a boundary-drawing exercise — this is what I stand for — and an invitation to join the group. As characters grow closer to each other, however, they often find conversation inadequate to the task of bridging the remaining distance between them, a motif that Chica Umino uses throughout volume eight.

Revised: If you’ve spent any time around an art school or conservatory, you’ve met students like the Honey and Clover gang, a chatty bunch who are eager to share and compare influences, discuss their romantic lives in intimate detail, and wax poetic about their latest enthusiasms. In Honey and Clover, that chattiness reflects the characters’ deep-rooted need to define who they are and how they fit in with their peers. As characters discover common ground, however, they often find conversation inadequate to the task of bridging the remaining distance between them, a motif that Chica Umino uses throughout volume eight.

I decided to revise the paragraph because I found it wordy and, frankly, a little pretentious: “garrulity”? “Boundary-drawing exercise”? The emptiness of those words became even more apparent when contrasted with the review that immediately followed it, as my take on Mixed Vegetables was snappier and easier to follow. So I rolled up my sleeves and made several small but crucial changes by finding five-dollar substitutes for the fifteen-dollar words and eliminating the parenthetical remark from the second sentence. The result: a clearer statement of the same idea.

Conclusion

I’ve learned as much from my errors as I have from my successes, as they remind me just how difficult writing really is. The more I practice drafting and editing my own work, however, the better the final product tends to be. Confronting my own shortcomings keeps me humble, but it also keeps me invested in improving, too — each review presents an opportunity to refine my skills a little more, and a chance to reflect on what constitutes good writing.

Sinfest, Vol. 1

by

sinfest_coverThe very first Sinfest strips tell you everything you need to know about Tatsuya Ishida’s cheeky yet surprisingly reverential comic. In them, we see a young man seated at a table across from the Devil, negotiating a contract that would enable him to enjoy — among other perks — a “supermodel sandwich” in exchange for his soul. The transaction isn’t taking place in an office or the gates of Hell, however, but, in a hat tip to Charles Schulz, at a jerry-rigged booth that’s a shoo-in for the one Lucy van Pelt used to dispense nickel-sized bits of wisdom to the Peanuts gang.

It’s this mixture of the fresh and the familiar that makes Sinfest such a treat to read. Though Ishida examines such ubiquitous comic strip subjects as the temperamental differences between cats and dogs, the eternal miscommunication between men and women, and the general absurdity of popular culture, Ishida puts a unique spin on the material. His Pooch and Percival cartoons provide an instructive example. Like many artists, Ishida portrays Percival as the smarter of the pair, a sly, cynical cat who tolerates the presence of his fellow pet Pooch, while Pooch is portrayed as an unabashed enthusiast who lives completely in the moment, frequently breaking into Snoopy-esque dance to express his joy. From time to time, however, Ishida neatly upends this relationship: in one strip, for example, Percival snidely denounces their master, telling Pooch, “They don’t care about you. They’re just lonely and they use you to fill their stupid void.” Without missing a beat, Pooch replies, “Well, that’s what I do with them.” This kind of carnivalesque reversal is key to Sinfest‘s success, challenging our preconceived notions of catness and dogness as well as our deeply ingrained belief that happiness, however desirable, is antithetical to introspection.

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