Writers of the Future, Volume 28 (42 page)

Adah’s cocoon bit into Gage’s shoulder as he limped through the stilled obstacle course. His leg felt wet, his foot sticky from the blood running down his thigh.

Panic crackled through Gage as he approached the rusted red pickup truck—had Adah pocketed the keys
?
He looked inside. They dangled from the ignition. Gage hefted Adah into the passenger seat and glanced at the truck bed for more fuel. His eyes watered from the rising mothball vapors. Five cocoons crowded each other, held in place with tension straps—Adah’s parents; his parents; Monk. He swore at Adah for being so loyal, so thoughtful, so courageous.

The fire spread into the forest.

The truck started, and Gage peeled off toward Portland. His heart ached seeing the fuel gauge. It touched F. Adah had gotten fuel for another round trip. There was no telling what it had cost her, what it had cost Monk.

“You had everyone,” he said. “You shouldn’t have come back for me.”

Smoking contrails scored the blue sky, falling, falling, then vanishing out of sight. Then a contrail rose, rose, rose. The spiders were leaving, their return ships ready.

Pits erupted in the road before him and pelted the truck with debris. Gage bucked against the raised shoulder, corrected away from the opposite side’s dropoff, and veered onward. His mind dilated to the task, his every fiber clumsily imbued with muscle memory from when he had driven after the crud outbreak.

Gage passed turnoffs and skidded onto others and gritted his teeth. It was a convoluted route to Portland. Road signs had been scavenged for easily pliable metal. Gage told himself he still remembered the way.

The fuel gauge needle dipped. Explosions destroyed the road behind him. Meteors came in waves.

He crested a high hill, which descended into the valley and left the steep, twisting backcountry roads. Before him, smoky contrails arced into the sky from the horizon.

“They’ll take you,” Gage said to Adah. “I’ll get you to them.”

The speedometer needle trembled near 100. Gage’s body fought between bracing and controlling, more aiming than steering. His gas pedal foot went numb, his leg like a paddle. Divots burst in the road. He aligned them between his tires. He touched his thigh. His hands felt sticky on the wheel. Blood
?
Only blood
?

The gas gauge dipped below half. Like a flash of lightning, a meteor shot through the truck’s hood, leaving a pebble-sized hole, which spat smoke against the windshield and clouded his vision. The engine roared, the steering wheel shook. The speedometer dipped to ninety, eighty, seventy, and came to rest on fifty, the accelerator rammed to the floor.

Gage screamed and coughed and slammed the steering wheel with a swollen fist. He punched the wound in his thigh and gouged it with a thumb. Pain quickened to his toes, curled hard against the accelerator. He smiled. His leg still cooperated.

“You can’t do this to her and not take her,” he said.

The rising contrails gained detail, small candle flames below slender bodies of such pure black they looked like silhouettes against the blue sky. The silhouettes gained detail and shape, not slender, but massive, sleek, elongated teardrops, falling upward.

Ahead, a murky yellow dot punctuated the roadside, a cocoon, one of those who had given up on life and walked away from Portland until dropping. Gage let up on the gas. Who was he to sentence someone who had suffered so much to obliteration
?
The truck sputtered. Gage’s jaw tightened, and he trembled as he pumped the accelerator, hoping the truck wouldn’t die. In starts and fits, he regained speed and sped past the cocoon. Another cocoon appeared ahead.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

The cocoon disappeared in the rearview.

Another cocoon appeared ahead, then another, and another, closer together.

The road straightened after rounding a stand of trees, and Gage slammed on the brakes. A spider rushed at him. It straddled the road, its head a featureless BB the size of a basketball, its body an erector set of trusses and chassis, housing an abdomen like a giant’s freight container, which tapered to a point. It stood several stories high. A gang of crud-kids chased it, driving a pair of motorcycles and a truck. The road behind them churned from a scattering of meteors. The spider passed overhead, skidded to a stop and returned to the truck, where it maneuvered its limbs into a crouch over the truck bed.

Pops spider-webbed the windshield and confettied Gage with glass. He ducked into the cabin onto Adah, his gaze directed up through the back windows at the basketball-sized head as it emitted a blue light onto the truck bed. The light blinked twice. It swung the tapered end of its abdomen forward, under its head. An aperture irised open at its point. Deft, articulated metal arms emerged from the aperture and cut the tension straps.

A motorcycle squealed to a stop beside Gage’s truck as the mechanical arms fed the first cocoon into the freight aperture.

A crazed male voice screamed. “It’s better they die than you take them!” A gun blast punctuated the hate in the voice. As though bitten away by an invisible mouth, a chunk disappeared from the cocoon the spider held. Monk’s head, peppered with buckshot, hung exposed. The spider tossed him aside. A puff sounded, and blood sprayed the driver’s side window. The other motorcycle arrived. Gage’s driver’s side door swung open. With a sawed-off shotgun in one hand, a helmeted biker in weathered black leathers motioned for Gage to move out of the way of the cocoon on the passenger seat. The truck screeched to a halt nearby, the crud-kids in its bed hollering.

“Shoot the cocoons!”

“Take away its trophies!”

Gage peered at the biker’s mirrored visor, and fired his revolver at his terrified reflection, the blast lost in the surge of gunfire.

Gage rose and emptied his revolver into the half dozen crud-kids piling from the truck, then slung his shotgun to his shoulder and pumped round after round at those who had tumbled to the road in surprise and fright. Return fire punched the door, raked through the window glass, and whined off the spider. A sound from the spider like a dismissive
pffft
ended the exchange. The crud-kids fell limp.

Gage threw himself onto Adah’s cocoon, his hands probing it for bullet holes. When he looked out the window, the abdomen’s aperture closed and the spider swung the container up into its secure housing. Something massive struck the ground nearby with a boom that jostled the truck.

“Stop!” Gage screamed. “Not yet!”

He threw the door open and jumped out. The spider swung its basketball-sized head toward him. A sudden exultant fear quickened through Gage, and he went lightheaded and rubbery. He threw his shotgun to the pavement, then dove back into the truck for Adah. When he dragged her out, the spider’s head emitted a blue light, which blinked twice. It swung its abdomen down and took Adah’s cocoon.

“Thank you,” Gage said.

He searched it for understanding.

Its blue blight scanned Gage, blinked once, and the abdomen returned to its housing. The spider continued back in the direction from which it had come, its abdomen full.

Gage fell to his knees as the spider shrank into the distance. His body shook with tears for Adah, for Monk, for the cocoons along the road whose rescue he had greedily stopped.

In the distance, as if falling slowly, a huge meteor tumbled toward the ground and disappeared into the earth.

Nearby, a contrail elongated into the sky. The hushed shriek of its thrusters reached him moments later. They had taken Adah. They had taken Lost Pine, Portland and the unchecked wild in between. They had taken crud-kids and their parents, the struggle to survive, the flush that came before. Everything. Elsewhere, maybe, it had a chance. Adah was smart. She’d waste no time. She was a survivor.

A roaring gale bent trees and sent Gage sprawling.

Battered, he rose, turned his back to the cloud rising from the horizon and limped past cocoon after cocoon until he found himself alone.

It didn’t hurt anymore.

A yellow, viscous tear gathered in the corner of his eye.

Advice for a New Illustrator

BY SHAUN TAN

Shaun Tan grew up in the northern suburbs of Perth, Western Australia, and began drawing and painting images for science fiction and horror stories in small-press magazines as a teenager. He has since become best known for illustrated books that deal with social, political and historical subjects through surreal, dreamlike imagery, such as
The Rabbits, The Red Tree, Tales from Outer Suburbia
and the acclaimed wordless novel
The Arrival
that have been widely translated and enjoyed by readers of all ages. Shaun has also worked as a theatre designer, as a concept artist for the films
Horton Hears a Who
and Pixar’s
WALL-E,
and directed the Academy Award-winning short film
The Lost Thing
. In 2011, he received the prestigious Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award, honoring his contribution to international children’s literature.

Shaun won the Illustrators of the Future Contest in 1992 (WotF 8) and has served as a Contest judge since 2011.

Advice for a New Illustrator

I
llustration is a very diverse and scattered profession, a practice that takes many forms, sometimes even hard to define, and it’s very unlikely that the careers of any two illustrators are alike. It’s mostly freelance work where an illustrator moves from one opportunity to the next, often in an unpredictable way week to week and certainly unpredictable throughout a working lifetime. If nothing else, markets, technology, culture, personal skills and interests will change and develop all the time. That’s the first thing to be aware of, especially when either giving or receiving specific advice—every artist’s experience and circumstance is different. The most I can do is reflect on general principles gleaned from my own successes and failures over the years, tips that might be relatively universal, useful and encouraging.

Challenge Yourself

P
erhaps the first and most important tip is one that applies to all work: enjoy what you do, to the extent that it is a pleasure to go beyond the call of duty. Creating work that is more than sufficient, that exceeds expectations and even the demands of the client, has always been something that I’ve not only tried to do but learned to
enjoy
doing. I rarely consider any job “run-of-the-mill” or just “bread-and-butter” if I can help it. Given time and energy (admittedly not always available!) I like to treat every creative task as a unique experiment and don’t always go for the easiest solution, or the one most dependent on existing skills. Every piece of work should involve an element of innovation or novel difficulty. This is what I’ve come to understand as “doing your best.” It’s really about trying to do a little better than your best. I’ve always been surprised at the results, and that in turn has fed my self-confidence as an illustrator.

It also explains my success as a creator of picture books. When I first entered the genre, I was very interested in challenging both myself and this narrative form rather than executing good, safe and “appropriate” illustrations according to an agreed fee or royalty.

I was inspired by other artists and writers with similar intentions, creating artistic problems for themselves, and investing seemingly unnecessary hours for very little pay, sometimes reaching only a small audience, in a genre that’s often critically overlooked and sometimes disrespected (true also of SF illustration from a mainstream viewpoint). That didn’t matter: what most concerned me was the opportunity for some experimentation that may not have been possible at the bigger commercial end of the spectrum, where higher pay usually equals less creative freedom. For the same reason, I devoted most of my energy and passion early in my career to small-press science fiction, because it offered the best opportunity for artistic development, weird visual challenges, and ultimately came to be the place where I could fine-tune my practical and conceptual skills as an illustrator in the absence of formal training. Making almost no money, mind you, although it’s paid off in the long run. I’ve learned to be patient and stick with it!

So it’s very important to pursue personally challenging work, and small jobs can be just as significant as high-profile ones for that reason. Although people are often impressed by an association with high-profile projects (especially film) perhaps my most significant achievements are modest landscapes and portraits painted in my parents’ garage during my early twenties, work which remains unexhibited and unpublished. I still enjoy creating paintings that have no commercial concern or public dimension. I think it’s very important to have this stream of work alongside commercial practice, a separate stream—again, it’s all about strong personal development. A good artist is (I think) an eternal student, and even when most confident, never feels like a master. They are forever pottering in their backyard spaces, trying to explore their craft with modest integrity. That’s how unusual and original work emerges, not by chasing markets or fashionable movements, or wanting to be conventionally successful.

Be Versatile

B
ut speaking of chasing markets, for a practicing artist this remains of course an essential pursuit, if only to survive. It’s the other, parallel course of creative practice: economic sustainability, making money. I think this area is the most difficult to cover with simple advice because there are so many types of working environment: adult, young adult and children’s publishing, advertising, editorial and genre illustration, film design, animation, theatre, fine arts, games and other forms probably not yet invented. Most visual artists will cross over several of these, especially in a digital, multimedia environment. Therefore, versatility is paramount. That doesn’t just mean being adept at working in known styles and media, but also unknown ones—you need to be able to learn and adapt, to remain flexible, diverse, open-minded.

Be Professional

T
he principle of versatility also applies to working with people, since nearly all commercial work is collaborative. Even if you are writing and illustrating a book in uninterrupted solitude, it’s still a collaboration with an editor and other publishing staff. It’s important to be reliable and easy to work with, as much as with any other job. This is the main reason clients will continue to give you work, and almost all of my early assignments came to me through the recommendations of others. A lot of preceding illustration produced for little payment in small-press magazines and anthologies proved to be worthwhile, both as training and exposure, a demonstration of my willingness to follow a project brief in a dependable and imaginative way. That’s also true of one of my very first “jobs” as a teenager, an illustration for the Writers of the Future anthology that needed to complement a story about a time traveler who kills kittens!

Be a Good Speaker

C
ommunication is very important, even though so much time is spent working alone on what can otherwise seem an introverted profession. You need to be able to talk and write about everything you create in a clear and explanatory way to help others understand your ideas, especially when they are not immediately visible, especially to non-artists and the aesthetically blind. Empathy and patience almost always win the day, even in tough situations. You need to be open to discussion, revision and compromise, while at the same time maintaining your own artistic integrity—these are not necessarily incompatible, as so many people often believe.

Maintain a Broad Interest

T
echnical competence as an artist is of course essential, but this is only ever a tool for the realization of ideas; without a strong imagination, the display of skill is just that—and “style” is interesting only if backed up by content. Too much illustration looks great, but leaves little resonance in the mind; it’s brilliant in style yet thin on conceptual relevance to real-life concerns.

It helps to remain interested in all forms of art and have a good grasp of art history as well as some knowledge of art theory, both past and contemporary. Understand the relationship between art and life. My own background is quite academic, and although I initially worried that studying art criticism might have been a bad choice (having no real idea what I wanted to do as a career), it’s actually been very useful. A knowledge of history and theory, and interest in art beyond making attractive pictures: this can really boost your artistic thinking. Developing a visual sensibility and vocabulary, rather than just technical skills, means that you can be perspicacious enough to deal with many different projects and find original solutions.

Don’t Despair!

A
s long as you are doing something, even if it isn’t successful, you are not wasting your time. The greatest achievement of so much creative work is simply finding time and dedication to do it, especially when it seems difficult and less than enjoyable, particularly as almost every project seems to involve some kind of confidence-wounding “crisis.” Good ideas and talent aren’t worth much if they aren’t put through the wringer of actual hard work. Ideas are not really ideas until they are translated into labor.

Pay attention to criticism, and don’t pay attention to criticism! At the end of the day, you are the ultimate judge of your own work, so learn to be critical in an affirmative rather than negative way. All creators—if they are any good—suffer from periods of disappointment, even depression with their own achievements (or lack thereof); that’s perfectly normal! Just keep going, if you want to cross that threshold. You also never find out if you’ve really failed until you actually
finish
a piece of work. Each success, regardless of quality, will build confidence, and confidence is the key. You also need to protect that sphere of confidence from unwelcome opinions or minor setbacks.

Draw, Draw, Draw and Then Draw Some More

F
inally, for anyone interested in being an effective artist, illustrator, designer, even a film director—you should really learn to draw well. It’s a valuable foundation, something you’ll always use, regardless of technology or genre. Drawing is more than just wielding a pencil with precision, it’s a way of
seeing
well, something that takes several thousand hours of practice, and even then, never entirely mastered. Good drawing is a timeless skill, infinitely adaptable, and will never become passé. My entire career rests on my ability to draw well, to think effectively using simple pencil marks. All other visual skills and techniques, from oil painting to CG animation, are elaborations of this fundamental skill.

Tips on Getting Published

B
eing a competent artist is one thing; getting published represents a rather different set of problems. The most important advice I can offer is this: please consider the publisher. What can you offer them with your work
?
Research the area you are interested in and know what a prospective editor might be looking for, what other work is out there. A picture book text might be as brilliant as its potential illustrator, but if it does not suit the list that a publisher is pursuing, both are quite likely to be rejected. Unfortunately, publishers do not exist to supply a canvas for free artistic self-expression—I wish!—they are primarily a commercial business. Many young artists don’t pay enough attention to this important fact.

Be aware too that there is a “culture” of illustration in any genre that you need to be familiar with (which can vary from country to country). One good way of finding out about this is to study recent works that have won major awards and think about what they have in common. Recognize trends, but don’t bend backwards to imitate them, or try to be something you’re not. Rather, look for the point of
intersection
between your creative interests and the kinds of books that are being successfully published.

As a contemporary illustrator, you can accomplish a lot by having a very good website and a well-presented folio. I would keep both of these quite simple, showing only your best work; young artists always seem to err (as I did) on the side of excess. A good folio needs only about twelve pieces—be very selective. These should represent technical skill and diversity, color and monochrome, and especially anything featuring human figures, something editors usually look for. Where possible and appropriate, it is good to arrange a face-to-face meeting with a relevant editor or art director. I’ve personally found this very useful, to get to know each other as people rather than less memorable e-mail or web addresses. Success as an artist, especially in publishing, has much to do with warm relationships. But don’t believe anyone who says “it’s not what you know, it’s who you know”—it’s what you know
and
who you know.

And, last of all, good luck, but don’t just wait around for it to happen: make your own!