Supernatural Summer: Melissa Marr on writing the Wicked Lovely Manga (and a giveaway)

Melissa Marr is the writer behind the fantabulous Wicked Lovely Young Adult series. We, the Book Smugglers, are huge fans of the author and her work: as evidenced by our reviews of Wicked Lovely, Ink Exchange (which made our top 10 list of 2008) and Fragile Eternity (which will make our top 10 of 2009). We are extremely happy to have Melissa Marr once more as our guest with this insightful look into working on her Manga series. Please, welcome Melissa Marr!

This article by Melissa Marr is the second in our SUPERNATURAL SUMMER book feature from Harper Teen. This week we will bring you five different books by five different authors, including interviews, articles and giveaways.

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The material below is a modified version of what was included in the USB drives I passed out at the tour events this year. People had a lot of questions about the manga process, so I wrote up a file with the various stages. With the artists’ permission, I incuded a sample of the stages of the art too. (Each panel is sent to me at leat three times—thumbnail, pencil, and ink—for my approval or other notes.)

Step #1:
Along with already being a haphazard manga reader, I did a bunch of research on the history, current disccusions, and traditions of manga. To the purists, I make no claim that this is a traditional manga. I couldn’t do so: it is authored by an American, influenced by Celtic folklore, with one Nordic protagonist and one mixed heritage protagonist, set in the American Southwest–with art by a Spanish artist.

Research and style preferences and data in hand, I talked to the editors about what I wanted in an artist. I gave over excerts on the characters. Various artists sent in their sketches after they read my excerpts. From these, I selected the sketches that caught the feel of the world, the characters, and the story. It wasn’t a simple case of “they drew exactly what I wrote,” but a case of someone capturing the right feeling to go with my words.

THE EXCERPT for PRIMARY CHARACTERS

Rika: Her short hair is just long enough that it brushes her shoulder as her head tilts. We can see her multi-pierced earlobe. A bar runs horizontally at the top of her ear. She’s not uber-girly. She’s a jeans girl, tattered jeans, ripped by activity not design. She’s not bulky, but not waif thin either. Her arms have the sort of muscles one gets when one hikes, rockwalls, et al. Thin, but firm. (NOTE: As established in WL, Rika is of Nordic ancestry. Blonde, blue-eyed, good cheek bones.)

Keenan: (quotes directly from Wicked Lovely) He glowed faintly all the time, as if hot coals burned inside him. His collar-length hair shimmered like strands of copper . . . tan and too beautiful to touch, walking with an swagger that said he knew exactly how attractive he was. He moved as if he were in charge of everyone and everything, seeming taller for it. But he wasn’t really that tall. . . almost average in size, only a head taller than she was. . . From the hems of his faded jeans to his heavy wool coat, he was too up-town. He’d dulled his copper hair to sandy-blonde, hidden that strange rustle of summer, but even in his human glamour, he was too pretty to be real.

Jayce: He has dreads-in-progress, not quite the tidy dreadlocks, but semi-formed. They are dark, dark brown, with a few dyed purple. Sometimes his hair is pulled back in a sort of ponytail at the base of his neck. Strands escape. It’s casual. He has NO piercings or tattoos at all. Think granola-guy–unbleached cotton, jeans that are frayed at the bottom, battered rucksack with notebook, pen, water bottle. No ipod for him, he’s a rockhound & hiker. He wears the approp layered clothing for milling about in the desert–tank (what is called a “wife beater” in slang), button up or tee over it, loose, casual clothes that can get tattered. Not into appearances.

Sionnach (Gaelic for “fox”): He has fox-ish features, short auburn hair, extra angular eyes (not Asian, but slightly larger, slightly elongated, odd pupils), extra pronounced features as if his cheeks are edged too sharply, quick, agile, just enough out of normal mortal proportions that you want too look at him longer, but not so Other that he is required to hide under a glamour. He calls for second glances though. Grinning/smiling like he’s terribly amused by secrets no one else knows, hears jokes others don’t . . . smart ass persona, with moments of sageness. Wiry, lithe, not bony but not at all bulky. He is called “Shy” because he isn’t.

THE SKETCHES THAT I LOVED AND INSISTED HAD TO BE THE ARTIST:

STEP #2 MY VERY FIRST DRAFT

Rika is in a desert setting–not a Saguaro desert, but Mojave/Anza-Borrego, lovely rock faces & maybe Joshua Trees, some cholla cactus, flowering prickly pears (et al). It’s stark, lovely, and solitary. Rika looks happy.
Keenan appears (as if he steps out of a swirling dust devil).
R: “Why?”
K: Why what?
R: *disbelieving expression* Why do you bother me?
Keenan, without arrogance but still irritating, makes a gesture and the sand forms into chairs as if the were in a shop. The chairs have striations. “Is it such a bother to talk to me?”
Rika steps further from him. She watches the sand lifting & shifting over the expanse of desert. She doesn’t look at him. “Yes. I think it is.”
“Even now?” Keenan sits down. Heat radiates from him, to him, as if his skin is breathing the extreme temperature in and out. “You’re free of the–”
R turns to face him: “I dream of it. I wake up convinced that winter is still inside my veins. Did you know that? What you did–”
“I didn’t do that to you.” Keenan unpleasant expression.
“Did you choose me?” Rika has her head tilted as she looks at him. Her short hair is just long enough that it brushes her shoulder as her head tilts. We can see her multi-pierced earlobe. A bar runs horizontally at the top of her ear.
“I did, but–”
“Did I have to carry ice in my body for years, decades, because you made a mistake?”
“Yes, but–”
“So why wouldn’t it bother me to see you?”
He pushes back his hair, frustrated. The copper strands are like solidified sunlight.
She sits down (one foot on the ground, one foot beside her knee on the chair, her bent knee up by her chest) finally, posture far more assertive now. (As she’s been talking, getting angrier, she’s more forward, less intimidated by him.) Her jeans are ripped in the knee.

STEP #3 FIRST DRAFT (excerpt) in paragraph form:

Rika is in a desert setting–not a Saguaro desert, but Mojave/Anza-Borrego, lovely rock faces and maybe Joshua Trees, some cholla cactus, flowering prickly pears (et al). It’s stark, lovely, and solitary. Rika looks happy.
She’s not uber-girly. She’s a jeans girl, tattered jeans, ripped by activity not design. Her arms have the sort of muscles one gets when one hikes, rockwalls, et al. Thin, but firm. (NOTE: As established in WL, Rika is of Nordic ancestry. Blonde, blue-eyed, good cheek bones.)
Keenan appears, coming across the ground like he’s moving out of a swirling dust devil.
Rika’s expression is hurt, nervous at seeing him. “Why?”
“Why what?”
Rika has a disbelieving expression; her words are careful as she asks, “Why do you bother me?”
Ignoring her, Keenan makes a gesture and the sand forms into chairs as if the were in a shop. The chairs have striations. He isn’t quite posturing, but he is clearly aware of his appearance. Then the sand around him stills as he asks, “Is it such a bother to talk to me?”
Rika steps further away from him. She watches the sand in the distance, lifting & shifting over the expanse of desert. She doesn’t look at him. “Yes. I think it is.”
“Even now?” Keenan sits down. Heat radiates from him, to him, as if his skin is breathing the extreme temperature in and out. “You’re free of the–”
Rika turns to face him. She looks vulnerable. “I still dream of it. I wake up convinced that winter is still inside my veins. Did you know that? What you did–”
“I didn’t do that to you.” Keenan has an unpleasant expression, irritated that she is still acting like this.
“Did you choose me?” Rika has her head tilted as she looks at him. Her short hair is just long enough that it brushes her shoulder as her head tilts. We can see her multi-pierced earlobe. A bar runs horizontally at the top of her ear.
“I did, but–”
“Did I have to carry ice in my body for years, decades, because you made a mistake?”
“Yes, but–”
“So why wouldn’t it bother me to see you?”
He pushes back his hair, frustrated. The copper strands are like solidified sunlight.
She sits down (one foot on the ground, one foot beside her knee on the chair, her bent knee up by her chest) finally, her posture is far more assertive. (As she’s been talking, getting angrier, she’s more forward, less intimidated by him.) Her jeans are ripped in the knee. “So, what do you want?”
“I thought I’d let you know that Donia’s . . . the new Winter Queen.” K’s eye clouded. Rainclouds in the sky form and match his expression, a sudden summer storm rumble over the desert. The shadow of the clouds on the ground stretches and darkens.
“I know.” Rika’s anger lessens; her expression is almost gentle. “She’ll be a good queen. . . and good at standing against you.”
Lightening hits the ground behind her. Rika laughs. Keenan’s pique was always more entertaining than his melancholia.
He looks at her, scowls, & stand. The chairs crumble back to sand as he moves. She doesn’t bother moving, letting herself lean into the sand, watching the streams of sand flow over her leg, into the rips in her jeans. She grins up at him from the desert floor.
His face is emotionless, but lightening jags around them–revealing what his face doesn’t. Still he is solicitous. “If you need anything, we are both there to call upon.” The rain hits, soaking her, but sizzling to steam before it touched him. He adds, “Things will be unstable–”
Wet and sand covered, R sits on the desert floor and laughs at the Summer King. “Ya think?”

STEP #4 THE FINAL DRAFT (excerpt) in paragraph form:

Then she looks up in the same direction Jace had looked. The storm is close enough that she sees a swirling dust devil racing over the ground.
She looks alarmed.
Keenan is in it, coming across the ground in the midst of the dust devil. We see him in the midst of the sand before he is right up at her. Then he is touchably close. Spirals of wind and sand whip out around him even as he stops in front of her.
Rika’s expression is hurt, nervous at seeing him. “Why?”
“Why what?” Keenan has stilled, but the air around him hasn’t. Sand is uplifted.
Rika has a disbelieving expression; her words are careful. “Why do you bother me?”
Keenan makes a gesture and the sand forms into chairs as if they were in a shop. [The chairs look as solid as sandstone cliffs, like rocks with striations. They are at slight angles to each other, as if they were at a small two-person table in a coffee shop.] He isn’t quite posturing, but he is clearly aware of his appearance. Then the sand around him drops as he asks, “Is it such a bother to talk to me?”
Rika steps further away from him. She looks to a rocky cliff in the distance, past the expanse of desert. “Yes. I think it is.”
“Even now?” Keenan sits down. Heat radiates from him, to him, as if his skin is breathing the extreme temperature in and out. “You’re free of the–”
Rika turns to face him. She looks vulnerable. “I still dream of it. I wake up convinced that winter is still inside my veins. What you did–”
“I didn’t do that to you.” Keenan has an unpleasant expression.
“Did you choose me?” Rika has her head tilted as she looks at him. Her short hair is just long enough that it brushes her shoulder as her head tilts. We can see her multi-pierced earlobe. A bar runs horizontally at the top of her ear. “Did you convince me that you loved me?”
“I did, but–”
“Did I carry ice in my body for years because of that mistake?” She steps closer.
“Yes, but–”
“So why wouldn’t it bother me to see you?” She steps even closer and is in his space.
He pushes back his hair, frustrated. The copper strands are like solidified sunlight.
She stares at him up at him. She’s tiny, but fierce. “Look at where we are. Cities are poisonous to me, Keenan. Iron, steel, it leaves me sick . . .”
He doesn’t flinch or back away. “That’s part of being faery. Almost all faeries have that limitation. It’s not–”
She interrupts, “–fair, Keenan. It’s not fair.”
She turns her back and sits down in one of the chairs. (She has one foot on the ground, the other foot beside her knee on the chair so her bent is knee up by her chest) finally, her posture is far more assertive. (As she’s been talking, getting angrier, she’s more forward, less intimidated by him.) Her jeans are ripped in the knee.
“It’s not unusual,” he corrected. “I was going to say it’s not unusual. Faeries are weakened by steel and iron. It’s just the way we always have been.”
“I wasn’t always like this. I was human before you.”
“A long time ago. I can’t take it back.” He reaches out as if he’d touch her. The sand-filled breeze looks ever-so-slightly like fingertips brushing her cheek. “I did love you.”
“That was a long time ago too. And look where it left me . . .” We see the vast desolation of the desert around her. It’s wide open and stark, and she’s small in it.
With irritation, Keenan flicks his hand out. The sand sifts and myriad paths–like unpaved roads–form like patterns stretching across the desert. “So go. You’re far stronger than you admit. You can leave.”
She blushes as she looks away from him and at that distant cliff again. [This is where Jace is.] “What do you want?”
“That’s what I was trying to say before . . .” Keenan scowls. “I’d came to let you know that I’m un-bound and that Donia’s . . . the new Winter Queen.”
Keenan’s eyes clouded. Rainclouds in the sky form and match his expression, a sudden summer storm rumble over the desert. The shadow of the clouds on the ground stretches and darkens.
“I know. We heard when it happened.” Rika’s anger lessens; her expression is almost gentle. “She’ll be a good queen. . . and good at standing against you. She never forgave you at all.”
Lightening hits the ground behind her.
Rika laughs. Keenan’s pique was always more entertaining than his melancholia.
“And you did?” He looks at her, scowls, & stands. The chairs crumble back to sand as he moves.
Rika doesn’t bother moving, letting herself lean into the sand, watching the streams of sand flow over her leg, into the rips in her jeans. She grins up at him from the desert floor. “No, but I haven’t loved you in forever. It makes a difference.”
His face is emotionless, but lightening jags around them–revealing what his face doesn’t.
Still he is solicitous. “If you need anything, we are both there to call upon.”
“Actually Sionnach is here if I need anything,” she murmurs. Then she holds his gaze. “I’m solitary, Keenan. Those of us in the desert . . . we don’t belong to you even now that you are so much stronger. That won’t change.”
“If you need me–”
“There would be a price.” She is rueful. “I’ve paid my dues for your ‘help.’ I learn from my mistakes.”
The rain hits, soaking her, but sizzling to steam before it touched him. He adds, “The Summer Court is stronger, but things will be unstable for now . . . even out here. Not everyone’s happy with the power shift.”
Wet and sand covered, R sits on the desert floor and laughs at the Summer King. “You think? We already know that. What do you really want?”
“To protect you.”
She shakes her head; all signs of laughing are gone. “I don’t need you.”
“I–”
“Faeries don’t lie, Keenan. I can’t lie.” She stands up, brushes the sand from her pants. “I don’t need you. I don’t want you in my life in ANY way.”
“If you make a vow of fealty to me, I can keep you safe.”
“A vow to you?” She gives him a disdainful look. “No thanks.”
“Other solitaries have joined my court . . . It’s not so odd.” Keenan looks earnest, genuine, and eager. “You could talk the others out here and–”
“No. I won’t ask them to join the Summer Court.” She holds his gaze.
Keenan steps closer. Winds spins around them, so it’s as if it’s just the two of them. “I never meant to hurt you. You know me. It’s a simple vow. Then my court can step in if anyone needs–”
“Your court isn’t needed in my desert, Keenan.” Rika gives him a dismissive look. “We handle things differently out here.”
“You’re being foolish, Rika. Letting grudges get in the way.”
She makes a dismissing gesture with her hand and walks away from him, toward the cliff. She knows he’s watching her, can feel the swirls of sand stirring as he resists his anger. Then in a gust of wind, he leaves.
Melodramatic as always, she thinks.
But she looks after him briefly. Even the desert sand, slipping over her skin from errant breezes isn’t warm enough. She shivers.

STEP #5 SOME OF IRENE and LAURA’s (Xian Nu Studios) ART of these sections:

NOTE: Thumnails, pencils, ink, & tones/final (All 3 stages are sent to the editors & to me for feedback & approval. This is done for each and every panel.)

SUMMARY:
Obviously, there are other steps and sub-steps. I had two editors: one at Harper (Anne, who edits my YA) and one at TokyoPop (Paul Morrissey for volume 1). There was a consultant who broke my text into panels, a translator (or several?) since Irene is from Spain. At the end of it all though, what we have is my words transformed into visual by artists I hope to one day meet in person (and with whom I’ve emailed) with the aid of people with whom I had no contact (the consultant and translator), directed by two editors (whom I do know in person).

The story is not required reading to follow the events in the novels. It does fit into the world of the novels. It threads through them (volume one is after Ink Exchange; volume two is simultaneous with Fragile Eternity, but before the fourth novel). It is an opportunity for me to tell a story in the world, but not a full novel. The full text of the manga for all three volumes was between 30,000 and 40,000 words. I could’ve gone even further and drafted it as a novel, but this format was new to me, so I am thrilled to get the chance to try something different. As an admitted art geek (and a chick with absolutely no artistic talent), I was thrilled to see my characters move across the page.

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Thank you Melissa – that was great!

Now for the giveaway:

If you want a chance to see how it all begins, we are giving away ONE copy of Wicked Lovely (the book, not the Manga). The contest is open to residents of the US and Canada; to enter, leave a comment here and will run until Saturday July 25 at 11:59pm. Good luck!