Y2K marked the third birthday of Blood Culture, the single-panel strip starring everyone's favorite corpuscular mope, and in those three years my partner and I had produced only 39 panels. Even though I knew that my artistic partner Gerry would never get around to drawing more strips, I still wrote many, many lines. I would jot down any idea, no matter how silly or ridiculous. It was--and still is--my way to clear the brambles from my thoughts, to free up some mental space for new ideas to take root. I carried a pen and paper--sometimes a scrap, sometimes a notebook--wherever I went. I didn't want to miss a single observation.
I didn't pester Gerry at all that year because I knew it was pointless, and also because I was busy with something more important than even Blood Culture: wedding plans. In September of 2000 I took my vows and headed out to San Francisco to honeymoon.
A few weeks after my honeymoon I found out that my wife was pregnant. After the initial excitement died down, we settled into our roles as expectant parents, buying things for the baby's room, thinking of names, dreaming about the future, eating ice cream.
Then in February of 2001, my dad died.
With one life just ended and another about to begin, I couldn't help but be philosophical. What did I want out of life, for myself and for those I loved? I wanted creativity, humor, and, more concretely, financial security. That's when I knew I had to give Blood Culture another try. It's the hope of all parents that their children will learn valuable lessons from their lives and I was--am--no different. I had to put every effort into making Blood Culture a success, both as an idea and commercially, to show my child that she could follow her dreams and make them come true. I wanted her to see me succeed doing what I loved to do. And I knew the only way to do that was to break up with Gerry. If Blood Culture was to survive, our collaboration had to end.
I sat on my decision for two months, fretting about the details. What would I say? How would I say it? What was I going to do with Edgar after Gerry was gone? I never answered those questions, but in April I wrote an email to Gerry anyway honestly describing my hopes and plans for Blood Culture. He agreed that Blood Culture deserved a shot at greatness and that he would never be able create new panels on a regular basis. With assurances that we'd stay in touch, we parted ways.
I didn't pester Gerry at all that year because I knew it was pointless, and also because I was busy with something more important than even Blood Culture: wedding plans. In September of 2000 I took my vows and headed out to San Francisco to honeymoon.
A few weeks after my honeymoon I found out that my wife was pregnant. After the initial excitement died down, we settled into our roles as expectant parents, buying things for the baby's room, thinking of names, dreaming about the future, eating ice cream.
Then in February of 2001, my dad died.
With one life just ended and another about to begin, I couldn't help but be philosophical. What did I want out of life, for myself and for those I loved? I wanted creativity, humor, and, more concretely, financial security. That's when I knew I had to give Blood Culture another try. It's the hope of all parents that their children will learn valuable lessons from their lives and I was--am--no different. I had to put every effort into making Blood Culture a success, both as an idea and commercially, to show my child that she could follow her dreams and make them come true. I wanted her to see me succeed doing what I loved to do. And I knew the only way to do that was to break up with Gerry. If Blood Culture was to survive, our collaboration had to end.
I sat on my decision for two months, fretting about the details. What would I say? How would I say it? What was I going to do with Edgar after Gerry was gone? I never answered those questions, but in April I wrote an email to Gerry anyway honestly describing my hopes and plans for Blood Culture. He agreed that Blood Culture deserved a shot at greatness and that he would never be able create new panels on a regular basis. With assurances that we'd stay in touch, we parted ways.
I decided to draw Blood Culture myself. I drew a couple of panels, but if you remember how the first panel turned out you'll know why I quickly abandoned the idea. I needed an artist, someone who could actually draw more than a circle within a circle and was interested specifically in comic strips. I asked around, pumping friends and friends of friends for names. No one knew of anyone who fit the bill.
I struggled for months to think of someone, and then one day it occurred to me: David Sanders could do it. David and I had worked together at the same place Gerry and I had met, and he liked the Blood Culture panels I had shown him all those years ago. David was also a fantastic artist. In his downtime he would draw astoundingly detailed scenes of ancient Rome and photographic-quality renderings of the Titanic. I used to marvel at them, much to his embarrassment. He also wrote and drew a comic strip about the adventures of a misanthropic blob called the Glunch. He was cynical and a bit angry, and he loved to draw. He was the perfect candidate.
But would he agree to draw my humble cartoon for no more reward than my appreciation? There was only one way to find out. But before I could ask him to join up with me, my daughter was born. I took the full 12 weeks afforded me by the Family and Medical Leave Act to stay home with my growing family. On my fourth day back at work, September 11, 2001, I got to my desk around 8:15 am and sent an email to David asking if he'd like to draw Blood Culture.
I heard back from him right after the first plane hit the first tower.
Next time, part VI, and the first Blood Culture panel David drew.
I struggled for months to think of someone, and then one day it occurred to me: David Sanders could do it. David and I had worked together at the same place Gerry and I had met, and he liked the Blood Culture panels I had shown him all those years ago. David was also a fantastic artist. In his downtime he would draw astoundingly detailed scenes of ancient Rome and photographic-quality renderings of the Titanic. I used to marvel at them, much to his embarrassment. He also wrote and drew a comic strip about the adventures of a misanthropic blob called the Glunch. He was cynical and a bit angry, and he loved to draw. He was the perfect candidate.
But would he agree to draw my humble cartoon for no more reward than my appreciation? There was only one way to find out. But before I could ask him to join up with me, my daughter was born. I took the full 12 weeks afforded me by the Family and Medical Leave Act to stay home with my growing family. On my fourth day back at work, September 11, 2001, I got to my desk around 8:15 am and sent an email to David asking if he'd like to draw Blood Culture.
I heard back from him right after the first plane hit the first tower.
Next time, part VI, and the first Blood Culture panel David drew.
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