[The following editorial appears in Shards #1, Hidden Years #16, New Blood #20, Blood of Ten Chiefs #9, and Wavedancers #5. --MK]
It begins now.
'It' is the process by which Elfquest, for the last year or so in chrysalis form, breaks free and flies as a butterfly. The butterfly is the completed and integrated Elfquest universe of stories, past, present and future. Blood of Ten Chiefs. Hidden Years. Shards. WaveDancers. New Blood. Jink. The Rebels. It's the realization of an idea that first reared its pointy-eared head in 1991 as Wendy and I were walking through the Poughkeepsie Galleria and we asked, "What if..?"
Warp Graphics has grown and changed since then. As recently as three years ago it was a company composed of the same two people whose initials gave it its name way back in 1975. But when we took the path that our "what if..?" led down, we realized that we had to bid farewell to the 'mom and pop' way of thinking that we had, wittingly and unwittingly, fostered over the years since Elfquest began. We had to do some soul-searching, some growing. We had to consider what it might mean to change Warp Graphics itself into a kind of extended family - a tribe. We had to give serious thought to the notion that no longer would the two of us be writing and drawing the whole Elfquest saga ourselves, nor would we be able to. We had to face up to our own limitations - and, facing up to them, surmount them with help, so that Elfquest could grow.
Every so often in this business, a bubble of gas rises up from the swamp of someone's dissatisfaction and bursts noisomely. If it's a writer or an artist whose ire has been raised up, then the recipient of the stench is usually the publisher. That's the way the pecking order seems to work. Sometimes the resulting brouhaha becomes so noisy and flatulent that I begin to wonder, "Why on earth did I ever take this job?"
In support of that bemused question, and also as an answer to it, I offer the following text, which I found in a pamphlet called "A Code For The Collector Of Beautiful Books," written by Maurice Robert and Grederic Warde and published in 1936.
In theory, no profession is simpler than that of the publisher of fine books. You sit down at a
desk; you choose a text; you give it to the printer to set up; you send for an artist and you plan
illustrations to adorn that text. Then you sell the book for as much as possible and bank the profits.
In practice, the matter is somewhat more complicated. The truth of this, alas! was not recognized, in the years of inflation, by many a person who set himself up overnight as a publisher. With might and main, he published no matter what text, illustrated by no matter what artist; and, precisely because he did not understand the complications and subtleties of the profession, suddenly found himself staring up at a mountain of imposing 'flops.' The sequel is common knowledge.
No, you cannot blow into your hands and become a publisher - hi presto! Publishing is a calling with requirements extremely slow of assimilation. It is fraught with such elements of risk that none can pursue it except at the price of never knowing an instant of forgetfulness or faintness. The publisher must learn how to reserve all his professions's vexations for himself, and how to give the benefits of this costly knowledge to his public.
Publishing is quite as difficult as architecture or medicine. A vast knowledge of the technical side of the business is absolutely essential. With luck, one occasional publisher may succeed, once, with one book; never with two in succession. The publisher must be familiar with every subtlety in the respective crafts of printing, binding, engraving of all sorts, and bookselling. He must be endowed with the particular gifts of the psychologist, and foresee the public's whims. Finally, let us not forget, he must be a litterateur. If he is not, he will choose texts that prove of no value or scope. Nowhere does publication of fine books tolerate mediocrity.
But there are compensations. Complexities of knowledge and gift confer on the work of the publisher their nobility and their interest. The true publisher lives an intense life; its magnificent satisfactions are marred by worry and anguish at every moment of the day. The least of his troubles is the fear of watching over a work with all his solicitude and care. He spends night after sleepless night upon it. He brings it out, and suddenly discovers one of those tiny mistakes that the public may not notice; but to the publisher, it appears monstrous, terrible and, worst of all, decisive. That is the magic fascination of this profession, and these very anxieties become an additional attraction, which the publisher could not forego. Do they not keep him in a state of constant activity and perfect vigilance? Do they not endow him with perpetual youth?
The publisher must possess that rare talent of 'knowing how to spend money.' He must allow his printer the overtime hours needed for the repeated experiments that bring a work punctiliously to completion. The paper, ink, and time 'wasted' are secret factors in the charm of a fine book.
Concerning illustration, the publisher knows, if he has been niggardly, he can expect nothing excellent of the artist. How many 'profitable' contracts wind up as execrable books! The artist is the most sensitive cog in the huge machine. The publisher must not haggle; he must understand the intricate obligations that the artist is bound to. Most important of all, no material stress must ever interrupt the artist's inspiration in the course of his labors. That would be tantamount to compromising the entire work.
"Gotcha," Mr. Robert and Mr. Warde say to me. "Yep," I reply, "You did." The simple truth is
that I love this work. For all the black skies and thunderstorms, there are blazing bright, colorful days.
For every "Oh damn, how could they screw that up?" there's a "Wow!
That's fantastic!"
I love it, folks. And I promise to put every ounce of that love into everything we do here at Warp. Watch that butterfly go!
Richard A Pini