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THE ACCIDENTAL GRAPHIC NOVELIST
often low-brow form. It recognizes that many
comics actually deal with serious subjects, with
perhaps more allegiance to ne art than pulp
ction, largely by eroding the boundary between
these categories. is question of nomencla-
ture—being a popular topic at conferences and
festivals—is part of a broader semantic discus-
sion that trades in phrases such as visual literacy,
multi-literacy, sequential art, pictorial narra-
tive, and so on. ese ideas are fascinating and
certainly help galvanize our awareness of what’s
happening in a previously overlooked corner of
literature where so many innovative illustrated
books have hit the shelves and now enjoy serious
critical focus and debate. (e Arrival caused some
minor controversy in Australia upon receiving a
mainstream literary prize, with protestations of
“how can a book without words be called litera-
ture?”) Naturally, there’s much interest in how
these books might be dened and categorized
—perhaps by their aesthetic qualities, audience
range, publishing and marketing criteria, page
length, physical format, et cetera—the “graphic
novel” alternatively describing an art form or a
contemporary movement.
Searching for a story
From a more personal point of view, as someone
who writes and illustrates stories, I’m less inter-
ested in these academic questions. I simply want
to know what many practicing teachers, librar-
ians, and general readers are also asking when
they enter a classroom, bookstore, library, or
armchair: “Why read a graphic novel?” Which is
really the same question as “why create a graphic
novel?” My short answer is this: it’s sometimes
just the best way to tell a particular story. For a
longer answer, it might help to explain how I’ve
come to nd myself working in this area.
Ever since I could hold a crayon, listen to a
story, or watch a movie, I’ve been fascinated by
both writing and drawing. is attraction has
followed me into my adult working life, albeit
after a more convoluted path of considering other
professions (biotechnology, among other things!).
Fortunately, I’ve always managed to return to
my childhood obsessions and eke out a living as
about the house like a small deity, making all
sorts of profound remarks… But here was a very
real object, and so all the more strange: a shiny
cartoon sculpture with a lovely big head the
shape of a grapefruit, neat triangular ears and
bright keyhole eyes. I eventually recognized what
it was: a trophy from the prestigious Angoulême
Comics Festival. Some months previously my
book e Arrival had won a major award there
—something I’d only known from a distance—
following a successful French translation, Là Où
Vont Nos Pères (“Where Our Fathers Went”).
I use the term “translation” advisedly, given
that my book is entirely without words (and so
the title is the translation). e Arrival is the story
of an immigrant told through a series of “silent”
pencil drawings, a book I had never been entirely
able to categorize—and certainly never imag-
ined would receive such an exotic prize from the
international comics community. In Australia, I
had originally pitched my project to a publisher
as a picture book, as this was a form very familiar
to me as an illustrator. Five years later, it had
expanded to 128 pages, lost its text and changed
format. French rights were sold to a publisher
specializing in bande dessinée (drawn strips)—
meaning comics or graphic novels—and so my
work was welcomed into a dierent fold, and by
a largely adult audience. Somewhere in between,
e Arrival was marketed in the US as a young
adult graphic novel, with praise from such genre
luminaries as Je Smith (Bone), Marjane Satrapi
(Persepolis), and Art Spiegelman (Maus)—which
left me quite amazed. I had, rather unwittingly,
become a graphic novelist, if only because an
authority far higher than myself had said so! e
little golden cat-idol from France did have some-
thing to proclaim after all.
You’ll notice that I use the terms “comics” and
“graphic novels” interchangeably, because I don’t
see much dierence between them; these terms
both describe an arrangement of words and/or
pictures as consecutive panels on a printed page
(and can be extended to include picture books too).
e term “graphic novel” seems to have gained
currency in recent years, partly to encourage a
more serious regard for a long-established but