Wait, shouldn’t it be deserted island, not desert island? Wikipedia says that “desert” used to refer to any “desolate and sparsely occupied or unoccupied” place. Whatever; times change, language is mutable, we all face the looming inevitable–but until then, comics! Our panel of contributors shares their picks for absolute must-have comics for an island getaway/shipwreck scenario.
It’s the most wonderful time of the year: scratchy sweaters, stuffing your face with pumpkin spice everything, and huddling around the ol’ bonfire for some skin crawling stories with friends. October is simply 31 days of all the best things that Autumn has to offer. Among these offerings is the beloved (and at times anxiety-inspiring) tradition of “Inktober”. Created by Mr. Jake Parker in 2009, the premise is simple: make an ink drawing once a day, for thirty-one consecutive days. Much like its literary sibling “NaNoWriMo”, Inktober is meant to inspire and challenge artists to improve their skills, and experiment with new ideas.
This year will mark my third consecutive Inktober, and I could not be more excited. You can bet your buns I’ve got a sketchbook and fresh pencils just waiting to be put to work. While Inktober is meant to be a fun creative exercise, sometimes it can be tougher than you thought to squeeze that drawing a day into your schedule. Perhaps you only have ten minutes to dedicate to your drawing, somebody’s getting married, you’ve begun living the plot of a heist movie, you’re facing a rough depressive streak or, maybe, you have just plain run out of ideas. Well, no worries babes, Miki’s gotcha.
You can find Mr. Jake Parker’s official Inktober 2017 page here.
Parker’s prompts tend to be single words, implying action or character qualities. I’m here to provide a list of 31 alternative/additional prompts to keep tough stuff like you producing quality Inktober magic when the going gets tough:
A generational gap that divides opinions on what makes a game worth playing
My first roleplaying game experience takes me back to when I was 12 years old. I stepped out of a December snowsquall into Phoenix Games, a hole-in-the-wall game store squeezed into a strip mall five minutes down the road from my house. After purchasing the 3.5 DnD Player’s Handbook there, I joined a game group made up of kids who would become my closest friends for the next six to fifteen years. The game was run by the owner of the store, a late gen-X geek in his mid-twenties who got paid either nothing to way too little to put up with all of our teenage bullshit for the next few years. It was a seminal time for me, is the picture I’m trying to paint here.