A while back, I designed a book cover for the story collection Planet Grim, written by Alex Behr and published by 7.13 Books (coming out next week!). When the publisher at 7.13 approached me to design the cover for their next book, Mr. Neutron, I jumped at the chance because they're just lovely to work with.
Also, I was very intrigued by what I was hearing about the book. Here's the description:
In the smallish American city of Grand River, things are not so grand. The river is hopelessly polluted. City officials are in the pockets of oligarchs. And its best hope for meaningful change is a platitude-spouting eight-foot giant named Reason Wilder running for mayor.
Gray Davenport, a veteran political operative, isn’t faring much better than his hometown. His wife is about to leave him. He’s working for a mayoral candidate who has no chance to win and who can’t even pay for Gray’s services. When Gray notices that Reason may not be human, Gray embarks on a quest to uncover the truth about Reason’s mysterious origins, and the truth promises to change Grand River and Gray forever.
A satirical mashup of Frankenstein and Veep, Mr. Neutron is a hilarious genre-bender that speaks to the unpredictable nature of American politics today.
I consulted with publisher Leland Cheuk and writer Joe Ponepinto. They were interested in a minimalist cover that was mostly text and the shadow of Reason looming over it all. In fact, Joe sent me a shadow shape as an example, and I liked it so much I decided to use it.
Because Mr. Neutron is satire, I wanted the text to be "off" in some way, crooked or uneven, so I broke Neutron into two pieces and set them a little off-kilter. Then I set the Mr. and the author name at slants that purposefully didn't line up.
Mr. Neutron comes out in March of 2018. Here's a little taste:
Monterey Jack? Hmm.
Now there was a name. It bubbled with testosterone and reeked of sweat. Monterey Jack, he of the three-day stubble and flower-wilting breath, the meanest, toughest hombre who ever stalked the Sierra Nevadas in search of silver, women and whiskey. A man with a name like that ate raw horseflesh; he cleaned his toenails with a Bowie knife. He feared no man, no challenge; needed no sidekick to help him through. Monterey Jack was a name a man could wear like a bandana, a name that swaggered, that defied convention, and was so much more of a handle than his own, inanimate tag. Monterey Jack wouldn’t stand in the back of the room. He wouldn’t need a place to hide. He’d kick chairs and tables out of his way, and then the crowd would clear a path for him, huddling against the bar to let him pass. Monterey Jack would jangle his spurs right up to Reason.
But, no. He was Gray. Dull as a sunless, rainy afternoon. A product of his mother’s promiscuity and dyslexia. She had meant to honor her father, Gary. But it went down as Gray, and burdened him with all the dreariness the word implies. And Davenport to boot, as in, Ms. Davenport, are you sure of what you wrote on the baby’s registration? And when she answered yes, Gray Davenport was sentenced to a life as a blandly upholstered sofa, something to be sat upon by asses of all weights and configurations. From childhood on he endured the questions and the jokes. New acquaintances tried their best to be witty at his expense, turning his name into a weather report or an ad for cut-rate furniture. He always did his best to ignore it, sometimes laughed to show he could take the ribbing and get along with the ex-frat boys and sorority sisters who populated the halls of influence in this stratified city as he tried to claw his way up the ladder of political success. But inside, where it counted—where it hurt—he added these rubes to his “list”—an ever-lengthening mental inventory of those who’d offended him, and against whom he would someday, somehow, exact revenge in all its living-well-is-the-best-type glory. So far, however, that plan had disappointed, and Gray continued to hate them all for who they were, as they surely would have hated him for who he wasn’t, had they bothered to acknowledge him at all.
Because Mr. Neutron is satire, I wanted the text to be "off" in some way, crooked or uneven, so I broke Neutron into two pieces and set them a little off-kilter. Then I set the Mr. and the author name at slants that purposefully didn't line up.
Mr. Neutron comes out in March of 2018. Here's a little taste:
Monterey Jack? Hmm.
Now there was a name. It bubbled with testosterone and reeked of sweat. Monterey Jack, he of the three-day stubble and flower-wilting breath, the meanest, toughest hombre who ever stalked the Sierra Nevadas in search of silver, women and whiskey. A man with a name like that ate raw horseflesh; he cleaned his toenails with a Bowie knife. He feared no man, no challenge; needed no sidekick to help him through. Monterey Jack was a name a man could wear like a bandana, a name that swaggered, that defied convention, and was so much more of a handle than his own, inanimate tag. Monterey Jack wouldn’t stand in the back of the room. He wouldn’t need a place to hide. He’d kick chairs and tables out of his way, and then the crowd would clear a path for him, huddling against the bar to let him pass. Monterey Jack would jangle his spurs right up to Reason.
But, no. He was Gray. Dull as a sunless, rainy afternoon. A product of his mother’s promiscuity and dyslexia. She had meant to honor her father, Gary. But it went down as Gray, and burdened him with all the dreariness the word implies. And Davenport to boot, as in, Ms. Davenport, are you sure of what you wrote on the baby’s registration? And when she answered yes, Gray Davenport was sentenced to a life as a blandly upholstered sofa, something to be sat upon by asses of all weights and configurations. From childhood on he endured the questions and the jokes. New acquaintances tried their best to be witty at his expense, turning his name into a weather report or an ad for cut-rate furniture. He always did his best to ignore it, sometimes laughed to show he could take the ribbing and get along with the ex-frat boys and sorority sisters who populated the halls of influence in this stratified city as he tried to claw his way up the ladder of political success. But inside, where it counted—where it hurt—he added these rubes to his “list”—an ever-lengthening mental inventory of those who’d offended him, and against whom he would someday, somehow, exact revenge in all its living-well-is-the-best-type glory. So far, however, that plan had disappointed, and Gray continued to hate them all for who they were, as they surely would have hated him for who he wasn’t, had they bothered to acknowledge him at all.
Great cover - sharp!
ReplyDelete"A product of his mother’s promiscuity and dyslexia." Great line.