For quite some time I've had the desire to create a little book that
upon first perusal was completely cryptic and unreadable, one that
contained only coded text, unfamiliar symbols, and seemingly
meaningless illustrations and diagrams. I had several ideas for it,
but of course there's never time to complete an undertaking as
involved as this in the course of one's everyday life. No, I've long
since learned that to actually make something like this happen, one
all but requires an externally imposed deadline.
Here are photos of the book's contents.
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This is the desk where I did my drawing. You can see the sheaf of
scratch paper on which I did initial sketches, and made records of the
various symbols and alphabets that appear throughout the book. (The
top paper with the gridlines proved to be less useful, as the
sketchbook pages were just a little too opaque to see through.) I had
several different kinds of ballpoint pens, rollerball pens, and a dip
pen, which helped to make each section look a little different. The
needle and white thread on the right was used to redo the binding. I
took out the binding staples at the start to make it easier to work on
each page individually. At the end, I rebound everything back together
with thread. (I first tried to replace the original staples, actually,
but I found it quite impossible to get those bent, stumpy legs back
through all of the page holes. Sewing turned out to be both
classier-looking and a lot less effort.)
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The first page of the sketchbook functions as the book's front cover.
I never came up with a title that I liked, so I decided to use an
abstract design on the cover. (I briefly considered putting a "title"
on the cover by just drawing a sequence of symbols that didn't appear
anywhere else in the book. But I realized that this had the potential
to be very misleading to a would-be solver — i.e. not frustating
in a good way.) Celtic knot patterns do a fine job of illustrating the
idea of a interwoven tangle of threads. There are numerous computer
programs out there that can automatically generate knot patterns. I
used one that broke a couple of the traditional rules for Celtic knots
so that it would look less like it was trying to refer specifically to
Insular Art. It took me over an hour just to shade in the background.
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If the first page is the front cover, then the second page is the
endpaper. Deciding to leave it blank allowed me to use my rollerball
pens to draw the front cover without worrying about all the
bleed-through. Page three contains the book's first coded message.
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The photo was taken right after I finished drawing the page; as you
can see, the pages are still unbound. This photo also shows what it
looked like before the lettering on the other sides of the paper bled
through.
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I designed the initial "J" on a sheet of scrap paper, traced it onto
the page in pencil (using my window as a makeshift light table), and
then inked the final version. I actually tried using a French curve to
ink the letter at first. I had never used a French curve before, but
this whole project was something of an experiment anyway, so I figured
there was no better time. It proved to be a failed experiment: the
results weren't significantly better than what I could have done
freehand, and at one point the French curve smeared the ink. The
shading around the letter was added in order to cover up the smears.
Because of this, I made a conscious decision to ink everything
freehand. Even the perfectly straight lines; the ruler was used only
for pencil-work. It seemed likely that having a few non-shaky straight
lines in the book would just make all the other shaky lines look that
much worse.
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This photo contains an example use of several pen types. The left-hand
page's lettering is mostly ballpoint pen, with rollerball pen for the
line of lettering at top and bottom. The right-hand page uses the dip
pen for the lettering. The illustrations are done with a different
ballpoint pen, one with a lighter ink that permitted a wide range of
shading.
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The process of inking the book and coming up with the book's contents
overlapped rather more than I would have liked. That was the effect of
my deadline: I simply didn't have time to wait until I worked out all
the details before breaking out the pen and ink. In particular, the
symbols on the left-hand side (which also appear near the bottom on
the right-hand side) were invented only two days before the deadline,
as I realized that my current structure required one more alphabet
than I currently had. Given the time crunch, I made a conscious effort
to make one that was easy to letter. One of my goals was to give each
alphabet a distinctive texture that would be immediately visible on
the page, but not making the letters so simliar to each other as to
induce confusion in the would-be reader. The central aesthetic of this
particular alphabet is that each letter consists of a single curved
line — no straight lines anywhere. This aesthetic made lettering
a breeze, and I finished the page in record time.
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Determining the layout of a solid block of text is non-trivial under
regular circumstances. When I do a bit of lettering, I typically write
a few lines' worth on scratch paper, and then extrapolate to determine
about how many lines the full text will need. The estimate is rarely
exactly right, and sometimes I have to start squeezing words into the
last few lines. On a page like this one, with two very narrow columns
making for lots of unpredictable line breaks, estimating the necessary
space can be very error-prone. Now imagine trying to make that
estimate when you're writing in an unfamiliar alphabet you've never
done any lettering in before. The overall obstactles for laying out
this particular page were enough that I totally cheated. How? Simple.
This alphabet, unlike all the others in the book, is made up of
various obscure Unicode characters, so they can all be rendered by
(say) a web browser. I mocked this entire section up as a web page,
and then fiddled with the layout until everything fit in the available
space. Then I taped the sketchbook page to my computer monitor and
traced the whole thing. Huge time-saver. The downside of this approach
is that the text is a little light and shaky from writing on a
vertical surface, and my being unable to press down hard for fear of
damaging the monitor. (It's one of the few times in my life that I
missed the heavy glass displays of those old CRT monitors.)
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When I first starting lettering the book, I was surprised at how much
space the sections of text took up. Back when I was sitting at my
editor, a paragraph of only 250 words seemed a bit lightweight, almost
lazy even. Then I discovered that a single page barely permitted space
for 100 words, and soon I was back at the editor, desperately trying
to squeeze the same content into fewer words. Making the lettering
smaller and reducing the space between lines are two options,
normally, but given that the reader is already trying to read an
unfamiliar alphabet, I felt that I needed to avoid potential obstacles
to legibility. In this particular case, even after strenuous editing,
I got halfway down the left page when I realized I still wasn't going
to be able to fit everything in the intended space. So I had to let
the last part continue onto the right-hand side.
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I knew early on that this diagram would never fit onto one page, so I
placed it in the center where it could sprawl across both sides.
Incautious planning caused me to place one of the text fragments so
that it ran off the left-hand page onto the right-hand page, causing
the symbols in the pages' gutter to get missed by the scanner.
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A second example of text written in the familiar Roman alphabet. Like
the first, everything is done in uppercase, as is usual for enciphered
texts. I don't know if it's done that way for actual reasons or just
because it's traditional. (I assume it makes it somewhat easier to see
certain patterns than with mixed-case lettering, but that's just
hypothesizing on my part.) To draw these pages, I would generate the
enciphered text using a short script (either Perl or Python, depending
on various arbitrary factors), and then display the text on my
computer monitor in a gigantic font that I could see comfortably from
my writing desk. This process meant that I had to occasionally get up
and scroll the display, but I wanted there to be no extra steps
between the automatic generation of the text and its committal to the
sketchbook's page. A lifetime of experience has taught me that every
manual step adds another possibility for errors to creep in.
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Another page where I had trouble fitting the text into the desired
space. This time, instead of overflowing the text onto the illustation
page, I made the lines of text smaller and squeezed them closer
together. I think this page is still legible, but of course I'm not
necessarily the best judge, since by the time I was ready to do the
lettering for a page like this, I had become relatively familiar with
the alphabet. This is one of many areas where I would have liked to
have had someone that could give me critical feedback on the design
beforehand. This page also has the most inept illustration in the
sketchbook. The perspective is quite uneven. I may be a decent
letterer, but when it comes to illustration I am strictly an amateur.
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These pages are the first that I committed to paper. At the time I was
nervous about making transcription errors — presumably an easy
thing to when writing down near-random strings of letters, but which
might easily render a page unsolveable. I was so concerned that I drew
this page by first tracing the entire text from my computer monitor
onto tracing paper in pencil, and then copying the text from the
tracing paper to the sketchbook page by using my window as a light
table. (I can't remember now why I didn't just trace from my computer
monitor to the page directly, but at the time it seemed like that
wouldn't work.) No doubt this drastically reduced the likelihood of an
error, but it was far more trouble than it was worth. I didn't use
this technique again, and I found that just being slow and careful
about copying down the text was enough to produce reliable
transcriptions. I also failed to plan out the page layout properly,
and the symbols near the gutter on the right-hand page got cut off in
the scans.
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The photo for this page probably shows best the problem of ink
bleeding through when using a rollerball pen (as opposed to the biro
type of ballpoint pen, which uses a much drier and more viscous ink
that doesn't soak into the paper). In retrospect, I should have used
the dip pen in most of the places I used a rollerball. To my surprise,
india ink gave me a nice solid black without soaking through to the
other side at all. Chalk another one up to learning by experiment.
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The lettering on this page was done with a rollerball pen, while the
illustration was done with the drier ballpoint pen (thus the
bleed-through of the former but not the latter). I was pleasantly
surprised at how well the illustration came out with the ballpoint's
thin lines; the photo doesn't really do it justice.
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If there's any place that my decision to completely avoid using the
ruler for inked lines really worked against me, it's here in the
crossword grid. The shaky lines really stand out here, and not in a
good way. Oh, and speaking of lines, can I just say here how much I
hate having to draw pencil guide lines? They're completely necessary;
my lettering invariably slopes uphill when I don't have them. But
pencilling them in is a tedious process that takes longer than it
seems like it has any right to. In situations like on the left side,
where I needed vertical guide lines as well as the usual horizontal
ones, it almost took as long as the actual lettering. And then once
you're done you have to go back and erase them all, carefully and
gently lest you smear the ink. (Although let me say here, why has
nobody ever told me about kneaded rubber erasers before? I used one
for the first time on this project, and I was amazed at how reliably
it erased pencil marks without smearing ink. And no eraser crumbs.
It's like magic.) I'm always trying to find ways to avoid having to
draw guide lines, like having guide lines on a piece of paper
underneath the page, but as I mentioned up above, the sketchbook's
paper was a little too opaque to make that work.
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I had initially hoped to put my calligraphy skills to more use in this
project, but even my smallest C-4 nib produced lines that were far too
wide for anything but an oversized initial. In my original conception
of this project, I planned to use decorative borders and frames on
nearly every page, but the aforementioned difficulty in getting the
texts to fit in the given space forced me to abandon most of that.
This is one of the few places where this idea survived.
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The back cover. Like the front cover, it is intended to be purely
decorative. I have a book that shows examples of book cover art from
the late-1800s-early-1900s. (It's the red book that can be seen in the
desk photograph up top.) I paged through that to get inspiration for
the sort of abstract decorations one typically sees on older books.
After roughing out a design on some graph paper, I used my
window/light-table to trace it onto the page in pencil four times, and
then finally inked in the lines and added the shading.
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Several months after I had finished the sketchbook, I was wondering
how to go about finding playtesters, since this is the sort of thing
only a small group of people would find interesting. (See below if
you're one of those people.) I came up with the idea of posting
notices in code. Only someone who enjoys solving codes for their own
sake would actually manage to read what it says, so it should be very
effective at reaching the desired audience. This photo shows one of my
flyers on the bulletin board of a neighborhood coffee shop.
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The original sketchbook is no longer in my possession. It is currently
located at the
Brooklyn Art
Library. You can view
scans of
it online (this link requires you to create an account with the
Art House Co-op). Or if you happen to be in Brooklyn, you can view it
in person at the Brooklyn Art Library (its call number is
178.11-8).