“Bunny, do you remember when we met?”

It’s never good enough. The screen mocks you, the keys stare at you and everything is shit. Why do people pretend to like what you do? When are they going to reveal the elaborate ruse that’s been going on for years? When will they finally tell me it was all a joke, that they were just seeing how long I would write before I either stopped or they had enough?

These are questions that haunt me. They are questions that haunt many creators as well.

In the back pages of this comic, after the song has been sung, Kelly Sue admits to being afraid. Her particular fear is falling, which she then uses to tell a story of her life leading up to the creation of Pretty Deadly and what making this series means to her. There’s fear in these words. There’s fear in each and every letter of the comic that proceeded these words. Some would let that fear stifle and stall, but here it is in my hands: Pretty Deadly #1. At it’s core, this is a book about strength, despite fear and failure, both perceived and real.

It’s one of the most gorgeous books I’ve ever read.

“Attend the song of Deathface Ginny / and how she came to be”

Pretty Deadly greets you with a shock of ethereal pink as Ginny dwells in the aftermath and prelude to violence. It’s a breath in between, one that lets us wonder how she got to that place and where she’ll go from there. The cover opens to an array of pleasing yellows and browns from the accomplished Jordie Bellaire, setting a specific tone of introduction while DeConnick’s lyrical narration floats nimbly atop Emma Rios’ luscious brush strokes. The relative monotony is broken with a bright splash almost instantaneously. The book is introduced as something ethereal and violent, a mix of gentle comforts and sudden violence. A revenge western told on the breeze.

God damn.

“If you done been wronged / say her name, sing this song…”

The best stories are born from impossible standards, and in practice, I’ve found that no one’s standards are impossible like our own. Pretty Deadly is a resounding triumph of storytelling in its various forms, of raw creation, and of overcoming fear. Built carefully by DeConnick and Rios and Bellaire, and ushered sweetly by Clayton Cowles whose lettering doesn’t miss a trick, even when the series breaks from traditional layout early on, it’s a story that sinks into your mind and sticks to your bones. It’s something you can hear long after it has passed. It’s a work and a world that I can’t wait to explore deeper, given time. Here’s hoping there’s a lot of it.