It is somewhere around 3:30 a.m. when I realize I've been trying to draw a man falling out of an airplane for longer than any man should be falling out of a plane. I'm a mess, starting with the empty root beer bottles, cans of Red Bull, bag of Twizzlers and candy wrappers around me. I may have hit a wall.

At 3:31 a.m. I reach the conclusion that I stink at drawing and will never, ever, find myself in a situation like this again.

Two weeks and a little over 72 hours ago, I decided to take part in 24 Hour Comics Day, a marathon-eqsue challenge that asks a seemingly simple question: Can you create a 24-page comic book in 24 hours? The concept was created by Scott McCloud, creator of comics and author of books like "Understanding Comics." The rules of the game are simple: Use whatever style you want (pencil, pen, paint, crayon), but the ideas, plot and character(s) should be a game-day creation.

At this point you're probably asking, "Why?"

For starters, comics were one of the reasons I loved to read while growing up. Seeing a guy who can fly, a kid who shoots webs, a bunch of mutants or a guy who dresses up like a bat to beat up muggers is great for your imagination.

Rick Lowell, owner of Casablanca Comics, says the challenge is what sells it, knowing that you can create something in one full day. "People are curious whether they can do it or not," said Lowell. This year, Casablanca Comics and the Maine College of Art hosted the event. With the clock ticking, it becomes a balance between how much time you have and how focused you are, he said. It's a few minutes before 10 a.m. on Oct. 7 when I arrive at the Maine College of Art, heavy with supplies.

There are around 30 of us in the illustration room, a good portion of whom are MECA students. Mercifully we're allowed staggered start times, mine being 10:27 a.m. Brainstorming on an extra note pad, I write down the following:

"How to work monkeys, pirates, and (David) Hasselhoff into all of it."

"There's no clock in here."

"Neil Diamond."

At that point I turn on iTunes, cue the soundtrack to Rocky IV and hope for the best.

Now would be a good time to note that I am not completely unfamiliar with drawing comics. During college I took a job at the campus newspaper and produced a twice weekly comic strip called "Mojo Road" for almost four years. Regular plot lines poked fun at the Greek system, involved heroic drinking binges, failings with women and robot super pimps. It was not Mark Trail.

By 4:45 p.m., people are taking breaks, stretching and already cursing their ideas. I am among good people. I'm 412 pages into some carnage and trying not to smudge the pencil lead as I draw. After trashing one plot, I've settled on a story centered around the exploits of a tiny no-name ninja. The plan is for the story to unfold in three acts -- how he escapes, the two roommates who find him and a TV reporter sent to do a story.

Lowell, who's sitting at the same table as me, seems to be experiencing equal parts enthusiasm and frustration. He's using the reliable "go with that you know" technique and is writing about some of the more bizarre conversations overheard in his store.

Around 9:30 p.m. some realities start to set in. The pizza's been devoured, it's turning dark outside and at least one guy has packed it in for the night.

Across from me, Mike Caton has been working on a full color day-in-the-life comic about his work at a meat market. We're working at about the same pace. He's working in color; I'm just slow.

"Bologna is a funny word to spell," he says.

"Bo--log--na," I say, demonstrating my sharp, Hooked on Phonics-esque reporter thinking.

"Did you know Oscar Mayer Bologna can strip paint off a car?" Caton asked. "I did not know that," I reply.

By the time we reach the 12-hour mark, things are getting punchy and I'm only six pages deep. The two roommates have overcome an attack from the midget ninja by distracting him with bacon and hitting him on the head with a frying pan. It's around this point that somewhere in the room we all hear what sounds like "ooh-ka-chaka." Yes, someone is singing Blue Suede's "Hooked on a Feeling."

From my note pad, dated 1 a.m.: "I am so freaking tired right now and this seems like the stupidest thing ever attempted. Though possibly not the stupidest thing ever attempted in journalism."

Fifteen minutes later I reach for the rocket fuel. There will be no going back. I crack open my first Red Bull open and turn up The Roots.

5 a.m.: Caton pulls up stakes, Lowell's enjoying a quick nap on a nearby couch and I'm fighting the symptoms of a cold and the head bob I've developed from dozing off. On the bright side I've got a good looking cargo plane drawn, a hard case with an eye patch and a daring escape that involves Salisbury steak.

Maybe its the exhaustion or the generous amount of caffeine coursing through my body, but I've gone from frustrated to content by 10 a.m. Then again, maybe its because Lowell says folks have a few days to finish up before he sends in the entries. Even though I can knock out 20 inches of copy in a day, I'm about 11 pages shy of 24.

But hey, it's good to know I can still pull an all-nighter when needed. Now I just need to find out the health effects of prolonged Red Bull exposure.

Staff Writer Justin Ellis can be contacted at 791-6380 or jellis@pressherald.com