To con, or not to con? That is the question. Whether ’tis nobler on the ego to suffer the slings and arrows of Marvel and DC fans or take to arms against the price of tables and by opposing them, to lie and sleep in some more; and by sleep to stay-in on a weekend. The heartache, and the thousand unsold books that my spouse is heir to. Tis a comic con devoutly to be publish’d.
To die – to sleep. Perchance to dream of making table. Ay, there’s the rub! For in that sleep of death what freelance jobs may come. When we have shuffled off the showroom floor, must give us pause. There’s the respect that makes obscurity of so long life. For who would read the books about fighters of crime. Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the superpower’d man’s costumely, the pangs of despise’d pitches, the shipment’s delay, the insolence of volunteers, and the spurns that artistic merit of th’ unworthy fakes.
When he himself might his quietus make with a bare cosplayer’s bodkin? Who would these fans bear? To grunt and sweat under a freelancer’s life but that the dread of something before deadline – The outsource’d country, where pencillers bourn. No editor returns calls – puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those bills we have than fly to other publishers that we know of. Thus exclusive contracts does make hustlers of us all.
And thus the native files at resolution is covered o’er with the pale cast of filters. And enterprises of derivative characters with this regard their creator-owned IPs turn awry and lose the trademark name in legal action.- Cease and desist you now! The social media!- Nymph, in thy newsfeeds be all my rants rememb’red.