After not having bought a comic book in several years, I was finally drawn back in by, embarrassingly, a Big Celebrity Event. (I'm not sure how or when I went from amused skepticism about Joss Whedon to creepy fanaticism, but that's what happened.) I would have bought it at the socially acceptable Borders in Yakima, no doubt sandwiched between copies of Magnet and Granta, so as to say, hey, OK, this is kind of geeky, but it's part of a well-rounded cultural experience, see? But there's a comic book shop, a real hole-in-the-wall place that has somehow managed to stay open in the decaying hulk of downtown Yakima, and it's just across the street from where I work. (Which isn't tied to the retail whims of downtown shopping, to explain its continued presence.) I used to go there all the time.
Though I hadn't been reading comics, I had been haphazardly following them in the news, or at least the specialized nerd news. So I had some idea what to expect in terms of what was selling and what was worth reading. I was, in other words, well equipped to step into this place and find something I wanted to buy.
Which is good, because if I had dared to just walk in there cold I would have been lost.
There are four basic divisions here and I imagine in most such stores: this week's comics, set up in a rotating display; the last month's or so, arrayed on a couple shelves; the deep archives; the quarter bin, where one can purchase the finest of 80s shlock, like Marvel's football comic, or World Championship Wrestling illustrated. Of these, the archives are all sealed up in boards and bags traditionally, which is more or less fine, since these are nominally collector's items. (Whether this is or should be true is something I'll get to later.) The basic assumption at work is that the only people interested in buying one of these books already knows exactly what they want, to the point where they can buy it without glimpsing at its contents.
This time, last month's comics were all bagged and boarded too.
So, OK, say I'm reading Time Magazine or Salon or something and come across yet another article about how comics aren't just for kids anymore, and for whatever reason I'm convinced, and because I'm the kind of consumer who buys elaborately labeled worker-friendly coffee at my local independent bookseller, I'm not going to go to a chain if I can help it. What's this, a locally-owned comic book emporium? (Next door to a surprisingly upscale-looking bakery, even.) Let's stop by before yoga class!
Jane Stereotypical is going to be sorely disappointed when she finds out that this place is designed to be browser-unfriendly. Unless she knows exactly what she wants beforehand she's out of luck.
By contrast, that independent bookseller has fat welcoming couches liberally spread throughout, inviting the careful shopper to at least feel like he or she is making an informed and considered purchase. So does the big chain store, for that matter. So does Amazon, even, in a sense.
Why this obsessiveness about clean-room-like purity? In theory, comic books are fragile things, but so what? So are books, and if I want to buy some rare first edition there are some protective measures I need to deal with. But the average bookstore doesn't make the collector's market their default one, because that market is bound to be smaller than the one made up of more casual consumers. Moreover, I'd be more sympathetic to the fragility argument if the more booklike and rugged trade paperbacks weren't also sealed away. Isn't the point of the collected paperback to appeal to those who aren't determined to get every issue of something in its original pristine state?
And to come back to the archives; what if I've heard of some great comic book published more than a few months ago? If I'm not already in the comic book world there is almost no way I can encounter it. There's a good chance I can find an out of print book down the street at the local library, but comics are out of the question, unless I'm looking for Maus. OK, so this is a failing of the library, which can find room for DVDs but not comics. Sure. But that suggests a perfect, possibly even profitable, niche to fill.
So, anyway: Open up your comics if you want to expand your audience. It isn't the only problem the industry has, maybe isn't even a major one, but it certainly bothered me.
Though I hadn't been reading comics, I had been haphazardly following them in the news, or at least the specialized nerd news. So I had some idea what to expect in terms of what was selling and what was worth reading. I was, in other words, well equipped to step into this place and find something I wanted to buy.
Which is good, because if I had dared to just walk in there cold I would have been lost.
There are four basic divisions here and I imagine in most such stores: this week's comics, set up in a rotating display; the last month's or so, arrayed on a couple shelves; the deep archives; the quarter bin, where one can purchase the finest of 80s shlock, like Marvel's football comic, or World Championship Wrestling illustrated. Of these, the archives are all sealed up in boards and bags traditionally, which is more or less fine, since these are nominally collector's items. (Whether this is or should be true is something I'll get to later.) The basic assumption at work is that the only people interested in buying one of these books already knows exactly what they want, to the point where they can buy it without glimpsing at its contents.
This time, last month's comics were all bagged and boarded too.
So, OK, say I'm reading Time Magazine or Salon or something and come across yet another article about how comics aren't just for kids anymore, and for whatever reason I'm convinced, and because I'm the kind of consumer who buys elaborately labeled worker-friendly coffee at my local independent bookseller, I'm not going to go to a chain if I can help it. What's this, a locally-owned comic book emporium? (Next door to a surprisingly upscale-looking bakery, even.) Let's stop by before yoga class!
Jane Stereotypical is going to be sorely disappointed when she finds out that this place is designed to be browser-unfriendly. Unless she knows exactly what she wants beforehand she's out of luck.
By contrast, that independent bookseller has fat welcoming couches liberally spread throughout, inviting the careful shopper to at least feel like he or she is making an informed and considered purchase. So does the big chain store, for that matter. So does Amazon, even, in a sense.
Why this obsessiveness about clean-room-like purity? In theory, comic books are fragile things, but so what? So are books, and if I want to buy some rare first edition there are some protective measures I need to deal with. But the average bookstore doesn't make the collector's market their default one, because that market is bound to be smaller than the one made up of more casual consumers. Moreover, I'd be more sympathetic to the fragility argument if the more booklike and rugged trade paperbacks weren't also sealed away. Isn't the point of the collected paperback to appeal to those who aren't determined to get every issue of something in its original pristine state?
And to come back to the archives; what if I've heard of some great comic book published more than a few months ago? If I'm not already in the comic book world there is almost no way I can encounter it. There's a good chance I can find an out of print book down the street at the local library, but comics are out of the question, unless I'm looking for Maus. OK, so this is a failing of the library, which can find room for DVDs but not comics. Sure. But that suggests a perfect, possibly even profitable, niche to fill.
So, anyway: Open up your comics if you want to expand your audience. It isn't the only problem the industry has, maybe isn't even a major one, but it certainly bothered me.
