Unfortunately, the cost of producing magazines started to rise, and the publishers of comics made a nearly fatal decision. Driven by their own perceptions of what they produced as trashy, disposable material, they decided to cling to that ten cent cover price while the cost of other magazines went up.

The result was a kind of ghettoizing of comics. By staying at the same price, they became steadily less profitable to the vendors. And, to make matters worst, holding that cover price eventually compelled the publishers to start shrinking the package. What had begun as 64 pAges for a dime was, by the time I started buying, 32 pages, still for a dime.

Comics were not only less profitable, they were physically flimsy. Distribution across the country began to be seen as something not even worth the effort. Many bundles didn’t even leave the warehouse.

And then, finally, the cover price had to go up. And even with that the publishers looked for ways to keep the cost down. They were almost embarrassed to charge what other magazines charged. (Comics were not even thought of as magazines. They were more like pamphlets.) When I started reading Marvel comics the editorial content was around 24 pages. Looking for ways to generate revenue without raising prices, the companies sold more pages as ads. When I started working at Marvel the editorial content was down to 18 pages, and shrank almost at once to 17.

What had begun as a robust, profitable enterprise had become a mere shadow of itself, and public contempt for the form had grown to the point that working in comics was looked upon by some as half a step above prostitution.

And we weren’t even expensive prostitutes!