CT: In Which CT Does Not Get What She Wants
This week I'm going to tell you a little story, readers. So settle in, grab a blanket and a cup of cocoa.
A few weeks ago, Little C and I were meeting a friend for dinner, and we were extremely early. Why? I was driving and that's how I roll. So we decided that we would pop into the local comic book store to kill some time. This is, as you might know, an extremely dangerous activity but hey, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Especially when one of those girls has a compulsion to get everywhere 20 minutes before she needs to.
Little C immediately struck up a conversation with the woman that runs the shop, while I browsed. I hadn't intended on buying anything, but I always like to look. Do I maybe need an issue of Captain Marvel? Or maybe a third copy of Neil Gaiman's The Ocean At The End Of The Lane, because I keep lending my copy to people and forgetting who has it. Before I'd really decided on anything, it was getting to be time to go, and I definitely didn't want to be late to dinner. Especially when I'd started out a half hour early. That looks bad.
Then I saw it. Just sitting there, on the shelf, lookin' pretty. Wytches, Volume 1 by Scott Snyder.
I flipped through it for a second and literally gasped out loud. The story seemed like a pretty delightful little horror yarn, and if you're a regular around these parts you know that's one of my favorite things. But the art. THE ART. It's so, so, so pretty. And somehow that prettiness only underscores how freaking scary the story is.
I devoured it in about fifteen minutes at work one night, and because it says Volume 1 on the front, I couldn't wait to get my hands on the next book. I skipped myself over to the comic shop to pick up the next one, only to be told that IT DOESN'T EXIST. I repeat, there is no Volume 2.
I stared at the teenager running the counter while he told me he was "bummed about it too" and tried to think of ways that he was probably personally responsible for this. But to be honest, I'm a TV person. This happens all the time to us. I told you a few weeks ago about Manhattan Love Story getting cancelled right as Caitlin and I were falling deeply in love with it. It's not unique. Shows end on cliffhangers (Dark Angel), they get cancelled right as they were finally, finally getting good (Dollhouse), shows get ripped from our fingers until we freak out enough that Fox makes us a movie (Firefly #Browncoats forever).
I console myself by remembering that the uncertainty is part and parcel of the magic of television. Or something. But in the meantime, Mr. Snyder, please, for the love of goodness, write me another volume.
Pleeeeeeaaaaassseeee,
CT
A few weeks ago, Little C and I were meeting a friend for dinner, and we were extremely early. Why? I was driving and that's how I roll. So we decided that we would pop into the local comic book store to kill some time. This is, as you might know, an extremely dangerous activity but hey, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Especially when one of those girls has a compulsion to get everywhere 20 minutes before she needs to.
Little C immediately struck up a conversation with the woman that runs the shop, while I browsed. I hadn't intended on buying anything, but I always like to look. Do I maybe need an issue of Captain Marvel? Or maybe a third copy of Neil Gaiman's The Ocean At The End Of The Lane, because I keep lending my copy to people and forgetting who has it. Before I'd really decided on anything, it was getting to be time to go, and I definitely didn't want to be late to dinner. Especially when I'd started out a half hour early. That looks bad.
Then I saw it. Just sitting there, on the shelf, lookin' pretty. Wytches, Volume 1 by Scott Snyder.
I flipped through it for a second and literally gasped out loud. The story seemed like a pretty delightful little horror yarn, and if you're a regular around these parts you know that's one of my favorite things. But the art. THE ART. It's so, so, so pretty. And somehow that prettiness only underscores how freaking scary the story is.
I devoured it in about fifteen minutes at work one night, and because it says Volume 1 on the front, I couldn't wait to get my hands on the next book. I skipped myself over to the comic shop to pick up the next one, only to be told that IT DOESN'T EXIST. I repeat, there is no Volume 2.
 |
| This is not a drill. |
I stared at the teenager running the counter while he told me he was "bummed about it too" and tried to think of ways that he was probably personally responsible for this. But to be honest, I'm a TV person. This happens all the time to us. I told you a few weeks ago about Manhattan Love Story getting cancelled right as Caitlin and I were falling deeply in love with it. It's not unique. Shows end on cliffhangers (Dark Angel), they get cancelled right as they were finally, finally getting good (Dollhouse), shows get ripped from our fingers until we freak out enough that Fox makes us a movie (Firefly #Browncoats forever).
I console myself by remembering that the uncertainty is part and parcel of the magic of television. Or something. But in the meantime, Mr. Snyder, please, for the love of goodness, write me another volume.
Pleeeeeeaaaaassseeee,
CT
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