I mentioned that, in a comic book I wrote that Stan went over with me, he asked, “What idiot wrote this line?” It was an issue of Ghost Rider. Gerry Conway plotted it, was supposed to write the dialogue, failed to deliver, and so Archie asked me to write the dialogue. I wrote it literally overnight. When I say overnight, I mean it. Worked all day at the office. Worked late. Grabbed some food quick. Arrived home to my little apartment in Queens around 9 PM. Stayed up all night writing dialogue, no sleep. Showered, shaved, dressed and subway-ed it to work on time. Delivered the item to John Verpoorten. Worked all day…. That issue was probably crap, but, hey, it was kind of a dumb story to begin with. I think the villain was the “Water Wizard.” Yeesh. There’s only so much one can do with the dialogue to redeem a story with the Water Wizard in it. I don’t remember exactly which line Stan found so banal. It was some boilerplate line—“They went that-a-way,” or “Look! A monster!” or something equally uninspired. A line written at 4 AM. Hey, at least when Mantlo cranked a script out overnight, he had me backstopping him. I had nobody.

I said there were two “bumps in the road” regarding the plots for the Spider-Man syndicated strip. One was getting the art to match up better with the intent of the plots (and Stan’s wishes). I failed to mention the second. The second bump was that, at first, in my notes to the layouts, I sometimes roughed in some dialogue. Sometimes a little dialogue made the intent of the picture clearer in fewer words than a description of what the character was feeling or thinking. Stan made it very clear that he wanted NO DIALOGUE SUGGESTIONS. It’s one thing to have a plot assistant, but every word that appeared in print HAD TO BE HIS. If I suggested dialogue, and it was good dialogue, Stan then felt he had to come up with another way to say the same thing, which was harder than just writing it himself in the first place. He told me “no dialogue” as emphatically as he ever told me anything.

Claremont was fussy about his words like that too. So was Goodwin. Me too.

About John Romita the Elder. We might not have been on the same page at first regarding the art or the storytelling in the strip, but that was it, problem-wise. John is one of the all-time greats. His work on the strip was magnificent. Once he understood that Stan actually wanted him to draw more or less what the tall, skinny kid had laid out, that it wasn’t just a suggestion, we rocked and rolled. John’s still a choirboy, but man, can that choirboy draw. And there’s more sex appeal in one of John’s close ups of Mary Jane than most artists could achieve with a page full of scanty lingerie shots. Nonetheless, I wanted my Doris Day shots. So did Stan.

P.S. My layouts were far from perfect. Stan would sometimes scribble changes to shots right on top of what I’d drawn. But, it’s easier to make correx than start from scratch, sometimes. Anyway, once communications were established we worked together smoothly, like a well-oiled 1911 Studebaker.

P.P.S. Total speculation here, I never asked John about this, but in retrospect, I think that maybe John was bringing some of his romance comics sensibilities to the strip, whereas I was thinking action-adventure. Whatever. Stan wanted both, I believe. Anyway, we found a happy place in the middle somewhere and did okay, I think.

One other thing, in case I haven’t made it clear: Though I couldn’t effectively edit 45 comics a month, I gave it a hell of a try. Remember, before me, pretty much all the writers were de facto writer-editors. As I think I have described elsewhere, not long before I arrived, plots, scripts artwork and lettering were seldom seen by anyone in the office till the books were finished, fait accompli. It was total anarchy.

Once I was there, everything, or nearly everything crossed my desk at every stage. I checked everything and tried to improve what I could. I spent the most time on the worst of the stuff, trying to shore up the bottom. So. Creators who had no one checking anything before suddenly had me calling them up sometimes requesting changes to a plot, corrections on dialogue, art corrections, etc. Some of them, no, all of them were unhappy, no, snarling mad about that. Before, there was total anarchy—they would ennoble it by calling it “freedom”—and suddenly, there wasn’t. Not completely, anyway.

I always checked with the creators about things that I thought were wrong, except as noted below. I wanted to give them that courtesy, allow them to defend what they’d done, if we disagreed, and, I hoped, get them to do the re-working. A few conscientious souls would grumble but make the adjustments. Some simply said, “You do it.” They couldn’t be bothered. Some started shouting obscenities at me. I stopped calling those guys and just did whatever needed to be done.

The good thing about anarchy, or freedom, if you wish, is that a few, brilliant creators will rise to the opportunity and do wonderful things. Them, I LEFT ALONE. I wasn’t editing to make things my way, or to stifle anyone, or to interfere in any way with talented people doing outstanding work. Lord knows, when I read a script that didn’t need a mark put on it, I was thrilled. More sleep that night. I can’t think of a single time when I asked for changes because of style, personal preferences or artistic philosophy. I worried only about mistakes, problems, crass stupidities, etc. Please get that straight. This wasn’t about me oppressing the best and brightest creators. It was about me wanting incomprehensible art, writing devoid of discoverable meaning, story glitches, continuity mistakes, character misrepresentations, spelling errors and slovenly work fixed. That’s what I was hired by Marv to do.

P.S. Chris Claremont briefly had a similar job before me, working for Marv, but he had the good sense to acquire some writing work and go freelance soonest. Before everybody started hating him. Like many hated me. The anarchy-ender is never popular with the anarchists. And the outstanding creators who did brilliant things never really noticed that I did nothing except stay out of their way. Whatever.  To me, the comics were the important things. Damn the torpedoes.

Anyway… My plotting the strip meant that Stan and I spent a lot of time together. Sometime in or around November, 1977 Stan took me to lunch, ostensibly to talk about the strip.  Stan always used to have Dubonnet on the rocks before lunch. My beverage of choice at the time was grapefruit juice. But I digress.

Stan had apparently discussed the state of the comics with new President Jim Galton, who had replaced Al Landau. They felt a change was necessary. Not getting rid of Archie, which would be insane, but letting me take on more of the administrative part of the editorial process. I thought that was a bad idea. I thought Archie would never go for anything like that. Stan said they planned to offer Archie more money and a promotion to V.P. Put him in charge of “special projects.” Whatever that was. Having Special Projects in your title always sounds like “kicked to the curb” to me. Anyway, Stan and Galton made Archie some kind of offer in late November or early December. Archie turned them down. It had the stink of being “kicked upstairs” to it. He preferred leaving and, like every other EIC before him, becoming a writer-editor.

After some negotiations, I agreed to become the new Editor in Chief. The negotiations are a tale unto themselves. I’ll save that for later. But, finally, we agreed. I would take over on the first working day of January, 1978. Stan thought it best to wait till the end of December before making any announcement. When that announcement finally came, it was…awkward? Worse than that. Disastrously awkward? Ugly awkward? Well, you’ll see.

Things you should know if you’ve followed along this far and still give a hoot: I had never complained to Stan about the problems with the comics. They just became obvious. But I didn’t keep my thoughts on the subject secret from the guys in the editorial office or the bullpen. In those days, after work, many of us would hang out together. Marv, Len, Roger Stern, other editorial guys and freelancers. After hours, even DC guys would show up at Marvel’s offices, since they weren’t allowed to hang out after work at DC. Bunches of us often went out together to the local Brew Burger or other suitably cheap-but-good food place. We played poker Friday nights, usually at the huge apartment Paul Levitz shared with Marty Pasko down on Mercer Street. And, boy, do I have some stories from those poker games for you later. We were all friends, or at least, reasonably friendly. We talked. A lot.

Marv, Len, Roger and I all lived in out in Queens and often took the same train going home, the E or the F. Roger got off in Forest Hills, Len and Marv a bit farther out and I went all the way to the end of the line, 179th Street, the stop for Queens Village. So, we had extra time to talk. I wasn’t shy about my opinion of the comics, that a lot of them weren’t very good. That all of them were late. And that I wasn’t fond of the concept of writer-editors. I felt that you needed a backstop no matter who you were or how good you were. Marv and Len, needless to say, disagreed.

(ASIDE, APROPOS OF NOTHING: One time on the F train, we had a conductor who announced each stop over the PA in unusual fashion. He said “F-f-f-f-ith AVENUE.” And, “L-l-l-l-EXington.” After which Marv loudly started humming the Tonight Show theme music: “DAAA-da-da…DA-da-da-da….” The whole car cracked up.

Len wore a winter coat with enormous pockets and plenty of them. Somebody needed a pair of scissors. Len reached in a pocket and pulled out a pair of scissors. Then we started wondering about what else those pockets might contain. We started calling out items. Screwdriver? Sure. Bottle opener? Uh-huh. Aspirin? Yep. One by one Len produced whatever was named. Roger asked, “Big Mac?” No. Sadly, all Len had was a regular cheeseburger.)

A couple of words about the institution of Writer-Editors: Bad idea. More on that later.

Regarding Marv and Len: Marv is a brilliant creator. He’s an idea man. He can truly create. Many can create things out of other things, synthesis. Marv often creates entirely new things, genesis. That’s rare. His writing at its best is fresh, surprising, unpredictable and intriguing. There’s a spontaneity to it that’s wonderful and engaging. Spontaneity livens up his dialogue. People talk in a crazy stuff-popping-out-of-their-heads way just like real people often do. He has a gift for character. All that said, he has some problems with the language. He mangles grammar. He misuses words. Once he used “noisome” as if it meant loud. It was in a caption. One can excuse many things in dialogue as the mistakes of the character’s making, but the captions ought to be right. Marv argued that most people think noisome means loud, and it went to press that way. When not at his best, Marv’s spontaneity becomes lack of planning and confusion. Sparkling dialogue becomes glib patter headed nowhere. And, by the way, with his knack for coming up with words, Marv would be the world champion Scrabble player if he could spell.

Len is a brilliant writer. Yes, he has created things, some out of whole cloth, but he’s more deliberate about it than Marv, and more often he springboards off of established conceits. Witness his great run on Swamp Thing. Marv is a machine gun, albeit sometimes un-aimed. Len is a sniper with one hell of a scope on his M39. Len is a linguistic technician of the first water. He ponders things like the rhythm of each phrase, the way the words look (!), and other nuances that would make my head explode. He is also a master of the form. He is wise in the ways of everything that goes on in the panels and everything that goes on in the readers’ heads in between. He can craft compelling scenes and compose dialogue with poetic power and subtlety. He can also give you a lot of “Hulk smash” scenes in which the shock waves bowl over all the soldiers. Again. For the thousandth time. Which is what he thinks the “kids in Fudge, Nebraska” want to see.

So. My opinion was and is that each of them would benefit from a good editor. Writer-editors. Feh.

Roy, Gerry and Archie? I’ll get to them later. Uh-oh.

The company had no Christmas party that year, 1977. At the last minute, someone arranged for any editorial and production people so inclined to gather at a local tavern. It was Friday, December 23rd. We even invited Stan. He had a prior commitment, but he said he’d try to stop by. It was a nice joint and we had a room to ourselves, just off the main dining room. The turnout was surprisingly good. Most of the comics staff, many freelancers. And a good time was had by all. For a while. Then Stan came in with his wife Joan, fresh from some upscale soiree, judging from the way they were dressed. Stan decided it would be a good time to make the announcement. And he did.

There was dead silence. Archie and his wife Ann were shooting straight razors at me from their eyes. I believe that Archie thought I had thrown him under the M57 Crosstown. Everyone else seemed to be thinking: “HIM? HE’S in charge now? Uh-oh.” Fear and loathing permeated the joint. Stan didn’t seem to notice. People finally started talking again. Or muttering. Mostly curses. The old guys each came up to me, congratulated me and wished me well. Sincerely, I think. Danny Crespi, John Tartaglione, Morrie Kuramoto, a few others. Newly appointed Production Manager Lenny Grow also shook my hand and wished me well. Later, Lenny and I, and I think one other person stopped at some other place and chatted for a while.

I got home in the wee hours. At seven AM the phone rang. I said “Hello.” The voice on the other end said, “What are you going to do?” It was Marv, I recognized the growl. I told him I planned to sleep for another two hours. He wanted to know right then and there what my intentions were, especially regarding the writer-editor situation. I had no plans at that point, just my general philosophy. I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do, or what I would be able to do, what I’d be allowed to do. I asked him to withhold judgment, to give me a chance. After I while I convinced him to get off the phone, at least.

More calls started coming. Lots of them. I ignored them at first, then unplugged the phone. The next week, a short week, the office was like a pressure cooker about to blow its top. I kept my head down, nose in my work. People avoided me. That was fine by me. Then, on Tuesday, January 3rd, my first day as EIC, things got really bad.

I've read a few such interviews and been told about others. I'm always interested in exactly what constituted the screwing. Did I steal their money? Sleep with their wives? Give their kids drugs? What was the crime? Other than a few over-the-top examples, notably the Doug Moench interview in which he accused me of being responsible for Gene Day's death, as far as I can tell, these are generally the crimes alleged:

1) I gave the creator in question direction. That is, I told him or her what to do, or refused to allow something he or she wanted to do.

2) I wasn't warm and fuzzy enough. I didn't sugar coat things enough. I was "mean."

Well, it was my job to run Marvel's comics publishing operation. I was making decisions that were mine to make. I was giving direction that I was empowered to give. I was the boss. What part of the word "boss" was mysterious to them, I don't know. I believed that I was dealing with adults and professionals. I was as nice as I could be. I was very polite the first few hundred times I explained what needed to be done, or what could not be done. At some point you have to say "do it," or "don't do it" and make it stick.

I heard that after I left Marvel, Chris Claremont threw a "Ding, Dong, the Witch Is Dead" party. I don't know if that's true, but Chris and I did have our disagreements along the way. A couple years later, I ran into Chris Claremont at the San Diego Con. He approached me to say hi, and shook my hand. My first instinct was to wonder if he was armed…. We talked. This was shortly after he's been booted off the X-Men. The book he'd written every issue of for, what, seventeen years? The franchise he built. Chris said, words to the effect that although we'd had our disagreements, they were always about the stories and the characters — and isn't that what writers and editors should be arguing about? He said, and this is a quote or close: "You never took my book away from me." Chris later worked with me for a little while at DEFIANT before that ship sank.

Once, in court, in my presence, John Byrne testified on the stand that he had made over ten million dollars working at Marvel. Guess I screwed him good.

I refused to have double standards. No situations like: Artist "A" must redraw the inappropriate scene, but superstar artist "B" is allowed to get away with a similar misrepresentation of a character. It was my job to protect those characters, protect those franchises. The characters and the books came before any superstar and his or her ego.

Tom Brady still does two-a-days. Albert Pujols takes batting practice. Duane Wade studies film. All are expected to perform with rare excellence, and they do. That's why they get paid more. I felt that every job, every time deserved the creator's best effort. There were a number of creators who were so good that with half an effort, their work was still better than most. I would not settle for that. It's hacking, albeit at a high level. I demanded that they perform with rare excellence. That's why they got paid more.

I suspect those few didn't like me much then, and probably still don't. Most superstars gave their best efforts always. I don't think Bill Sienkiewicz, Walt, Weezie, Michael Golden, Terry Austin, many others — you can probably make the list better than I can — could ever give less than their best. Even if the money were half as much. Even if there was no money. They idled at great. Funny, they seemed to get along with me then and still do.

The truth is I allowed a great deal of creative freedom. Some took advantage of that and did great work. Others just tried to take advantage. If I had it to do all over again, probably the same people would be denouncing me. I'm okay with that.

As someone who was around Marvel and Jim during much of this time, as well as a person that has heard many of the "Jim stories" directly from many sources over the years, I felt now was a good time to add my two cents. You may find it to be worth less.

Around 1977-78 while in high school, I sent a letter and a sample page of my pencils to Marvel Comics in hopes of getting some advice. This was around the time that Jim had just taken over as EIC at Marvel, and as his blog attests, he was very busy managing the company. Still, he found the time to personally respond to my letter, critiquing my pencils and outlining a number of things I needed to do and work on if I hoped to break into comics. I was amazed then, and still now, that anyone, let alone the EIC, would take the time to respond. Hell, today seasoned pros can't get an editor to return their phone calls, much less expect the chief to answer the mail. That letter inspired me tremendously, and showed me that dreams are attainable, you just have to work for them.

A few years later I found myself working for Marvel, fresh from DC Comics. When DC tried to get me back by offering me a Garcia-Lopez job, Jim asked me what he could do to keep me at Marvel. My idol was John Buscema, I always wanted to ink John's pencils. When he heard this, Jim walked me down to Weezie's office and asked if she had any John Buscema work for me to ink. I went home that day with a full Conan job. To this day I feel I butchered that job as I was just not ready for John's brilliant pencils, but I did learn a lot. I'm not sure what Jim saw in my work back then that made him want to keep me at Marvel, but I will always be grateful for his support. There were many other times over the years where Jim did right by me and I was far from a superstar. I hope I never forget all the good things he did for me.

A handful more years later I found myself in a bad situation with an editor and Jim eventually was pulled in the middle. This editor was a guy that if I saw him today I would run him over with my car, so you know it was not a good situation. To my complete surprise Jim sided with him. I was angry about the decision, I felt it was clearly the wrong one, but I never felt it was a personal one with Jim. A short time later Jim was gone from Marvel. At some point he let me know that he realized he had made a mistake. He sided with his editor because he felt that he had to believe and support his people, but at some point he discovered he had misplaced his trust is some of them. Again I was surprised, as number of years had passed and it was water long under the bridge, but it meant something to me that he did it. Ironically, twenty five plus years later, Jim and I are still working in comics and this editor has been MIA for decades. Good thing, as the last thing this industry needs today is another bad editor.

I guess after more than 30 years in this business I'm still a little naive, but it never ceases to amaze me how many people will ignore their personal experiences with someone and jump on the bandwagon of rumor and gossip. I am aware of a number of people who have issues with Jim and would be counted among his detractors, many based primarily on the experiences of others. It baffles me. And some of them are baffled by me. I have chosen to remember my experiences as whole with Jim and not forget all the wonderful things he did for me in favor of a few bad experiences. Shouldn't that be the way we all would hope to be treated?

On my first official day as Editor in Chief, Tuesday, January 3rd, 1978, I arrived at the office extra early. Normal for me was between seven and eight AM. I think I was in my chair behind my desk at five. And I had a one hour commute in those days. I had worked all weekend editing scripts and plots and still had more to go. There wasn’t anyone to replace me as associate editor, so for the time being, I had to do my old job as well as my new one.  Shortly after nine, my phone rang. The caller identified herself as Alice Donenfeld, our in-house counsel and V.P. of Business Affairs. I hadn’t had much to do with the brass upstairs previously, so I was aware only from the interoffice phone list that there was such a person. Alice confirmed that she had the right extension, that she was talking to the EIC, and said, “What have you done about the Copyright Law of 1976?”

Me: “What?”

Alice: “The Copyright Law of 1976. It went into effect January first (of 1978). It has new rules for work-for-hire. We need paperwork from every single writer and artist. Don’t tell me you haven’t done anything about this.”

Me: “I’ve been Editor in Chief for fifteen minutes. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I soon found out. All creative work at Marvel Comics was done work-for-hire, or more accurately, as referenced in the Copyright Law, “work made for hire.” Most people just say work-for-hire, abbreviated “W4H.” There were a very few exceptions to W4H before 1978.  Before 1978, almost work done in the domestic comic book industry was done W4H, again with rare exceptions. The new law didn’t really change work-for-hire status significantly except that it clarified some points and required that in order for a creative work to be considered W4H, the person doing the job had to agree to that in writing in advance.  The new copyright law had been enacted in 1976, but took effect in 1978, giving publishers TWO YEARS to prepare. Marvel, of course, had done NOTHING. By contrast, DC had already incorporated W4H language into their vouchers and had entered seamlessly into the Brave New World of the 1976 law with, as Uncle Scrooge would say, “no fuss, no muss and no rough stuff.” How’s that for mixing Huxley and Barks? And DC? Oh, and by the way, Alice was fairly new at Marvel, too. It wasn’t as if she’d let this slide and suddenly sprung it on me at the last minute.

Anyway…. Marvel Comics was in chaos. We had books in house that should have gone to the separators six months earlier and been on sale four months earlier. EVERYTHING was late. We had disorganization, major misunderstandings, tumult and near-rebellions—and that was just in the bullpen. We had voucher fraud and the fallout from same. Paranoia ran rampant among freelancers. We had gaping holes in the editorial staff. The books, by and large, sucked. I got letters and calls frequently from Roy, none of them of the chirpy, happy variety. Marv was deeply suspicious of me. Archie gave me the cold shoulder.

We also had the worst month of weather in history, I think—a record number of below zero days in New York, floods in the Midwest, killer frosts in Florida, mudslides on the West Coast, six feet of snow in Boston and twelve feet in Buffalo. Single-digit newsstand sales figures. It’s hard to visit your local drugstore and pick up your comics if you’re buried in snow, under water or out late every night firing up the smudge pots trying to save the oranges. The entire magazine industry—make that the entire publishing industry—was suffering. That wasn’t nearly the end of the trouble, but you get the drift. All that, and they just had to go and change the copyright law on me. Yes, it was done two years earlier, but…. It was the last thing I needed.

We kept publishing, or trying to, but every job that was done without an agreement with the creators was potentially in dispute, ownership-wise. By the way, that concern didn’t extend to the contract creators’ work. Because our contracts were, in fact, employment agreements, and those creators were therefore on staff though they didn’t work in the office, their work was all automatically W4H. So, whatever was done by the Buscemas, Roy, Marv, Kirby, Sinnott, Esposito, Archie, Gene Colan and many others was covered. That still left a lot of exposure.

I spent the first month madly rushing to the hottest fire every day. Somewhere during that time, Alice arranged for me to take a three-day seminar on Copyright Law so I’d understand the issues better. As if I had three days to spare. But I did it, took my work home with me, stayed up late and slept little.

Finally, our outside counsel, Kenyon, Kenyon, Riley, Carr & Odom, came up with a W4H document which had provisions in it that covered the “exposed” work. It was three or four pages long. It was full of arcane legalese and words of art. More “Whereas/ Now, therefore,” “party of the first/ second part,” irrevocable this and in perpetuity that than I had ever seen in one place. I was instructed to have EVERYONE sign them. They were delivered to me at the end of a particularly bad day. Though it was after five, there were a lot of creators around the office for some reason. I dutifully started passing the documents out.

At a glance, everyone was appalled at the thing. Upset. Angry. And loudly so. And of course, the copyright law wasn’t to blame, Marvel Comics wasn’t to blame, it was MY fault. I was the reason they were faced with this terrifying and evil document. As I said to Alice when all this started, “What?” Some tore the documents up and threw them on the floor. Some refused to take a copy. A few must have left the building intact, because… …the next morning, when I came to work, the outside of 575 Madison was papered with copies of the document. The elevator lobby was papered…the elevators…the walls of the sixth floor lobby…the doors. And on each of those copies, in big red letters were the words “SIGN THIS DOCUMENT AND YOU’RE SIGNING YOUR LIFE AWAY.” That, and an invitation to join the COMIC BOOK CREATORS GUILD.

Neal Adams had started a guild. I heard that day that they were talking about going on strike against Marvel. Just Marvel. DC’s W4H, apparently was okay, or maybe the plan was to pick us off one at a time. That was a discouraging moment, maybe the most discouraging moment I’d faced. But not for long. Things got worse...

Please withhold judgment regarding Neal… he's a good guy. You'll see...

The organization that Neal Adams says was started by Jim Warren was the Academy of Comic Book Arts, started in 1970. That was a completely different group than the guild of which Shooter speaks above. There was disagreement about the purpose of the ACBA… some viewed it as sort of like the Motion Picture Academy, a professional organization that would give out awards and such. Others (like Adams) felt it should be more like a trade union and lobby for creators' rights. The ACBA had gradually faded out by the late 70's. Around that time Adams and others attempted to start a guild that would be entirely a professional union. From what I've read, they were not successful at attracting enough big names to make the thing viable. A column by Joe Brancatelli back then noted that some creators were reluctant to sign up because they were suspicious of Adams.

Yes, I gave creators plenty of warning. I didn't just spring the document on them.The seminar I went to was for lawyers and law students. No creator I know would have sat through ten minutes of it. It never occurred to me to have some sort of class/seminar for creators, but no one would have come anyway. No letter was sent, and none was needed. The industry was suddenly abuzz with talk of copyright issues. I explained it a thousand times. No one was unaware of W4H and what it meant, even before 1/1/78. All that changed, essentially, was the need to sign a paper acknowledging the situation. Stay tuned. You'll see. I think you may be picturing a scenario that's more like a modern, reasonably organized, reasonably adult, professional office. When I said chaos, I meant it. The comics business in general, and especially Marvel, was Romper Room on crystal meth.

Marvel, the comics part, wasn't successful back then. It was breakeven and falling. In truth, I was not aware that the copyright law had been changed. I never heard a whisper about it before. As near as I could tell, pretty much no one among the comics people knew about it, or at least, no one said anything in earshot. Upstairs management was mostly brand new. New President, company counsel, financial officer, more. And they didn't bother much with the comics. Obviously, Alice knew about the new law. Marvel didn't have a board. The Board I have occasionally referred to was the board of parent-conglomerate Cadence. They wouldn't have discussed the issue. They almost certainly didn't know there was an issue. In any case, it would have been something to be addressed at Marvel, not Cadence.

"The board would have asked Legal to prepare a report on how the changes would impact the business and someone – the President or the Publisher or whoever was in charge of Business Affairs – would have taken charge of implementing any necessary changes. Or, at least, they would have delegated someone to do so."

Hoo-hah! You are really picturing something much more IBM-ish than the half-assed, disorganized mess Marvel was. The bosses upstairs were not engaged with downstairs happenings. Disaffected is not a strong enough word. Things improved a bit with Galton, but not much. It took a crisis to get his attention. There was no publisher. Stan's title was publisher, but that was ceremonial, not functional. I was the de facto publisher until Mike Hobson was brought in. I did the day to day publisher functions. It was all thrust upon me. The wisdom offered from upstairs was "fix it." The comics were my area and my problem. Other than from Alice, I got no help. That's the way it was at Marvel. No stockholder derivative suits likely. People owned stock in Cadence, not Marvel. Marvel was a division and not SEC-reported separately. We were buried. On purpose,as it turned out later.

The other companies besides DC were NOT buttoned up. They did A) nothing, B) foolishly relied on the back-of-the-check stamp as they always had, or C) soon went out of business. I'm telling you, with the exception of DC to some extent, it was an amateurish, half-assed, dying industry. Leon Harvey, who ran Harvey (and was very old), called me up once about nothing, chatted with me for a while, then scolded me for calling him because he didn't have time for these chats. Get my drift? More about Marvel's upper management, how things cahnged and how they didn't, coming up.

Yes, we hired Neal to design a look for the graphic novel line. Yes, he was going to draw the X-Men novel — however, because it involved Marvel characters (unlike Star Slammers, for instance), there was work for hire language in the contract. Neal wanted it changed to an Independent Contractor format. I argued that the contract, albeit W4H, specified every right and benefit that there would be in an Independent Contractor agreement — royalties and participations in perpetuity, etc. There was no practical difference, and by the way, it was a VERY rich deal for the creators. However, the Marvel lawyers were immovable on the W4H language and Neal was adamantly opposed to it. The Marvel lawyers (I'm not talking about Alice Donenfeld here, by the way, who was wise and reasonable), sensitized to the W4H issue by the whole ruckus precipitated by the general W4H form, were irrationally wed to the W4H format for GN's involving Marvel characters, and honestly, how could Neal, outspoken enemy of W4H, possibly sign a W4H document without looking like a traitor to the cause?