Vision? Nary!

Intro: "Writing a novel takes a lot out of a person. That's why there are so very few professional writers."

Panel 1: "You must get up at the crack of dawn and go down to the corner, standing in the cold with illegal immigrants and people just out of prison."
Image: Downtrodden and desperate writers stand on a street-corner in the early morning.
"This is your competition."

Panel 2: "You had better learn now that you must suffer for your art if you wish to excel at it. No schooling can prepare you."
Image: The writers on the corner speak, "I was the only survivor of a great storm. A storm that I was too look out for and sound the alarm, but I fell asleep!" "I collect cans at the side of the road in order to buy ink!" The Maddest looking writer of all declares, "For years the only job I could get was writing for Vision? Nary!" He is surrounded by gasps.

Panel 3: "If you cannot match the suffering of the others standing on the corner, do as I do, slam your head a few times against the pavement and speak in tongues."
Image: Head slams repeatedly. "Blearg! Page Count! Fern! Per Diem!"
"Remember, self-inflicted pain is almost as valid as oppression by the man. Wait... I've been oppressed by the man... I just like irrational blows to the head.

Panel 4: "Then a man with a pickup truck comes and picks out the strongest looking souls. Also, you must have good steel-toed boots. You are blindfolded and taken to a place of work."
Image: Blindfolded writers are loaded onto a truck. A few are sent away. One of the men walking away says, "A writer's life is rejection."

Panel 5: "Once at the writers sweatshop you are chained to a desk and made to put in an honest 15 hour day tap-tapping away at the keyboard. If you don't tap rhythmically enough, you are punished."
Image: A man with a whip stands over the chained writers, "Write faster!" he shouts, "and more rhythmically. Make me feel the music in the prose, maggots!"

Panel 6: "At the end of the day you are dumped in an empty lot somewhere in the city and must make your own way home. A crisp five dollar bill tucked in your sock."
Image: a tired man lies in a ditch, raising his fist to the sky he cries, "Today, I am a writer!"