I could not have picked a worse time to become a comic collector than the early 1990’s. It was bad enough I was a novice who knew nothing about speculation, but larger economic forces were converging to seal my doom. I had no idea that when Superman died, it would launch a cycle of events that would almost send the entire comic industry into the abyss with him.

What happened then is now known as the “Crash of 1993,” even though that year started well for consumers and publishers alike. Copies of my cherished Superman #75 were selling for $75 each, only a few weeks after they’d been published. My investment was well on its way. That was also the year it seemed like there was a comic store on every corner, as would-be entrepreneurs left good paying jobs to strike gold selling comics to people like me. Unfortunately, few of them knew any more about comics than I did, and they knew even less about running a business.

Read any analysis of comic book consumers in the 1990’s and you’ll find my biography. I wasn’t alone in grabbing all those “collectible” and gimmick comics as fast as I could. With the death of Superman DC had brought millions of new customers into comic stores across the country, all of whom, like me, bought almost every comic available with hopes of it skyrocketing in value. We’d been teased by so many stories of Golden, Silver and Bronze age comics—anything published before 1980—fetching huge prices. Most of us were too young to have bought any of those comics when they were new, so the early 1990’s was our time. We would be the ones in the news in the future, smiling for the cameras as our comics sold for tens of thousands of dollars.

When the speculators turned out to be wrong, however, and the average value of Superman #75 dropped to a dollar or two above the original cover price, the whole circus tent collapsed. Bitter consumers, who felt duped by DC resurrecting Superman after hyping his death so much, and frustrated by their inability to cash in on their purchases, walked away from comics altogether. Publishers and retailers, however, were printing and stocking product as if the popularity of comics was going to continue forever. The market was flooded with so many comics that an overall decline in quality of art and writing was inevitable, which only turned away more people. I had no idea that the comics I was buying because I thought they were special were being piled up as overstock in warehouses everywhere.

By 1997 the volume of comics sold dropped by nearly 80 percent from its 1993 high. Many of the smaller publishers vanished, and even mighty Marvel Comics declared bankruptcy. But it was the retailers who got truly clobbered. With too many comics on their shelves and not enough buyers, two-thirds of the comic stores in the country went out of business, selling their leftover inventory for pennies on the dollar.

That glutted the market with even more overprinted comics—many of the same titles I was storing in my “collection.” I was spurred on by the annual Overstreet Comic Book Price Guide, the recognized authority on valuing comics, as it told me encouraging news.

But by 2004, after 20 years of thinking I was collecting comics, I learned a heartbreaking truth.I’d only been buying them.

My first child was on the way in mid-2004, so I thought I’d clear out some of my comics and make a nice chunk of money.I boxed up a couple hundred comics I was willing to part with -- a mini collection that, according to Overstreet, was worth about $300. I walked into my local comic shop - the place I’d been buying all my comics for the past couple years - and asked him to make me an offer.

The response: The best he could do for me was $10. In store credit.

I was stunned, even as he explained that his best chance of selling those comics was to put them in the 25-cent box, where most of them would probably sit for years. “You’re better off putting them on eBay,” he said.

That experience taught me there is often a huge difference between what something is worth and what someone will actually pay for it. I jumped on eBay only to see the titles in my collection being offered for 99 cents, and not getting any bids. I read articles that told me the only reason golden and silver aged comics were fetching so much money was because they were actually rare or special. The “hot titles” I’d collected, like X-Men #1, had been overprinted to the point they were anything but rare special. And to add insult to injury, most of them had been repackaged together into multiple-issue “graphic novels” that could be bought for under $10. As one very recent article put it, the comics I owned were “worth a little less than firewood.”

That day in 2004 was the day I stopped buying comics. I didn't blame the publishers—I was disgusted more at myself for thinking I’d been on to something special when I should have known better. There’s a famous story about a millionaire who, just before the crash of 1929, got a stock tip from his shoeshine boy. At that moment he realized too many people were in the stock market, and it couldn't possibly sustain itself like that. He got out before the collapse and saved a fortune.

In 2004, I was the comic equivalent of the shoeshine boy, and I decided it was time to be the millionaire. I got out.

I remember it felt good. I’d been stung, but was wiser for it. I could put aside these silly comic books and be a grown up. It was time to look ahead.