by Felicia Day
I’m sure the conversation wasn’t that weird from her point of view (maybe) but from mine it was mortifying. All I wanted to have said was one thing, one simple thing to have her remember me. To make an impact. To summarize why I was having a loose-bowel situation just LOOKING at her in person. Because I admired her so much.
Those experiences make me appreciate every interaction I have with fans of my own work at conventions. I try to go out of my way to connect with each person as much as I possibly can despite the long lines and stifling crowds and people in cosplay with fake weapons who accidentally poke people in the eyes with rubber broadswords. Because that single moment you get with someone you admire is so important, I never want anyone to walk away feeling mortified like I generally do when meeting someone I fan over.
That’s why, when I take pictures with people, I’m open to almost any request.
“Can I pick you up?”
“Yes!”
“Can I pretend to propose to you?”
“As long as it’s not legally binding, ha!”
“Can you pretend to stab me with this light saber?”
“Which organ?”
“Can I put you in a headlock?”
Long pause. “Uh . . . sure! Why not.”
Of course, it’s hard to please everyone. Especially if you’re entering/exiting a toilet stall and someone comes running up saying, “Oh my God, can I have a selfie with you here? So hilarious!” Or you see someone tweet, “Felicia Day was eating a salad while she signed autographs today. No respect for her fans.” I WAS HUNGRY AND DIDN’T WANT PEOPLE TO WAIT IN LINE! (But I haven’t eaten in public at a convention since, so good job, Tweeter! You showed me.)
If you’ve never been to one of these events, you probably have a very Big Bang Theory idea about the attendants and want to know, “What’s the creepiest thing a fan’s ever done to you?” Aside from a few restraining orders I can’t legally talk about, I can relate a few standout oddball encounters.
One time a dude wanted to buy a lock of my hair for $1,000. And he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“You have a lot of hair, and my friend would be so happy! He loves you.”
“I appreciate his appreciation, but I’m not selling you my hair.”
“Just an inch. It’s a lot of money!”
I tried to get the guy to move along in a way that he wouldn’t feel ashamed about being creepy. (Which he totally was.) “I don’t know him and wouldn’t want anyone to be able to clone me, haha.”
When I mentioned “cloning,” the guy got WAY too excited. “Cloning would be AWESOME. I’d only need a fingernail, how’s that for a compromise? Say five hundred dollars?”
At that point, I stopped worrying about his self-esteem. “Security!”
Another time I had a guy in his early twenties approach me and ask me to autograph his arm. I’ve signed a ton of babies, breasts, and Nintendo power gloves, so I was cool with it. Until he let slip, “I’m gonna go tattoo over it.”
I withdrew the pen. “Um, I don’t think you should do that, why would you do that? Do you really want to do that?”
“I’m a big fan. And my buddy bet me five hundred dollars that I wouldn’t do it. I need you to sign because I could use the five hundred dollars for community college tuition.”
I was conflicted. This guy wanted to disfigure his body permanently and was asking me to enable him.
On the other hand, I REALLY wanted to see what it would look like.
“Please?”
“For the record, I discouraged you!” I took his Sharpie and drew artistically on his right shoulder. All those hours I put into signing my signature over and over as a kid paid off. Nice swoops. Not too girly. Dare I say . . . tattoo worthy.
He left, supposedly for the tattoo shop, and I thought, Cool! I just got pranked in a very flattering way!
An hour later, the guy comes running back to my booth, sleeve rolled up over his shoulder. “I did it!”
Right there on his arm, raised and red, was a tattoo of my signature. Permanently inscribed. On a stranger’s body. It felt like I’d secondhand branded him. Also, it occurred to me too late that I should be worried about checks being forged with his body part. Oh, well.
“Congrats! Go get that money from your friend! Here’s a free DVD!”
And that should have been the end of it. Most people outside motorcycle relationships can’t tell a story like that. But the best part happened the following week, when I got a tweet that was sad and sweet and horrible at the same time.
Hey, tattoo doing well, here’s a pic to prove it’s me. Sad thing, buddy refused to pay up. :(
Attached was a still red-angry picture of my signature. That was permanent. And in no way contributed to the guy’s college education.
I laughed. Yes, I’m a terrible person.
Aside from outlier incidents like that (yes, I have more tattoo stories), all of my fans are interesting and enjoyable to meet. I’ve had fascinating conversations with writers, archaeologists, NASA/JPL engineers—all people I would never have known how to approach in real life, but I get to connect with now because of my work.
I think fan conventions are the epitome of what is fantastic about the internet. And probably why they’ve become so much more popular in the last several years. You’re never weird when you’re surrounded by people who are weird like you, right?
Conventions are a real-life slice of our digital lives. I feel at home when I walk onto a show floor and see all the booths carrying every Doctor Who/Star Wars mashup T-shirt invented. Where else can I buy a special set of dice that color coordinates with my character’s hair or play a new video game next to a stranger who can appreciate the new armor designs as much as I do? That feeling I constantly get in everyday life of, Oh boy, how do I connect with this stranger? Why don’t they have a résumé attached to their forehead to help me out here with this dialogue thing? is temporarily banished.
And, professionally, it means so much to meet people face-to-face and be reminded that the things I create can affect people’s lives in small ways, too.
I have a picture framed on my office wall. A beautiful pastel print, blue and moody, of a female nude walking into a forest. It was given to me at a signing for my Guild comic book by a hip girl and a guy in their early twenties.
“We brought you something, Felicia. We’re big fans.” They lifted up a framed picture as they approached my table.
“This is beautiful! Thank you!” I took it from them, but I was puzzled. It wasn’t the normal kind of fan art I usually received. (Not to be self-centered, but most of the stuff I’m given has my face on it.)
The girl indicated for me to turn the picture over. “Do you remember?”
Mounted on the back of the frame was a picture of a tweet I’d sent out two years before.
It referenced a blog article about a young woman, twenty-two, diagnosed with breast cancer, and her boyfriend, who was a game artist. He coordinated a huge gaming art auction to help pay off her medical bills. The cause spoke to me, and I tweeted it out. And that was it. I soon forgot about it. Two years later, the young woman hadn’t.
“I’m her, I’m beautifulgrim. And your tweet helped the auction raise enough money to pay most of my medical bills.” She pulled the guy she was with closer to her.
“This is my husband, he made the painting. We wanted you to have it, as thanks.”
“Oh my God, that’s you? Are you okay now?” She looked so young. I couldn’t believe she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer. It was awful. I was frozen just thinking of what she’d been through.
“I had a mastectomy and have been cancer-free for a year. Did you read what I wrote on the back?”
I looked down at the painting and read, “Your tweet helped me restore my hope when I was feeling lost.”
And then I lost it.
I ran around the table and hugged her. I didn’t know what else to do.
“I’m so glad you’re better. Thank
you.” Encounters like that are unforgettable.
I’ve attended over a hundred conventions since 2007 and have had so many people share amazing stories with me. Big and small. Like a woman who was inspired to self-publish a novel because of my work, or a family who decided to paint video game characters on their kid’s bedroom wall, despite never having picked up a paintbrush before. Or the dozens and dozens of web series that people have made because of what Kim and I did with The Guild.
At an event last year, I met a man in his late thirties, a big guy, who carried a poster roll and seemed nervous to approach. I shook hands with him over the signing table, trying to make him feel comfortable.
“Hi! My name’s Felicia! How are you?!”
“Uh, okay. I’m just here to give you something.” While talking, he started fumbling to open the poster tube. He was shaking. It wasn’t smooth.
“Oh wow, I love presents! Not that I’m greedy, I’m polite when I take things from people. If they’re free. Or not. I’ll stop talking.” Felicia Day, folks! Awkward, especially during public appearances!
He pulled out a poster from his tube and unrolled a print of me as Codex, but done in a cool computer-art way, with a graphic style that was somewhere between pointillism and impressionism.
“This is gorgeous!” And it was. “Did you make this? Are you an artist?”
“Aw, no. I just drive a forklift at Costco. I’m not creative. I don’t know how to do anything . . .”
“Wait, you aren’t creative? But you made this.” I held up the print.
“It was just in the computer.”
“But it didn’t exist before you turned the computer on and made it, right?”
“I guess.”
“Then you created it.” I was starting to get upset but kept myself in check. “Don’t talk to yourself like that. You HAVE created things. You see the world in a unique way, and you expressed it right here in this poster.”
“Well, I dunno. It’s not good or anything.”
“Well, I think it’s good. But if you think that, you can get better. By doing more things, right?”
The guy nodded, uncomfortable. But I kept going. For some reason, it was important for him to understand what I was saying. (And I enjoy lecturing people.)
“Never put yourself down about things that you create. That mean voice inside you that says, ‘You’re not good enough’ is not your friend, okay? I used to hear that voice all the time. If I hadn’t started ignoring it, I wouldn’t be here right now. Okay?”
“Okay.” He started to shuffle backward. Probably scared. “Thanks for what you do, it’s inspiring.”
“Thank you for the poster!” I waved, then stood up. “Excuse me.”
I walked behind the curtain of my booth and started bawling.
I wept for this guy, who was so vulnerable in front of me, and who, for some reason, felt the need to put himself down when he presented something he’d made from scratch. I don’t let people get away with putting themselves down anymore. There are enough negative forces in this world—don’t let the pessimistic voice that lives inside you get away with that stuff, too. That voice is NOT a good roommate.
A lot of people mock fandom and fan fiction, like it’s lazy to base your own creativity and passion on someone else’s work. But some of us need a stepping-stone to start. What’s wrong with finding joy in making something, regardless of the inspiration? If you feel the impulse, go ahead and write that Battlestar Galactica/Archie mashup fiction! Someone online will enjoy it. (Especially if Archie gets ripped apart by Cylons.)
Over the years, I’ve received some of the most badass fan art you’ve ever seen. I have tons of dolls and paintings and sculptures of my characters in various projects that people have given me, made out of felt and plaster and pipe cleaners and poster board. I keep every single piece and put it in a storage unit that I pay WAY too much for every month for that sole purpose. This is partly because when fans give me things, it obviously means a lot to them and I don’t want to have that go unrecognized. And partly because I once found a biography of Janice Dickinson in a Goodwill inscribed to an unnamed famous supermodel that said, “Love you forever!” I can’t imagine how mortified Janice would be at finding her book given away, so I live in fear of that happening with a fan of mine. Personal guilt issues, I guess. (Side note: I also have props and clothing from all my projects I’ve acted in, just in case I’m homeless one day and need to eBay for food.)
In my home office, I have a cabinet dedicated to some of my favorite things people have given me over the years. It’s not weird to have forty dolls of yourself staring at you, right? Please reassure me about this.
I like being able to see the pieces of art while I work. It reminds me of what’s important about what I do.
Whether it was by someone volunteering to be an extra in our show, or part of the crew, or someone buying a DVD at a convention, or a superfan who tattooed our characters’ faces on her calf, my career has been built fan by fan. I wouldn’t trade that relationship, or collection of dolls of myself, for all the money and fame in the world.
- 10 -
The Deletion of Myself
That time I had a nervous breakdown and dreamt nightly of slashing my face with a straight razor while screaming, “DO YOU BELIEVE I NEED A BREAK NOW, GUYS?!”
I was born anxious. My mom must have watched a horror movie marathon while I was in utero or something, because I freak out at loud sounds, driving at night scares me because all the lights make me feel like I’m inside a UFO, and I’m traumatized, never delighted, by things that are startling. (SCREW surprise birthday parties.) My biggest fears in life are to be locked in a department store after hours, or to be kidnapped while walking to my car at night and my body disposed of with a wood chipper. Clearly, you can understand how challenging REAL problems are for me, like being late to a lunch meeting. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t find a parking spot. Where would you like me to shoot myself: through the face or heart?”
It might be genetic, but it feels like I’m a stupid flouncy flower, destined to wilt at any second. I definitely didn’t take that fact into account when I decided to dive in and create a multimillion-dollar entertainment company with absolutely no previous business experience.
Classic Felicia.
In 2011, Kim and I pitched YouTube the idea for a brand-new channel focusing on geek entertainment called Geek & Sundry. We went in armored with a bitchin’ PowerPoint deck of all the cool shows we wanted to make. Even bought skirt suits to look official.
“Let’s get in there and get us some funding!”
We high-fived like we were in some bro-comedy plotting to save our fraternity, then marched in to do businessing. And rocked our presentation.
Afterward, YouTube selected our channel as one of one hundred it would invest in. It was awesome. I mean, all those years of acting like a secretary in commercials was about to pay off in running my own company, right? Uh . . . kinda.
As much as I love creating things, the amount of work was, frankly crushing. As part of our deal with YouTube, we produced more than 420 videos in 2012 alone. More than sixty-two hours of content in a year. To put it in perspective, The Guild released one and a half hours of content in the same amount of time. A real television show releases ten to twenty-two hours a season. With a crew of up to a hundred to help.
We had eight full-time people. Total.
So the scale was . . . different.
But I hung on, like a tiny four-year-old grasping the curved bars of a playground merry-go-round when someone’s older cousin spins it too fast. YAY, THIS IS FUN, KINDA! Then the months rolled along. And as time passed, I started to realize, Holy crap. This “own-your-own-business” thing doesn’t have an end point.
The responsibilities of running a small company with huge ambitions shoved me squarely into areas I was not suited for. Like insurance liability coverage and an icky concept called “Management.” Most of my time morphed from making things t
o supervising the making of said things. Kim and I had created The Guild by stretching ourselves as thin as possible to do everything. Perfect for a control freak like me. But in this new company, when I saw an employee doing something even slightly different than how I would have done it, I couldn’t help it—I flipped.
“She used the wrong font? But the video is due to be uploaded in an hour! She’s a North Korean spy sent to destroy us, isn’t she?!”
It did NOT help that the skills I’d built up over the years didn’t apply 100 percent to this new venture. Sometimes the opposite. Getting out from behind my computer and into people-meeting networking events was particularly jarring. Especially when it involved the advertising world, one of the places I had to spend a lot of time schmoozing, because it is the most backward, chauvinistic world I have ever encountered.
I’ll never forget the time in Las Vegas when a supremely powerful ad exec I was encouraged to “get to know” looked me up and down as I approached and said, “Nice dress. I’d love to see it off you.”
Um, hello. Nice to meet you, too?
When we launched Geek & Sundry on Sunday, April 1, 2012 (April Fool’s Day, oh irony!), we did it with a day-long livestream “Subscribathon!” We invited tons of guests, held virtual panels, giveaways, dance competitions, you name it. We did anything we could to fill twelve hours of programming. I hosted the entire time, and at one point, in hour eight, I was so loopy I punched a unicorn in the face. Thank goodness the unicorn didn’t sue.
The “Subscribathon!” was an excellent encapsulation of what that first year of running a business did to me.
On the outside, from 2012 through 2013, I was on top of the world. Privately, I collapsed completely. I was trying to juggle too much (running Geek & Sundry, maintaining an acting career, keeping up with the electric bill to keep my cats cool, and remembering to call my grandma EVER). And sure, the overwork contributed to it, but the real thing that made my world fall apart was the realization that season six of The Guild, which we produced with Geek & Sundry, needed to be the last.