Yes. Sorry.
Hi, I’m Felicia Day. I’m an actor. That quirky chick in that one science fiction show? You know the one I’m talking about. I’m never on the actual poster, but I always have a few good scenes that make people laugh. As a redhead, I’m a sixth-lead specialist, and I practically invented the whole “cute but offbeat hacker girl” trope on television. (Sorry. When I started doing it, it was fresh. I promise.)
I’m the writer, producer, and actress/host/personality of hundreds of internet videos. Literally hundreds. I have a problem, guys (let’s talk more about it later). A lot of people know my work. And a lot of people do not. I like to refer to myself as “situationally recognizable.” It’s way better than “internet famous,” which makes me feel like I’m in the same category as a mentally challenged cat or a kid doing yo-yo tricks while riding a pogo stick. I know that kid, super talented. But the cat . . . not so much.
Seven years ago, I started shooting internet videos in my garage with a borrowed camera, and now I juggle acting on television with writing, producing, and running a web video production company called Geek & Sundry. I’m a social media “aficionado” (née “addict”), I have well over two million Twitter followers, and I’m usually the lone female on lists of prominent nerds, lauded as the media-anointed “Queen of the Geeks.” It’s a title I reject personally, but when someone else uses it, I go ahead and enjoy it as a compliment. Because who doesn’t want to inherit a dynasty just because of their gene-stuffs? No work, just <SPLAT>! Born special!
On average, a random person on the street won’t know my work, but there are certain places where I’m a superstar, like San Diego Comic-Con, and . . . other places like San Diego Comic-Con. Oh, and I have a HUGE barista recognition factor. Seventy-five percent of the time when I’m ordering my “almond milk matcha latte with no sugar added, lukewarm, please,” I’ll be recognized by an employee. And yes, my order is a pain in the ass, but I’m determined to enjoy the liquid indulgences of modern life. Might as well take advantage of it all before the zombie apocalypse. I have no practical skills; I’m fully aware that I’ll be one of the first ones “turned.” Instead of learning motorcycle repair or something else disaster-scenario useful, I’ll order the drink I want until I become a shambling corpse.
And I won’t be defensive about it, okay?!
I’m very grateful for the weird niche I’ve created in life. Some people know me only from my Twitter feed. That’s fine, too, because I, objectively, give VERY good tweet.
Frankly, I’d hate a life where everyone knew me and people made money selling pictures of me without makeup to tabloids. I’m not in the business of wearing makeup every day. Or going out of my house on a regular basis. I’m most comfortable behind a keyboard and . . . that’s it. Real life is awkward for me, like wearing a pair of hot shorts. There’s no way to walk around in those and NOT assume people are snickering behind my back about droopy under-cleavage.
The informality of the online world makes it feel like I’m less a “celebrity” and more a big sister my fans can be brutally honest with. “Felicia! Loved your last video. You looked tired, though; take melatonin, it’ll help with the jet lag!” They know me as a sort of digital friend, not an object to be torn down over superficials. (Probably because I don’t give them much “objectifying” material.)
The best part about this weirdly cobbled-together career I’ve built is that I get to bury myself in all the subjects I love. Comics, video games, DVDs, romance novels, TV shows, bad kung fu movies. It’s all part of my job to purchase these things and mostly legally deduct them from my taxes. And it makes it easier to connect with people, no matter where I am in the world. When the occasional stranger approaches me at a party to say, “Hey, you’re Felicia Day. Let’s talk about that comic book you were tweeting about last week!” it’s the greatest thing in the world. Because it saves me from having to stand in the corner awkwardly, drinking all the Sprite, and then leaving after ten minutes without saying good-bye to the host. (That’s called an Irish exit, and I’m part Irish, so it’s part of my genetic wheelhouse.) As someone who had few or . . . yeah, NO friends when I was growing up? Pretty sweet deal.
So how did I get this super-awesome career? Well, you’re in luck, because this book is designed to tell you how I got here! Short answer:
A) By being raised weird.
B) By failing over and over again.