“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.