I joined the world of gaming as a little girl. It was where I first discovered my voice and felt accepted. I found a community through the Ultima Dragons that I didn’t have anywhere else in my life. During all that time I spent online I was never shamed for my enthusiasms. Never made to feel that I didn’t deserve to be heard because of my gender. And I wouldn’t be who I am without that community.
It’s hard for me to imagine how that same fourteen-year-old girl might find a place to belong in the gaming world that exists today, with strong voices pushing her back, harassing her, questioning her authenticity with the unspoken threat: Fit in the way we want you to or get out. I don’t know if I could handle that kind of environment. Perhaps I would hide my gender. Or just quit games entirely.
But I don’t think those choices are acceptable for anyone. So if my speaking up made one person feel like they belong or prevented one person from stifling their own voice, then it was absolutely worth it.
Because if you can’t be your own weird self on the internet, where can you be? And what would be the point?
-?12?-
It’s Been Real
Let’s wrap this up with some peppy “Go, internet!” thoughts!
In January of 2014, an executive from YouTube took me and my business partner to lunch to inform us that the company wouldn’t be investing in Geek & Sundry or any of the other original content channels anymore. The two-year funding experiment was over. We were on our own.
I left the restaurant, got in my car, and drove exactly one block. Then I pulled over and burst into tears.
Of joy.
No, it wasn’t PMS. (Maybe.) It was relief that I could be free to follow my own compass again. Concentrate more on less. And maybe have a digital vacation and log offline for a bit? (Psh, don’t get crazy, girl.)
I immediately went home and wrote down the top things I’d learned going from na?ve actress to inexperienced web series show runner to world-weary start-up lady with Geek & Sundry.
I learned everything about creating and businessing the “stab me in the eye” way, but wow, did it feel good to take a moment to realize how much I’d grown over the past five years. And eventually, it led me down the best path I could ever have imagined.
In July 2014, I sold my company to Legendary Entertainment. The coolest, nerdiest company in Hollywood. After a lot of meetings, it was clear: HERE was a partner who would be fun to hang out with at Comic-Con.
The head of the company, Thomas Tull, isn’t a Hollywood dude, he’s a MATH GUY. We had a conversation about fluid dynamics and comic books the first time we met and I thought, Wow, this guy is the coolest CEO bigwig I’ve ever met. I haven’t met many, but he’s definitely the coolest.
Today I work with my company to create and produce shows for the web and television, write things like this book, act in tons of interesting projects, and still tweet and do conventions and stay connected with people in my online community every day. I’ve carved out the perfect job for myself, and the world has opened up to me in a way that I could never have imagined as a weird homeschooled kid writing in that little pink diary.
? ? ?
A few years ago I took a trip to George Lucas’s Skywalker Ranch. (One of the employees was a big Guild and Dr. Horrible fan, so we got a private tour. I take advantage of stuff like that, because, uh, why not?) We toured a huge warehouse filled with props and wardrobe pieces from Star Wars and Indiana Jones. I hover-touched the REAL DEATH STAR.
Yeah, it was amazing. You can touch me and secondhand hover-touch the real Death Star, too. (Use some hand sanitizer first, please.)
At one point I stopped at a shelf with some odd-looking grenade objects, colorful but rough around the edges.
“What are these?”
“Oh, they’re from Star Wars. Part of the power generator inside the shield generator on Endor.”
I looked closer. “They look . . . janky. What are they made out of?”
“Dixie Cups.”
“Wait, what? You mean the . . .”
“Yes, the disposable cups. They’re spray-painted, see?” My guide lifted up the prop delicately and turned it over for me. Sure enough, I could see that underneath all the paint and decoration was a cup I could pull from a dispenser next to an office water bottle.
“Um . . . what?”
“During the filming of Star Wars, Lucas ran out of money, and the studio wouldn’t give him more. He invested his own money in the film in exchange for the merchandising rights . . .”
“. . . and that’s why he’s a billionaire.”
“Right. But they still had to cut a lot of corners. Some of the props, even wardrobe pieces like the cuffs on the slave Leia costume, had to be cobbled together any way they could.”