I've said it before and I'll say it again: fans are assholes. They are rude, entitled, grabby. There's nothing like giving up an evening, uncompensated, to go and provide free entertainment for a lot of mouth-breathers, only to have them approach you later for the express purpose of informing you that you did it wrong. That you were reading too fast or not loudly enough. Or your pronunciation of a certain word was wrong. Or your writing is too Victorian (WTF dude, seriously?). I wish I were exaggerating but it happens Every. Fucking. Time.
I'm done. I'm not doing another appearance where I'm not selling stuff. Bimbos of the Death Sun portrayed Appin Dungannon as an egomaniacal asshole, but you have to develop rhino hide and a toxic personalty to hold your own against the placid slug consumers who think writer equals whore and you exist only to spoon-feed their fantasies.
I was raised that if someone invited you to dinner you ate what was put in front of you, without comment, and thanked the host for their efforts. I don't need praise but I'm done showing up to be insulted.
Saturday, April 14, 2018
I'm feeling the need to tell on myself a bit here, because once again it's convention season, and every year, every con worth its salt proposes a "costuming on a budget" panel, and I'm always strung out between wanting to help and a fatalistic sense that it's a lost cause.