Well, These Things Happen

More Dispatches from My Glamorous Comic Art Life

OK, so this stuff happened decades ago, but it’s awful and funny and my life is better now, and details redacted to protect the guilty.

Here we go.

I found this autographed photo of me on ebay. My mom loves it.

OK, so one of the reasons creators have agents is because dealing with personal appearance issues is made of streaming cray cray and abuse.

I do mean abuse.

Sometimes conventions or personal appearance opportunities are total scams. As in, there is no real event. They make false promises to get the creator to come out for an appearance only to find out there really isn't a show or a store.

But there is someone who has been dying to meet you.

This famously happened to writer Mark Waid back in the 1990's. DC Comics had a co-pay appearance fee plan set up with comic shops to allow stores to get reimbursed for advertising and promotion of creator appearances, only to find that in one case, he was hoodwinked into flying out for an event which consisted of dinner with a couple of kids.

As I heard it, the kids did it all on DC Comics' dime. I could be remembering that detail wrong.

Now, maybe that doesn't sound so bad - haha, what enterprising young tricksters - but these events take days out of work time, comic creators have jobs to do, and, well, some of the people who pull these tricks are not safe to be around.

On one occasion, I flew out to a show in UNNAMED STATE where I got picked up at the airport by a truly scary-looking dude, then driven along in a car that was unsafe in every way (the passenger seat didn't even have a working back to it,) while he complained about how his ex wife was accusing him of child molestation, and oh, by the way, to save money, he was going to put me up in his home instead of a hotel.

Um...no.

Dude, I have seen the inside of your car, and I will be showering for a month. No way am I going to your home.

I got my hotel, he grumbled a lot, we got to his store which smelled of cat - a lot of cat and unclean litter box - and there were no fans there.

Then he explained he hadn't advertised or promoted the event because he just wanted to meet me and have first go at my portfolio.

I kid you not.

I took a cab to the airport. No way was I getting back in that perv-and-cat-piss-mobile. And I was so happy when I finally got home.

Wearing St John. I could afford the top, but not the skirt, so I am wearing grubby jeans and sneakers beneath this “ladies who lunch” surface.

Shortly after this in the late 1990's, I appeared at a show and book tour in the UNNAMED FOREIGN COUNTRY, and I have never been so badly treated by strangers in my life who weren't also trying to mug me on the street.

The convention organizer claimed to have been robbed of all the show cash...twice in one weekend. Day One's take mysteriously gone, then Day Two's take mysteriously gone.

The hotel which was...um...first off, my room was in the garret. I thought this was funny at first - starving artist in garret - except there was no elevator.

Which meant my heavy luggage of art and books had to be carried up those stairs. Fortunately, Much Larger Man was also a guest, much bigger than me, and he carried my bags.

Thank you, Much Larger Man.

There were drug dealers, people having sex, and vomiting drunk people in the hallways. I am not kidding. I thought I was going to be murdered.

It was an event full of character.

It was also the show where I spent the entire weekend dealing with people who were very disappointed in my personal appearance.

About 7 years earlier, some woman who was tall, thin, and blond showed up, claimed to be Colleen Doran, sold sketches, signed comics...and there I was, not tall. Not thin. (Yes, I know I'm a small woman, but that was back in the 1990's, and for a brief time, I was overweight.)

This is how small I am.

People demanded to see my passport to prove I was me, and then railed at me at great length about how dissatisfied they were that I wasn't as pretty as the imposter. And how did they know for REALS I was the REAL Colleen Doran?

It was bonkers.

I couldn't wait to leave.

The day finally came to check out and go on my book tour with the other creators in the group only to find the convention had not paid my bill.

Or anyone's bill.

I insisted that the show was responsible for my bill, I was only responsible for my incidentals (a phone call home,) and was finally able to get out.

Then the show which hadn't paid their bills - what with my being the only pro whose credit card was on file - they somehow got the hotel to charge my credit card.

For everything. The entire event.

This set off a fraud alert, and my credit card was frozen. It was my only credit card. Which means...I had no access to money except what I had made at the show and later during the tour.

I had no idea what was going on at the time because this was before cell phones and easy access to information online. I simply thought my card had been frozen because my credit card company wasn't accustomed to my using the card overseas. I'd get it straightened out when I got home.

But boy, did I wish I'd had a credit card for the duration of the tour.

Despite the fact that I was a guest, I got a daily earful of America bashing from people I was with. Apparently, this is fun cultural ribbing to some, but where I come from it's the Worst Hospitality Ever, and it really began to rankle.

One of my favorite arguments was when I told this dude about how much acreage my family had (not so much in American acreage terms,) he began to rant at me about my evil capitalist ways and why did I need all that land?

And I said…”For a bird sanctuary.”

He finally shut up.

No one had arranged hotel rooms. At any time.

The creators were put up in the homes of strangers. I felt better that there were people I knew (more or less) on the tour, but I didn't feel good about staying in the homes of people I did not know.

Especially since someone's hash dealer showed up.

OMG.

I had visions of my life ending in a Turkish prison, and we weren't even in Turkey.

I also began to get sick. VERY sick. Despite the fact that I was obviously quite ill, no one in the group made any accommodation.

While I was dragged to yet another bar, with my blood red eyes and tears rolling down my face, my compatriots got more and more drunk and glared at the little lady sourpuss.

Finally, I began to vomit profusely, and since everyone knew I hadn't been drinking, they figured something must be up.

I did not want to stay in Hash House, but by this time I'd made good money at a few of the appearances, so I asked if I could go to a hotel instead only to find I was in one of those little towns where everything closes at 5 PM, so I was stuck with the cloying smell and effects of a house full of pot and hash.

I threw up some more.

I guess this was OK, because during dinner, one of the celebrants was so intoxicated he passed out in his food and another made it to the street where he puked in the gutter.

It was all very modern.

We finally made it to Famous City where there was a comic shop that had arranged for the other creators to do an appearance, but I had been specifically excluded because I wasn't important enough at the time.

Twenty years later on Twitter that same shop owner was tweeting about how much he'd love to have me do a signing there.

Sure.

Nice photo, thanks. Also, now I’m important enough not to get stuck in cat piss comic shops, yay, go me.

Since I wasn't welcome at the other venue, I personally arranged to do a signing at a much smaller and less prestigious shop where I was treated very kindly and with courtesy by everyone. And even though once again, I was put up in someone's home, the host was such a gracious person and had obviously gone to pains to be a good host, I was nearly tearful with relief.

I thanked him profusely. Since I now had some time left to myself, and had by then made very good money selling art and books, I thanked my host by taking him out on the town. I treated him to Famous Eatery for afternoon tea, and I took him to several art museums. It was a lovely day. When it was time to leave, I left him a page of original art as a further thank you.

It's now worth a small fortune.

Since my plane was to fly out of Less Famous City, I got on the train and made arrangements to stay in the best hotel in town for one last night. I spent the day at art museums, went to a fancy French restaurant, and relaxed for the first time in over a week.

And then I got home where I finally found out how someone had tried to charge the entire convention expense to my credit card. All the hotels and rentals for the venue.

I also finally got medical care, and it turned out I had pneumonia. I was sick for weeks after.

I vowed then and there that never again would I attend a show unless I had multiple credit cards for emergencies, and enough cash to walk away from the deal.

A few years later, I ended up getting a whammo bad convention experience in Another Foreign Country.

The show had a policy that allowed people on staff to choose a favorite creator to attend and someone had chosen me, to the consternation of everyone else involved who had no idea who I was and no interest in finding out.

To make matters worse, a huge storm delayed my plane, stuck me in another city, and I was left holding the bill for the hotel and very expensive 2 hour cab ride between cities to catch a plane connection.

When I finally arrived at the show late, I was given a display table in a hallway. Which was inconvenient but a decent location.

However, all of my shipments of books and materials had pretty much been lost by the show. Fortunately, my art was in my bag.

I figured this was going to be something to write off as a loss (which I could not afford at the time,) but what the heck, some of my friends were there, and maybe I'd have a good time.

The next day, I knew this was not to be.

During the evening, the convention decided the icky American guests were mucking up the proceedings. An anime/manga show, the Americans were there as sloppy seconds.

So they picked up all our stuff without permission, and put us at the far end of an enormous ballroom, cut off entirely from the rest of the exhibitors who were safely isolated from us by a cavernous expanse.

I think I sold three books. The guests barely even got to speak to any fans.

I was told to my face by staff how unwelcome I was, and how no one wanted me there. Other guests were told the same. Basically, we were the personal pet picks of staffers and other staffers resented everyone else's personal pet picks.

I think this was at or near my last anime/manga show.

I was already out a buttload of money because of the late plane fiasco, international shipping, and lost merchandise, and since no one seemed to want me there, I figured I'd just leave.

I changed my plane ticket to depart in the morning, and informed my host who apologetically admitted he was my only fan and he was sorry, but he just wanted to meet me. He gave me a bottle of wine to take home.

I didn’t even drink, but I was about to start.

It was sweet and sad. And cracked, and it leaked all over the floor of the plane.

I was only making about $20000 a year at the time, and this several thousand dollar loss was a big hit.

But, you know, a tax deduction, yay?

I didn't do many shows for awhile, and after many years of grim experiences, I decided maybe touring wasn't for me until my agent started making arrangements on my behalf.

With a large slate of creators, he can apply pressure when shows do not do what they are contracted to do and with his vast industry knowledge, he generally knows what and who to avoid. Certain shows pull fast ones on contract deals, slip us onto panels we've specifically asked to be excluded from, put us near abusive people, and they can be nasty beyond belief when one is ill. Some of the major shows are even worse than the small ones.

I haven’t really had a bad convention experience in years, and can say that almost everywhere I go I am now treated very well. I am sure my agent has a lot to do with that.

But a few decades ago, my dear ones, touring was like going into the heart of the Amazon without a mosquito net.