I did not wish to attend the convention. Let me begin with that. My publisher—bless them for their naïve optimism—believed it “good for visibility” and “a chance to connect with the fanbase.” This is as if I have ever had trouble being visible. As if I have ever desired connection.
Upon arrival, I was greeted not with a red carpet, nor a velvet-curtained green room, but by a volunteer in a wrinkled anime hoodie who smelled like disappointment and industrial cheese powder. He recognized me immediately, of course. “You’re the guy who writes those light-something books,” he said, his breath a noxious cloud of Mountain Dew and poor decisions. I corrected him, gently but firmly, that I am the Lehman-Köhler, Supreme Architect of the Lightbringer Saga, not some scrawler of lizard pulp. He laughed. Laughed.
The panel was worse. I was flanked by what I can only assume were unpaid podcasters and a woman who claimed to have written over forty self-published novels, all apparently about magical were-goats. The moderator asked me to “keep answers short” so the others could speak. The others. My word count is sacred; these people spit syllables like confetti at a child’s party and call it literature.
Afterward came the real horror: the signing. I was trapped behind a folding table, hemmed in by a line of the most aggressively fragrant fans ever to walk the earth. I use the word “walk” generously—many waddled, some shuffled, and one dragged a roller bag which emitted a persistent beeping sound that haunts me still. They sweated. They leered. One man, I swear to the gods of pen and ink, asked me to sign his upper thigh. I declined, with the dignity of a bard at court, though my voice may have cracked slightly from the trauma.
They would not stop talking. I heard more theories about my characters’ supposed secret relationships than any sane person could endure. One woman—who wore elf ears and smelled like cat urine—insisted that Aeden Lightbringer was “definitely coded as pansexual” and wanted me to “confirm canon.” I told her Aeden is not coded, he is written, and that the man spent fourteen chapters in solitary penitence for overusing honorifics—romance was not on the table. She cried. I do not apologize.
Even my escape to the hotel bar was sabotaged. I was followed. They came in droves, like moths to the roaring flame of literary perfection. I could not so much as sip my scotch without someone asking for a selfie, or worse, pitching their “own fantasy world, which is kind of like yours but with more furries and cryptocurrency.” I nearly wept. Not from sadness, but from the overwhelming awareness that I am simply too important to be among them.
When it was over, I returned to my quarters, peeled off my bespoke vestments, and sat in silence. The fans had clung to me like the stink of brimstone after a demonic summoning. I do not despise them. I merely pity them. They orbit the sun of my genius with no hope of drawing near, content to bask in reflected glory, unaware that they reek of the mundane.
Next year, I will not attend. I shall send a wax figure in my place and let it endure the onslaught. It will not sign thighs, either.
— J. Lehman-Köhler, Supreme Fantasy Author