Ship It(33)

“Where’s what?”

“Not what. Who,” Rico says. “They mean Claire.”

“Oh, she’s… I’m not sure,” I reply. “She’s around. What did you call her?”

“Heart-of-lightness,” Riley says. “Oh my god, she’s one of my favorite fic writers. I can’t believe she won this trip with you guys. She’s incredible.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll have to tell her you said so,” I say. So Paula was right about Claire. People know her.

Rico and I head off with a wave, leaving Betty and Riley to grip each other and giggle and look at the photos we took. As Rico and I slip our sunglasses on and maneuver our way back through the crowd toward the exits, he smiles at me.

“I don’t always have the time or the energy to do that,” he says. “But when I do…”

“Yeah,” I say. I feel this fullness inside me that I didn’t feel before. It’s weird, having that kind of effect on people, but to be able to make them happy like that? With just my presence? It’s kind of an undeniably great power. It makes me feel like I have something to offer.


THERE IS SO much more at Portland Comic-Con than at Boise. Like, so, so much more. I already went through the over-the-top booths for Marvel, Warner Brothers, Netflix—all the big companies spending lots of money to build out these ridiculous displays with screens and sound effects and areas to take selfies, just to try to wow fans like me. I know it’s a blatant cry for my attention, but I’ll be honest, I kind of like it. It’s nice to feel catered to, even if it’s in this flashy, impersonal spectacle.

My mom walked around with me for fifteen minutes before it was too much for her, and she went off to find some froyo and read a book. She gave me $40, half of which I promptly spent on a T-shirt that reads, SHOW ME YOUR FICS. I don’t have anywhere to be until five p.m., so I’m determined to soak in as much of this convention as I can, but it’s a lot, and I’m getting tired of fighting the crowds.

I check out another room off the main floor that seems quieter, and I find an area with a bunch of tables set up where people are playing tabletop games. The bustle of the con is a little more muted here, and I’m considering finding a chair and checking out what they have to offer, when I hear a voice call out, “Hey, show me your fics!”

I turn to look, and it’s Tess, smiling at me from the ground where she’s sitting against the wall, charging her phone at an outlet.

“Hi,” I say, approaching her. “Whatcha doing?”

“Just passing time while my phone charges.”

I feel a little thrill that I happened to run into her. We hadn’t made plans to get together, and after the sort of turbulent way we left things in the parking lot in Boise, I wasn’t sure if I’d see her again, but she’s smiling, which is a good sign. Her sketchbook is open on her lap, the pages covered with tiny drawings of hands.

“Can I see?” I ask.

She shrugs, her smile fading a bit. “Don’t get your hopes up,” she says, handing the sketchbook to me. The hands are gorgeous. Tiny, detailed line drawings done with a very sharp pencil. Hands touching, holding. They make my neck prickle, just looking at them.

“These are awesome,” I say.

“You think so?”

“Definitely. You’re really good! I thought from how nervous you were about it that you’d be, like, a beginner or something, but, dang, girl.”

Tess smiles. It’s the first time I’ve seen her look shy since I met her and it’s adorable. I turn back to the notebook and flip the page.

“Oh—” Tess reaches out to stop me, but it’s too late. I see that the hands are part of a much larger study. Smokey and Heart, emotionally ragged, holding hands, staring deep into each other’s eyes. In love. It’s completely G-rated, and yet there’s something so deeply intimate about them that I feel like I shouldn’t be looking at them in public. Still, I can’t look away.

“Wow,” I say. “These are good.”

“Yeah, uh, I don’t show a lot of people.”

“You should,” I say.

“No, you know, I want to be a real artist, not just, like, this stuff.”

I look up at her. “This isn’t real art?”

“You know what I mean.”

I look at the drawings one more time.

Of course I know what she means. To make art in fandom is to follow your passion at the risk of never being taken seriously. I’ve written dozens of fics—put them together and you’d have several novels—but who knows what a college admissions officer will think of that as a pastime. Where does 12,000 Tumblr followers rate in relation to a spot in the National Honor Society in their minds? Every week I get anonymous messages in my inbox telling me I should write a real book. Well, haven’t I already? What makes what I do different from “real writing”? Is it that I don’t use original characters? I guess that makes every Hardy Boys edition, every Star Wars book, every spinoff, sequel, fairy-tale retelling, historical romance, comic-book reboot, and the musical Hamilton “not real writing.” Or is it that a real book is something printed, that you hold in your hand, not something you write on the internet? Or is “real writing” something you sell in a store, not give away for free?