Lacy Telles

Last weekend I went to my first comic convention. Let me clarify, for of course I have been to comic conventions before, but this was the first time I had my own booth. Let me clarify, again, for even though I had a booth that showcased my comic and the adorable JLLT underwear we had made, it was not, in fact, “my own” booth because I shared it with five other comic creators. This is what you do when booths cost hundreds of dollars and you've already spent hundreds of dollars creating your comics and fancy underwear and you're not even sure you will sell one copy let alone the 60 copies you would need to sell to make it worth it.
And so my manager flew out from California (yes, I have a manager, and yes, she is my sister) to help me and my illustrator man our booth for two days at the indie comic fest known as MOCCA Fest 2012. I had absolutely no idea what to expect, for I am new to the this whole game, but the experience as a whole was invaluable and invigorating.
Here are a few highlights/details/things that have stuck:
I am old. I know I don't look it, but I was surrounded by youth starting out and when I did encounter a creator in my age bracket, they had inevitably been in the business for many years already.
My “cool” factor increased exponentially since I was an older, somewhat cute girl with pretty, styled hair, surrounded by young, unkempt comic boys with dirty hair.
I went to a panel of successful memoir comic creators and was more inspired than I could have predicted. This is why it is important to go to these things.
While we only sold a little over a dozen comics, this is more than most people and it felt darn good.
We were the only booth with underwear for sale, making us notorious which basically equals popular.
I wish we had brought a rainbow flag to really represent!

So today I was supposed to write. Like maybe a new HuffPo piece. Or a new comic. I even considered writing a few letters, responding to the letters I have received in the past few months. And then I remembered I still have not read two of the letters sent to me. They sit in my bag, ignored but not forgotten. Sometimes I do this. Harbor letters, words, connections. I don't really know why I do this, but at this point, habitual rules. My computer did not cooperate earlier today, at Atlas Cafe. And I was grumpy. And my mind was with my family, my friends, the ones together in southern California. And I am not there. I am here, in a strange city in a strange apartment with a strange flatmate and strange surrounds me. And on my walk I spotted massive graffiti on a tall brick building, “What's the point?” it asked. And I listened to my friend but all I was thinking was take a photo, take a photo and tweet it to YerGoing2Die, but I didn't have my camera. This was doubly annoying since I need to take more photos of my facial scar, compliments of December's bike accident. No, I am not getting plastic surgery, despite my family members' insistent please. My response is always, “Vanity is overrated” but I just say that 'cuz it sounds cool, I've never really sat down to ponder if I believe it to be absolutely true. And I've never been egotistical about my looks but don't get my ego started on the brains churning behind my rainbow eyes. It's shameful, but I hope that the humility present balances it out. And the person that climbed that dilapidated building to spray paint that poignant question, “What's the Point?”, is that person asking a rhetorical question? Or should I climb up there myself with my own cans (I really do have two, you know) and scrawl an answer?

It was time to go to sleep, way past that time, actually, but she was awake.
So, with a sigh and a hoisting of imaginary pants, Heart went hiking north and tapped on Brain's door.
“Brain? Don't you ever get tired? It's time for bed! Don't you ever get tired of not sleeping?”
It was Brain's turn to sigh, and she did, but her sighs always sounded like muffled sneezes which never failed to make Heart chuckle. Of course, she always felt bad for chuckling at Brain's unfortunate sounding noises, but it was hard for her to control.
“I know, I know. Of course I get tired. You always ask me but you know the answer. It's not that I don't want to nap! I do! I see the stars and the moon out my window and they wave a friendly goodbye, but that's not enough. The clock ticks a sweet melody, but it's never the tune for me. And then when I start to calculate the number of hours until morning, the number of hours slumbered the night before, the week before, it starts me worrying. And you know what happens when I worry, Heart.” She sighed again, a loud deflating, sneezing whoopie cushion of a sigh.
“Oh, Brain. Don't be so hard on yourself. You've had a long day and you have a big day ahead of you. Plus, when was the last time you had a day off?” Brain snorted at this, for days off were as elusive as a full night's rest. “Exactly. Now, listen. You'll feel better in the morning, lighter, invigorated, new again.”
“You're right, Heart. I'll try harder and start winding it down. Sleep does sound inviting, doesn't it? See you in the morning, fresh and bright and ready for the new day.”
Sleep. And then morning. But not morning like the sunrise like the alarm clock like stretch the arms above the head and crack out a dramatic yawn. Dark morning, hours before all of that, almost nighttime still. Brain was mad at herself for not making it all the way to light morning, but then realized she was not to blame.

Last Wednesday I went to my first audition. You heard me . . . AUDITION. Am I an aspiring actress? Nope. Have I ever done this before? Not really, unless you want to count the church auditorium before my freshman year when I auditioned with my then boyfriend. (We nailed it, by the way, and went on to wow multiple church audiences all around Orange County.) Am I currently funemployed with occasional open afternoons on my hands? You got it!
So, I saw an ad on Craigslist and I figured, “Why not?” For all of you amateurs out there who have never been to an audition before (I am no longer part of your community having graduated into the “step above you” leagues) it went down exactly like it does in the movies. Seriously. I kept looking around at the stark and depressing room filled with strangers of all shapes, colors, and ages, completely amused with how cliché the whole thing seemed. There was the couple that argued on the way in, he accusing her of making them both late while shaking his head at every excuse she proffered in return. She scolded him, reminding him that anger shows through and it won't help him get the part. There was the girl sitting next to me, rocking back and forth as she muttered the lines from the wrinkled slip we were each given with the short monologue typed out. I briefly considered memorizing my lines, but I also experienced butterflies every time I repeated it silently in my chair that I decided to just read it when the time came. I became one of the many nonchalantly reading their books or checking their twitter feed or playing games on their iPhone. Cool cats, if you will, not caring about something like rehearsal when it was just an extra gig for goodness' sakes.