Cons and Pros
(June 21, 2018)
7-An Amateur's Guide to Being a Pro
At 8:50, the four of them stepped out of the hotel and headed toward the convention center—a curiously quiet scene at the moment, no crowds or costumed characters in evidence (though in the lobby they'd spotted four young people curled up sleeping in the chairs).
Dipper took out his phone and clicked a number he'd already speed-dialed. "Hi," the voice said on the other end. "What's up now?"
"Uh, D.D?" Dipper asked.
"You got him. Oh, wait, Stan Mason, right? Hey, can you come straight to our exhibit space right now?"
"We're heading over," Dipper said.
"OK, so technically no attendees can get in before 10, but I'll send word to someone to escort you—your party with you?"
"Party? Oh, my wife and sister and my sister's fiancé. Yeah, we're crossing, uh, Harbor right now."
"OK, four, super, you know the entrance closest to disabled services?"
"Yeah, I think so," Dipper said.
"You'll see a gal there in a Granite Rapids jacket. She'll escort you back. See you in a few!"
They had to ask a convention staffer how to get there, but in ten minutes they saw a young brunette woman wearing one of the Palms Twins jackets. They came up, Dipper introduced everyone, and she said, "It's exciting to have you with us! Right this way. We'll take the short cut."
They threaded past movie company booths, RPG game booths, comic-book booths, smaller booths dedicated to individual—or maybe small groups of—artists, with art from pen sketches to watercolors to acrylics displayed. "Coming back here later!" Mabel said.
D.D. and Rick were at the Granite Rapids exhibit, unpacking boxes of tee shirts. "Come this way!" Rick said, straightening up. "Serena, will you help Rick get the carousels set up? Come on, Dipper, backstage!"
In the faux room created by cardboard ramparts, a young guy sat in a plastic and aluminum chair, texting madly and rapidly. When they came in, he briefly held up a hand signaling "Just a second" and finished his texts. "There. Finally." He glanced up. "Yo, D.D. What now?"
"I thought you'd like to meet the author," D.D. said, grinning. Dipper, this is Alan Kirsch, director of Granite Rapids!"
"Oh, my gosh!" Kirsch, a guy not much older than Wendy, jumped up and—hugged Dipper. Then he pushed him away at arm's length. Kirsch didn't look like Dipper's mental image of a TV bigshot—he wore desert boots, faded jeans, and a red plaid flannel shirt. His hair was a deeper red than Wendy's, and so was his small chin beard. "You're a young guy!" he said. "I love your books, man. We're trying our best to do justice to them! Dipper, was it?"
"Yeah," Dipper said, rubbing the back of his neck. "My real name's Mason Pines, but everybody calls me Dipper because—" He held the hair off his forehead. "Uh, and this is my sister Mabel—"
"That sweater!" Alan said, swiveling to hug Mabel. "I'd recognize you anywhere! I'd probably take you for a cosplayer, but I'd know you were Alexia!"
"Don't talk to me about costumes and masquerades," Mabel warned. She still nursed a grudge because when they were thirteen, she, Dipper, and Wendy had entered a masquerade at another big con, this one in a parallel universe. They were representing themselves—and came in second.
"Willow!" Alan said, hugging Wendy.
"Real name's Wendy," she told him after he had stepped back. "Me and Dip are an old married couple. One year next August! Dude, I like your ensemble."
"Thanks—and-?"
"Teek," Mabel said, pushing him forward. "My fiancé. He's not in the books but hug him anyhow."
So Alan did.
"Guys, this is terrific. D.D, give them anything they want! Listen, you know about our panel tomorrow—wait, do you have to be anywhere now?"
"Not right away," Dipper said.
"Let's go have some coffee," Alan said. "You guys, hang around and scope out our display—"
"We'll help unpack if you want," Wendy said.
D.D. beamed at her. "Great! We can use help!"
Alan assured them, "I'll only keep Dipper away for twenty minutes. This way!"
They took all of a two-minute walk and entered a lounge—a small free-standing room with a table and eight chairs, a counter with a coffee maker, powdered creamer, sugar, and artificial sweeteners. A bowl of fruit—bananas, oranges, apples, and pears—sat on the counter along with several boxes of assorted cookies, the treats free for the taking. Alan asked Dipper, "Dark, medium, blond?"
"Medium," Dipper said, mostly because he didn't know what the heck they were talking about.
"Medium, medium—breakfast blend OK?"
Oh, it was one of those pod-type coffee makers, except the coffee was in little pouches, not plastic pods. "Sounds great," Dipper said, realizing that the dark, medium, and blonds weren't people, but grades of roasted coffee. Alan popped the medium roast into the machine, placed a cardboard cup beneath the spout, pressed a button, and the coffee gurgled, then flowed, into the cup.
"There you go," Alan said, handing Dipper the hot cup and tossing the used coffee pouch, substituting a dark-roast one for it. "I have to have brain fuel," Alan said. "I take mine black, but fix yours up any way you want."
"Just some creamer," Dipper said, shaking in about a tablespoon of the powder and stirring it with a flat stick like a Munchkin's popsicle stick.
"Sit, sit," Alan said, taking a seat at the table. Dipper sat across from him. "If you or any of your people need a break, you can get into any of the lounges with your pro badges. First ComicsCon?"
"Yeah. Kinda intimidating."
"Don't let it get to you. The attendees are friendly, if kinda weird. OK, business. Would you mind showing up at our booth a couple of times for an hour at a time? Chat with attendees, sign some merchandise?"
"Not at all," Dipper said.
"What does your day look like? Wait, better question—when do you have a free hour?"
"Well—I agreed to be on a panel at two. Maybe before that? Twelve-thirty to one-thirty?"
"Will that give you time for lunch?"
"Oh, sure," Dipper said.
"If you run short on time, just check out the green room," Alan advised. "It's on the same level as the guest check-in room—Facing that door, it'll be the second door down the hall to your right. There's always sandwich fixings, chips, fruit, pastries, and so on. It'll get you through. Man, it's so good to meet you! The first book blew me away. I can relate. I've got a twin sister, too! We have to get you a hat—"
"Got one," Dipper said. He pulled it from his backpack and clapped it on his head. "This is the original. Well, probably like the fourth-generation original. I've lost one, had one swept away by the ocean, burned one—but this is the original pine-tree hat. It came from my great-uncle's tourist trap in Oregon."
"Get out of town! That's why the books seem so grounded! Where is this place, and when can I visit it?"
"It's a little town named Gravity Falls, sort of north of Bend," Dipper said. "Good luck finding a map, and GPS systems go out of whack near it. Here, I'll give you my email and if I can have yours, I'll send you a .pdf map."
Alan dug out a card, Dipper gave him one that Wendy had arranged to have printed up for him, and they finished their coffee and headed back.
At the booth, Alan told everyone to look at Dipper's hat. "We didn't get the blue right," a girl whom Alan introduced as Chill Evans said. "Not a Navy blue, more of a royal blue."
"Chill's our lead storyboard artist," Alan said. "We gotta get busy, Dipper, so just check in here at twelve-thirty, and we'll set you up at a table with some of your books and some of our merch. Great meeting you, man!"
He high-fived Dipper, and Dipper discovered that the others had scattered out. D.D. said that Mabel and Teek were heading for a Dusklight panel, and Wendy was going to a Breakthrough Channel presentation on one of its Mysterious America episodes, "Perplexing Northwest," in which the show explored strange reports of allegedly paranormal mysteries in the forests.
Promising to be back at half—past noon, Dipper went to find the Brangwen Books booth. That took him twenty minutes, but when he found it Jan was there, and with a broad smile she gave him the copy of the Frost and Flame book she had promised. "Don't let lugging it around it wear you out," she said, providing him with yet another tote bag, this one with the Brangwen Books logo.
Leaving the Exhibition Hall, Dipper made his way back to the check-in level and without too much difficulty found the discreet little sign "Green Room – Pro Guests Only." Two young guys in ComicsCon tees checked his badge and his driver's license before admitting him.
He didn't know what he'd expected, but it wasn't this—a largish sort of a room, longer than it was wide, with one glass wall looking back toward their hotel. A long table stood in the middle, and in the space to its right armchairs and loveseats clustered in conversational groups, while on the left a dozen round tables, four chairs each, accommodated people more intent on eating than talking. The morning sun streamed through the windows, curved and giving something of the feel of being inside an upscale greenhouse. A girl and a guy in convention shirts welcomed him and told him to pick up anything he wanted from the refreshment table.
Too bad Mabel wasn't with him. Pastries in abundance, miniature kebabs of ham, pineapple, and cheese and other assorted tidbits, granola bars, berries and fruits weighed down the table. A counter with not one but three small refrigerators held real cream, milk, juices, and other stuff, and not one but four urns dispensed regular and decaf coffee, hot chocolate, and hot water for tea.
Though he didn't want anything more to eat at the moment, Dipper remembered Wendy's advice to stay hydrated and got himself a cup of cold water. At that hour, only a few people were in the green room (which, by the way, was mostly yellowish-beige), but Dipper spotted four actors at a round table, ones who had played secondary characters in Muffy, the Vampire's Terror.
He sat alone at a table and took out the new book, thick and heavy like all the others in the Frost and Flame series. Dipper glanced at the cover art—a foreboding armored figure holding a long black sword etched with white curlicues, but stained with red—beneath the title Frosted Iron. Dipper inferred that the armored warrior was Clave, the youngest of the Ironfist clan, who in the climactic betrayal and assassinations of the previous book had become master of the domain by murdering his father and three uncles. He opened the book to the first chapter.
On that chill Midwinter's Day cold shone the sun and weak. In the throne room of Castle Blazon, the young Imperator Clave Ironfist brooded alone, waiting word from the scouts who, since the first scarlet had tinged the trees of the realm, had been scouring the land for Princessa Delenya Wingheart. Everything depended on their finding her and returning her to the castle. Without her, Clave would be naught but an under-aged usurper, a false Imperator. But wedded to Delenya, he would be in such stead that no one would dare question his right to the throne.
And after the wedding, should she die, why, he would make sure that none would mourn her.
"What do you think?" asked a voice behind him.
It made Dipper jump, but then he realized the Southerns, Wayne and Belinda, had silently come up behind him. He started to stand, but Wane put his hand on Dipper's shoulder. "No, no, we're loaded with food here. Sit, we'll join you!"
Belinda sat to Dipper's left. She had a plate with a croissant, a pat of butter, and on a plate an assortment of cheeses, grapes, and melon balls. Wayne set his own plate on Dipper's right—he'd gone for a bagel with cream cheese and thin-sliced lox, plus orange sections and a small bowl of nuts. "I'll get the coffee," he told Belinda. "You pump him for his opinion."
She shook her head as her husband went toward the coffee station. "Not really. You haven't even read the first page yet!"
"But what I've read is good," Dipper said. "How do you keep all the characters and their backstories straight? I always slip up somehow. You know, a character's eyes will be gray in the second chapter and blue in the seventh. And at times I've even absent-mindedly called Granite Rapids Granite Falls!"
Belinda sighed. "It's hard work. Wayne and I make exhaustive outlines—do you outline?"
"Yes, about one page per chapter, and the chapters run from twelve to twenty pages, on average. But I found out that if I don't outline, I never get to the end!"
"We do the same, but for us, the outline is about twice the length of the book."
"Wow." Frosted Iron, he had noticed, was 600 pages long, and it wasn't the longest in the series.
Wayne returned with two mugs of coffee, setting one beside his wife, along with two packets of sugar. He had already doctored his own, because it was a pale brown, café-au-lait as the color was justly called. "Dipper, can I get you coffee or anything?"
"No, thanks. I already ate, way early, and I'm drinking water to stay hydrated."
"Ah," Wayne said, sitting. "Then I'll give you the most important advice for a writer attending a convention: Never pass a bathroom without paying it a visit!"
"I'll remember," Dipper said with a grin. "Uh—would you sign the book?"
"I thought you'd never ask!" Wayne reached to his inner jacket pocket and brought out a beautiful pen, ebony inlaid with gold filigree and—as Dipper saw when he uncapped it—a real fountain pen, not a ballpoint. He passed it to Belinda. "My dear, you start."
Belinda took the pen. "Dipper or Stan?" she asked.
"Um—How about Mason? That's actually my real first name."
"So be it." In an aesthetic copperplate handwriting, she wrote on the title page
To Mason—May your adventures in Gravity Falls always end happily ever after! All best wishes from your fellow writer—Grahame
She passed the book to her husband, who finished the name —Gartner, at ComicsCon, 9/21/18
"Let that dry before you close the book," he advised.
"Thanks," Dipper said. "The handwriting matches!"
"We had to create a special style for Grahame," Belinda said. "Wayne found an old textbook on penmanship—they used to teach that, you know—and we liked the copperplate script. Now it would take an expert to say whether he or I autographed any given book."
"I think if I set out to be a forger," Wayne said, "I could create a mock Charles Dickens manuscript!"
"Here, let's add something," Belinda said. "Dipper, you're sworn to secrecy, mind." Under the inscription, she added, Given to Dipper Pines by Belinda Southern and passed it back to Wayne, who added, and Wayne Southern. This time their penmanship was different. "That's the way we write when we're not Grahame," Wayne said, capping his pen.
"I won't tell anyone who Belinda and Wayne are," Dipper said. "Thanks—and I'm honored."
"Stay humble, young man," Wayne advised.
"And sincerity counts when you deal with your fans," Belinda said.
"So learn to fake that and you've got it made," Wayne finished.
It was probably a joke the two had used dozens of times, but it still put Dipper in a great mood.
Of course, that was early in the morning. He didn't have any way of knowing what was waiting to pounce a little later on.