Personal Interlude: “Spicing The Variety of Life”

Modest Proposals For Dragging Literary Conventions Out Of the Twentieth Century, Part 2

(Remember how, in the days of standard episodic television before streaming and binging, many dramas and some comedies would give a thumbnail update starting with “Previously on…”, flashing scenes so fast that people starting midway through a season or story were more confused than before? Well, that’s what this newsletter is like. Look at these as regular updates of how the sausage is made, with what, and whether or not the staff washed their hands after they used the toilet. Or, worse, if they only washed their hands before using the toilet.)

SIGNAL BEGINS

(If you missed Part 1, here you go.)

In the final analysis, it’s all about economics.

A few days ago, an acquaintance (I don’t know him enough to call him “friend,” and I respect him too much to make the presumption) posted a bit about a literary convention that struck me. Specifically, he noted that while he was contacted by this litcon about being a guest, he wasn’t scheduled for any panels, so he decided to skip out on the convention. If this made any sense to you, congrats: you’re familiar with how litcons have run, essentially, since they started in the first half of the Twentieth Century. If this reads like “mambo hamster go booshky,” hang on for a minute, and we’ll get you up to speed.

Pretty much since the first WorldCon in 1939, literary conventions of all sorts run and ran on the same formula. Science fiction, mystery, romance, pulp, cyberpunk and steampunk (at least back when both terms referred to literary genres and not to costuming trends): all had a basic plan. Namely, a convention started with a staff that decided “Hey, let’s put on a show!”, and they organized to figure out where and when and under what circumstances. The overwhelming majority end up in hotels or convention centers, so it’s a matter of figuring out how much it costs to rent the space based on the preferred date. Some conventions run for only one day, based on the subject and the budget, but others run for at least a three-day weekend and some run for as much as the greater part of a week. Most hotels offer a deal on hall and room space based on the number of people who pay for a specified number of hotel rooms, what’s referred to as “block,” and the chase is on to provide reasons for potential attendees to pay for a room and pay attendance to show up. This includes inviting and organizing guests generally tied the the subject of the convention, preferably ones with a large enough fan base that their fans are willing to pay to show up, and then scheduling events utilizing guests, attendees, and members of the general public who decide “You know, based on the subject/guest list/date, I’m intrigued enough to loosen my lobster-like grip on my available disposable income.” Some of those guests have speaking fees or other expenses, such as plane fare or hotel rooms, covered by the convention (as a general rule, guest admission is already covered as a condition of their attendance), and other aspects of the show, such as video screens and wifi for the staff, need to be covered as well. Another source of convention revenue involves dealer rooms, where vendors carrying potentially connected merchandise have the opportunity to sell their wares to attendees, guests, and staff. If everything works out well, the convention opens on the scheduled date to great acclaim, with attendees significantly outnumbering guests and staff, events run on schedule and without issue, and enthusiastic vendors find equally enthusiastic customers willing to exchange currency for goods and services. By the end of the convention, everybody clears out and goes home, feeling satisfied that the experience was worth the time and energy expenditure, and the convention staff may or may not, based on the response, start to make plans for the next one.

Other issues: Some conventions are one-time events never to be replicated, while others have been running for decades and may continue to run until Earth’s sun burns out and goes cold. Some, such as the World Science Fiction Convention, run in a different city each year, with committees making bids for potential locales to be voted upon by previous attendees. Others are associated with specific cities or venues and only switch locations if changing situations make it impossible to stay, such as the purchase of a hotel by a new chain, a hotel renovation, or the closing and replacement of a convention center (something happening more and more often these days). Some run for years but shut down deliberately when the attendee or vendor numbers drop below a certain level, and a lot gradually fade out as the only people attending are long-time fans and those long-time fans either can’t make the trip any more or die. Many conventions shut down when the main organizers run afoul of the law, but not always, and many conventions shut down simply because the demand wasn’t there. Simple bad timing is a factor, too: I was once at a convention in New Orleans where a massive storm system blew in on Thursday and didn’t leave until the next Monday, keeping locals from getting to the hotel and out-of-town guests from leaving for the entire weekend. Tastes and styles change, attendees start families and no longer have time for conventions until their children are older, others die or find themselves in medical arrears that prevent them from traveling…the list goes on.

Back to the beginning of this essay, though, a big factor in most cons is that they’re run by and for fans of the particular genre. Some of those fans may be organizational and financial geniuses. Some may be complete incompetents. Most, though, are run by people for whom fame and fortune is secondary to having a great experience for everybody. As such, they’re balancing knives dealing with attendee demands, guest demands, and vendor demands, which don’t always mesh. You have conventions run by people who were perfectly happy with the way cons were run in the 1970s and have no interest in changing, and you have conventions run by people who desperately want to change how their shows run but know that any change whatsoever will infuriate the long-timers. In some cases, change is only possible when everyone keeping the equilibrium going are dead, and some of those cusses will hang on for decades and refuse to let anybody else get a say. And as always, so many of the biggest complainers about change, pro or con, are people who will never put in any investment, in time or money, but expect instant acquiescence to their views “or else I’ll never come there.” Oh, yeah, and then there’s the longterm financial situation, with conventions that survive long past their sell-by date because of staffers or interested bystanders subsidizing the operation, maxed-out credit cards and loans, or windfalls that may or may not last, just waiting for one perfect storm of economic news to go under forever.

And then there’s the guest situation. For many attendees to a new or established convention, merely spending a weekend with like-minded fellow travelers is reason enough to go. With many, the guests are working professionals for whom the convention is vital promotion for upcoming or recently released projects, and as much as they’d love to attend for fun, they’re trying to reach as many new readers, viewers, or listeners as they can in the time allotted. For others, the dream is to be or do something that gets them a guest badge: even if it has no inherent value otherwise, it’s all about “But I’m a GUEST.” They’re all in a scenario where only a limited number of speaking spaces, both solo and on panels, are available in a roughly 72-hour period, and an even more limited number of spaces in prime locations and times. Nobody wants the solid block first thing on Friday afternoon when most attendees won’t be arriving until later that evening, they don’t want the space opposite the Big Name Guest who commands full amphitheaters and where the guest’s own friends have to choose their entertainment, and they sure as hell won’t want the space early on Sunday morning when everyone’s still asleep or hung over or the space at the end of the show when most of the attendees are on their way home. They may not like it, but SOMEbody has to take it. Finding either that the only scheduled time is one where they’d have a larger audience by reading their latest book on their front lawn to the crows and cats, or that they don’t have a space at all (I was once invited to a convention where I arrived to discover that one of the staff “forgot” to include most of the guests in events and panels, and where the convention committee chair told me “Oh, just look through the schedule and crash any panel you want”), there’s not much of an incentive to go in the first place.

You can see where this is heading. Even with successful conventions, eventually the Law of Diminishing Returns kicks in. Guests get bummed that they aren’t getting noticed and start skipping if they aren’t getting speaking fees. Attendees get bummed at the ever-decreasing guest list and stay home. Vendors get bummed at decreasing sales because of diminishing attendee and guest numbers and either stay home or find other shows. Eventually conventions can shrink to an equilibrium, but with absolutely no reason for more than a few new attendees to come out every year, and that’s aggravated by longtime staff and attendees who tolerate the newbies only because now someone else is paying for the beer. Most of the time, though, the convention passes that equilibrium point and goes beyond, and it’s a question of whether the con has one last celebration before shutting down or things go so toxic that participants only talk to each other through legal representatives.

I’m the first to admit that I don’t have some surefire copyrighted and patented way to reverse the current decline of litcons. As mentioned in the last installment, these things tend to run in a cycle, and sometimes the field has to go through a complete dissolution before something new can sprout from the decay. That said, though, when enterprising convention organizers are ready to take a chance on new shows, those with an edge are going to be the ones who change the whole milieu, and it’s when things are collapsing that everyone is free to make plans for rebuilding. We’ll talk about that next time.

SIGNAL ENDS

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