This year’s New York Comic Con was a genuinely odd one. It was, curiously, unusually busy — I found myself working far more than at previous NYCCs, and for far longer, and I’m genuinely unsure how that happened: the first two days of the show, I worked 18 and 16 hour days, respectively, and filed somewhere in the region of 20 stories (and some graphics for the THR newsletter, too). All of this while recovering from being sick. Looking back, I’m not entirely sure how I did it.
Admittedly, when I say “I worked” those hours, not all of it was writing — it includes the being at the show aspect, the talking to people parts, the whole convention experience that is this indefinable thing that is certainly not not work, for all the fun that it might be. This year, all of that was… strange, is really the best way to put it.
For one thing, I feel like I barely saw the show — I was so busy on the first day that I really didn’t, I missed the show floor almost entirely outside of saying hello to a friend and doing an interview, and I didn’t make it to Artist’s Alley at all until a quick walkthrough on the second day. But throughout the whole thing, the convention center was so off-puttingly busy that I felt claustrophobic and grumpy the entire time I was there: Why is there a line for everything? Who are all these people who can’t walk more than three paces without needing to stop for no discernible reason and why are they exactly in front of me?
I also managed to fail to see almost everyone I knew there, somehow. Part of it was my schedule and workload — traditionally, I overwork at NYCC, being one of the few THR people there, and this year all the more so, without meaning to — but that added to my feeling of disconnect and discomfort, as well. It was a strange year, and I’m left unsure if it was me or the show, and either way, whether or not I want to return next year.