The Book Con Disasters

Apparently, I’ve dodged my second con disaster through pure serendipity. I paid in 2024 for A Million Lives. A seemingly well organized book convention in Baltimore, Maryland. But time reveals all & it was far from it.

Ancestors was on top of it giving me a better opportunity, didn’t even light a candle this time. Maybe they just knew I couldn’t afford a suitcase full of bookmarks and trauma.

Lately, my book con scene has been feeling more like a Greek tragedy staged in a mall food court. There are several events—yes, plural—that promised "career-changing exposure," "incredible networking," and "VIP reader experiences." And what did attendees get instead? Dusty folding chairs, no-shows, logistical black holes, and enough miscommunication to make Mercury go retrograde out of spite.

Now look, I’m not here to drag event organizers just for the vibes. I know there are reputable conventions who do an amazing job & putting together a convention is hard work. But there's a difference between a passionate team hitting speed bumps and someone building a pyramid scheme out of tote bags and hope. The recent cons that fell apart didn’t just drop the ball—they launched it into another dimension, left a bunch of indie authors scrambling, and scorched the trust of readers and vendors alike. RTD, A Million Lives and others.

Why This Matters (and Why I’m Pissed)

Every time an event fails spectacularly, it casts a long, ugly shadow on the ones trying to do things right. There are incredible up-and-coming cons out there—run by genuine book lovers, folks who over-communicate, pay their guests, and don’t run off with vendor fees like some kind of literary Tinder Swindler. But thanks to these disasters, new or smaller cons now face suspicion before the RSVP page even loads.

And for those of us in the indie trenches? It hits harder.

We don’t have massive marketing budgets. We are the booth crew, the design team, and the social media strategist. So when a con goes bust, we don’t just lose exposure—we lose money, momentum, and months of prep time we’ll never get back.

Under-Promise. Over-Deliver. Repeat.

Honestly? The best cons I’ve attended weren’t flashy. They didn’t promise me seven-figure deals and a confetti cannon at check-in. What they did do was deliver what they said they would—and then some. A chair, a crowd, a working mic. Respectful communication. Clear schedules. A water bottle when I was running on vibes and caffeine.

You don’t have to break the internet to make a lasting impression. You just have to care.

If you're attending one (or deciding whether to):

Ask questions.

Look for reviews from real authors and readers.

And trust your gut—if something smells like burnt toast and broken dreams, it probably is.

And if you're like me, still trying to get your work into the hands of emotionally unhinged, feral bookworms without getting scammed—stay the course. Our readers are out there. We’ll find them, with or without the badge.