#yougeteven

SEND ME A FANDOM AND I’LL TELL YOU A CHARACTER                 I’D ROLEPLAY FROM THAT FANDOM.

                  mary flynn is an introvert. you wouldn’t be able to tell it by                   the inexplicable charm she pulls out of her ass when necessary,                   but people make her tired. specifically rich people, and teenagers,                   and her slowly-dying fanbase. it’s why, five years ago, she                   always sort of dreaded book signings. they were exciting; she                   loved the idea that so many people loved what she had written,                   but she hated the interactions. rapid fire, one after another.                   hundreds and hundreds of excited people with high expectations,                   in immediate succession. and she, in her big, plastic glasses,                   signing and chatting and putting on a show, and worrying that                   everything that could go wrong was going to go wrong. she would                   joke, shakily, after the fact, that she needed a drink. but it was                   only ever a joke. mary flynn at twenty-six didn’t drink.

                  mary flynn at thirty-one, however, is practically an entirely                   different person. people don’t come to her book signings                   anymore. she isn’t a bestseller anymore. her book is five                   years old, and there are bigger and better things on the                   market for readers to drool over. all that are left are her die-hards:                   a group of twenty or thirty fans she seems to see everywhere,                   hovering over her like a reminder -- you used to be a writer,                   mary. what ever happened to that? they’re why she dreads                   book signings now. not because of the anxiety that comes with                   having hundreds of fans, but because of the nostalgia that                   comes with having just a few. as yet another dreary event                   comes to an awfully uneventful end, mary flynn thinks,                   i need a drink. and then, but i really shouldn’t --                   and then, who’ll one glass of wine hurt? because, as much as                   she likes to ignore the fact, mary flynn at thirty-one does drink.                   and she’s starting to drink quite a lot.