Imagine getting dressed up in your finest for a fantasy-themed ball, only to find yourself standing on the concrete floor of a massive, nearly empty convention hall, decorated only with a few rose petals.
Welcome to A Million Lives Book Festival. What was billed as a romantasy BookTok convention for indie authors and book fans is now being compared to infamous event flops like Fyre Festival and DashCon, after a flood of social media posts from attendees painted a picture of a confusing and disappointing event.
Some authors say they’re out thousands of dollars after carting books and merchandise to Baltimore, Md., for the event, which was held May 2 to 3 at the Baltimore Convention Center, and not being able to recoup the costs.
Pitched as “the perfect event to make more bookish friends” on organizer Archer Management’s website, the festival was supposed to include a vendor hall, panels, a content creation room, cosplay meetups and a competition, as well as a fantasy ball for those who bought VIP tickets at $250 US each.
But although numerous authors say they were told 500 tickets were sold, they reported being greeted with fewer guests than authors, and a barren convention hall instead of the promised ball.
Perci Jay, who writes romance and fantasy books, called it “the Willy Wonka experience but with books,” in a TikTok, referring to the 2024 Glasgow event that caused a stir after its real-life warehouse location failed to live up to the AI images used to advertise it.
“I flew out for this,” the author, who is from Texas, said. “I planned my pregnancy around this event like a clown.”
Organizer apologizes for event’s issues
Grace Willows, the organizer behind Archer Management, posted a video statement through her event planning company’s TikTok page on the weekend, apologizing for the ball being “not set up to standards.”
“If you would like a refund, please contact me and I will issue you a refund immediately,” she said.
Archer Management, also known as Archer Fantasy Events, has since apologized for the entire event and stated that refunds are being processed automatically.
After confirming receipt of CBC News’s request for comment, Archer shared a new statement on TikTok on Tuesday evening. It has not responded to further requests for comment.
“We take full responsibility for the way that AML was handled,” the latest statement reads, with a remix of Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit playing in the background.
“We are doing refunds for every attendee, author and vendor. We are also canceling all of our future events and will be processing refunds for those as well.”
Inside the Fyre Fest of romantasy
Across numerous TikTok posts, authors and attendees allege that the event had problems from the beginning. Issues ranged from panels starting late to authors not being given badges and the promised swag bags not being delivered.
One panel on audiobooks took place with panelists and attendees all seated on the carpet — there were no chairs designated for the panel, narrator Carmen Seantel said in a TikTok post.
More than 100 authors, vendors and audiobook narrators were listed as attending on Archer Management’s website. Authors paid a $150 US table fee, while tickets for attendees ranged from $50 US to $250 US, with only the priciest tier providing entrance to the fantasy ball.
Only around 30 people came through the vendor hall on the first day, Jay said in her TikTok. And while the first day was exclusive to VIP ticket holders, the second day wasn’t much busier, according to Jay, who estimates around 80 guests showed up. The promised “content creation room” was an empty conference room, and closed on Saturday.
But the biggest disappointment for attendees was the fantasy ball.
A largely empty, grey room
Attendees found themselves stranded in a massive, grey room, barren except for a few long tables with fake rose petals scattered on top. There was a cash bar, a small table with desserts and a single Bluetooth speaker propped on a chair to play music — far from the opulence that the price tag promised.
“People showed up, dressed to impress, tried to make the best of it,” author Stephanie Combs said in a TikTok post, adding that she felt bad for people who had flown in.
One influencer invited to the event, Azthia Bookwyrm, said on TikTok that she had travelled from Spain to attend.
For author Kalista Neith, the ball was the last straw.
In a series of TikToks, she said she had been invited 18 months ago as a featured author for the event. The organizer had promised to put these authors up at a nearby Hilton hotel, but Neith said this was changed just days before the event to the Days Inn across the street.
Indie authors expect some business risk when attending in-person conventions, Neith said on TikTok. It was only after the ball that she felt compelled to share her experience online, and apologize to those who bought tickets to the event after she had advertised that she would be there.
“For my readers to spend money on an event and this ball, and having to walk into that, that is unacceptable,” she said.
“As an author, all we have is the readers’ trust.”
‘We did not sell much of anything’
The popularity of the “romantasy” sub-genre, along with online communities like BookTok, has meant more of these conventions cropping up to provide opportunities for indie authors to meet their peers and readers in person. But authors have to print their own books in the hopes that they’ll make enough sales to make it worth it.
“When you are an indie author, you pay for everything yourself upfront, and only if you do events like this can you finally recoup the cost,” Jay said.
“People are thousands of dollars in debt because of the lies and the false promises and the mismanagement.”
Sales were minimal for authors like Caitlin Burkhart, who publishes under the name C.A. Burkhart.
“We did bring physical copies to this event, and we did not sell much of anything, really,” she said on TikTok. Only days earlier, she had been excitedly posting the times she would be signing books during the event.
But the festival kept at least one promise: fostering friendships. Authors have since banded together to boost the work of their peers who’d tabled the event.
“I just wish it was a meet-up and not a paid thing that we all lost money on,” Burkhart said.
