Between Plane Rides...

April 21

Holy crap! Today I got invited to the next Rio Hondo writing workshop! (If you don't know what that is, look here.) Great writers, great food... yum. Altogether yum.

This rules. Even if it does come at a crappy time in the A Certain Magazine production schedule (second week in June). I talked to my co-workers today, though, and they say I can take the week off, though it'll make everyone have to work harder. They're good to me... I talked to Heather about it, too, and she's okay with it, though she'll miss me -- we haven't spent even a night apart since I moved in with her. I need to look around online at airfares before I decide for sure, but I think it's doable, if I scrimp and save. Or sell another story or something. It's not all that expensive, not really, but I'm poor as a Brazilian church monkey...

And a Tropism Correction: John Betancourt wrote to say he's actually Junior Co-Publisher of Weird Tales, having purchased a minority interest, and is not the new owner. Mea culpa.

So. Whoo! Anyway. Con report.

Friday

We rose around 5 a.m., and got to the airport around 7:15. Brutal. We got on the plane -- it was a direct flight to Philadelphia, which was both good and bad. That's a long time to sit in a cramped airplane seat, y'all. I read Lansdale's Bad Chili almost all the way through, with a few breaks for napping and chatting and staring at the ceiling. Twice-read Lansdale is good plane reading -- it moves fast, and it's engaging, and it doesn't require too much depth of attention. The guy in the window seat had a bladder the size of a chickpea, so there was lots of getting up-and-down. Vehicular misery, pretty much, but that's the way it is when you travel cross-country in coach...

We got to the airport, and with some difficulty found transportation; a shared-van deal to the hotel, sitting behind Howard Hendrix (and his impressively large hat) and Sheila Finch. They didn't recognize me, of course, and only my tenure at A Certain Magazine revealed their identities to me...

The Warwick is in the historic district of Philadelphia, and what little I saw of the area was beautiful. The trip to and from the airport was more interesting, really, with the scrapyards, ugly bridges, and decrepit houses. Pretty striking imagery, but I wouldn't want to live there. The hotel had a very nice lobby (is my sophistication showing?), all marble and such. My boss and various other folks I know were in the lobby, but I only managed to wave, since Heather and I were both jet-slagged. We checked in, and registered, and I got my fancy nominee badge with the green background. Heather and I sought dinner, and wound up at a cheapish corporate-but-cozy sandwich/coffee shop called Cosi. The roast turkey with brie sandwich wasn't bad, and the coffee perked me up a bit. Then we went to the evening gathering, the name of which escapes me, where Harry Harrison gave a funny speech about the origins of SFWA, and about SF writers getting drunk. Then Katherine Maclean talked about the old days, told anecdotes about Ted Sturgeon and L. Ron Hubbard, and about SF writers getting drunk. Then the nominees were read, and pins and certificates were given out; la. Have a Nebula-nominee lapel pin. Am v. impressive. I drank a little wine, and then Bob Metzger (nominee for his novel Picoverse) came over to tell me how much he'd liked "Little Gods"; that though he doesn't normally like fantasy at all, the story affected him; that he found himself thinking of the story at odd moments, like when walking into the kitchen, smelling spices. That meant more than hearing from dyed-in-the-wool contemporary fantasy fans who liked it, as you might imagine...

Heather and I went up to our room without much in the way of mingling (though lots of lovely people were there), because we were a bit worn out from traveling. Once in the room, though, we got our second winds, and enjoyed the novelty of a king-sized bed...

My dreams were of alienation, alternating with bawdy French farce in a seaside resort. Distinctly odd. Sleeping away from home always results in strange dreams.

Saturday

We rose and got lunch (at the same sandwich shop, because we're nothing if not creatures of habit, even newly-acquired habit, and also because the diner we originally tried to go to was full). From there we went to the mass signing, a fifteen minute walk past various parks, fountains, churches, statues. We even saw a nun! (They don't really have those where I'm from, or where Heather's from, for that matter.)

To be honest, I felt a bit out of my depth on Friday night. Everyone there was older than me, more established, more connected, more in-their-element. I felt like an imposter and an interloper (common feelings among artists, I know, I know; but still), like someone at a party with a bunch of people he barely knows. At Wiscon, or Worldcon, I have my peers -- the hotel bar gang, Susan's retinue, Ratbastards, Clarionites, people I'm comfortable with -- but none of those people, except Heather of course, was there at the Nebulas. And it was weird.

But at the mass signing, it was all better. Probably in part because I hadn't just spent five hours in an airplane. I chatted with Jim Morrow and Scott Edelman, my noble Clarion instructors. I was seated next to Michael Swanwick, and I didn't feel bad about all the people who came to get books signed by him -- because he's Michael Swanwick. Of course more people want to meet him than want to meet me! He was quite nice, funny, personable. And here's a picture, since I said there might be some. Me, most likely boring Michael Swanwick:

And a couple of total strangers bought copies of Floodwater! (As you should, too, if you haven't.) Heather talked to Andy Duncan, and then introduced me. Andy rules. He introduced me to Shawna McCarthy, and I thanked her for basically paying for my trip to the Nebulas. I got to talk to Devi, the assistant at Warner Aspect, for a while -- after writing her e-mail on a more-or-less weekly basis for months and months, it was pleasant to meet her in person. We talked a bit about poetry, which is our mutual first love.

And then who should I see but my Clarion classmate Fred Ollinger. Fred always makes me feel artificial, constricted by social niceties, banal -- he has a serious intensity about him. Within seconds, Fred was engaging me in a conversation with real depths, and I realized how much time I spend (most of us spend) in simple pleasantries that utterly lack content. He gave me his e-mail address (and bought a copy of Floodwater). It was good seeing him.

I stayed for the whole mass signing, which I hadn't expected to do; I had a blast. Then we ambled back, took pictures of various statues and such for use in future issues of Flytrap. (Heather took the pictures; she's a good photographer.)

We ran into my executive editor, Jenni, in the lobby of the hotel, and stood talking with her for a while; Andy Duncan joined us. We all sat down and talked. Then the agent Jenni was waiting to meet arrived, and Jenni kindly introduced me. Heather and Andy and I talked some more, and when Andy asked us how we'd met, we regaled him with the comic-opera version of the origin of our relationship...

Then Neil Gaiman and his daughter came into the lobby, and since they didn't appear to be in a hurry to get anywhere and (remarkably) didn't have a throng around them, I took Heather over and introduced her. Neil, being the consummate gentleman that he is, had a nice conversation with us; his daughter is charming, too. (On a tangentially-related note, I got to bring home a galley of Endless Nights today -- only three of the seven stories are there, and the color isn't even finished on one of them, but, wow. The Death story in particular is marvelous, and the one about Despair is wrenching)

Then back to chat with Andy, until it was time to see Phil Klass speak. He's a great raconteur, and gave more history of SF, very funny, largely about SF writers getting drunk (I began to feel an obligation to get soused, though I don't think I even got a buzz during the weekend.)

And then... Heather and I got all dressed up! We looked good. We went down to the reception, where my boss took pictures of us... and told me that he'd talked to an agent he knows about me. That may yet develop into something, but I'll forgo details for now... Heather and I mingled, and I was in an understandably good mood. Soon the banquet began. We sat with Mary-Theresa Hussey, who runs the new romantic fantasy line from Harlequin, Luna Books. We talked to her about that for a while -- she was very enthusiastic, very friendly. Made me wish I wrote romances -- especially since she said she wants her line to appeal to fantasy fans, and not be as formulaic as most romance is...

Dinner wasn't bad; far better than most hotel banquets I've endured. The awards were presented, beginning with short story, so at least my suspense was short-lived. People kept asking me all night if I was nervous, and I wasn't... until hearing the nominees read, and wondering "Is it possible? Could I...?" But, of course, I didn't, and I was able to relax completely after that.

The awards ceremony was brief, funny, altogether painless, and we got loads of free stuff (including a galley of Charles Stross's Singularity Sky, whee!). There was supposed to be dancing afterward, but they started playing bagpipe music, and everyone fled. Heather and I wound up in an elevator with John Joseph Adams (or JJA, as those he rejects know him), the assistant editor at F&SF. We spent a couple of hours in the hospitality suite with him, talking -- great fun. He's a marvelous guy. Kevin J. Anderson was there, and he introduced himself to me -- said he didn't think we'd ever met, but he certainly knew who I was. That was flattering. He joked that I shouldn't feel bad about losing the Nebula -- after all, he hadn't even been nominated. I offered to trade him my lapel pin for a portion of the advance for his next Dune prequel, but he graciously declined.

Around 1:30 Heather and I decided we should sleep, so we did.

Sunday

We sought breakfast, and wound up in that same cursed sandwich shop after 20 minutes of looking for an alternative. There were lots of brunch places, but we were pressed for time, so we grabbed sandwiches and coffee. Then we checked out of the hotel and took a cab to the airport. The philosophical cab driver told us about all the places he'd lived, which apparently encompassed the whole of the habitable Earth. On the plane I began The Portrait of Mrs. Charbuque by Jeffrey Ford (Heather bought it, and got him to sign it; I spoke to him briefly, but was too in awe of his talents to do more than mumble at him inarticulately). It's a great book, which is no surprise... We had a layover in Chicago. Heather took a picture of the dinosaur skeleton. We ate crappy food and got onto an enormous 777. I slept most of the way home, though I managed to scrawl a few pages of the Frog novel in the last hour.

And that's it. A whirlwind weeked. I'm glad I went, glad I lost in person, glad I got to meet the people I met and see the people I hadn't seen in a while. Wish I'd had another day or two to relax, though... I did feel like I was running flat-out the whole weekend, even though I spent most of the time sitting down (at speeches, banquet, etc.), and I wish we'd had time to explore local restaurants more thoroughly. I hate that we went to Philadelphia and I didn't even get a cheesesteak. There will be other opportunities, I suppose...

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