Home Again, Home Again
Home from Dragon*Con as of this Monday, but life has been, as usual, too hectic for a moment’s rest. That, and the entire house is sick one way or another here. So I’m only now just getting down to reflect on the last weekend.
General consensus is that I don’t know if I’m cut out for Dragon*Con in the long run. There are just too many people, events are too disorganized, and just getting from one hotel to another is a tour de force. The most wonderful moments I had were spending time with friends and other writers (including a very memorable nightcap atop a rotating bar with Ann and Jeff VanderMeer, the delightful Laura Anne Gilman, and my husband… we talked about publishing, licking
frogs toads, and other craziness…) But my suspicion is that sort of thing can be done at other conventions where I don’t have to wade through a sea of sticky flesh to get there.
Don’t get me wrong. I love the spirit of Dragon*Con. I love that people can go and express themselves and not be judged. I just came to the conclusion that well, a) I’m not a costumer and b) I’m not that huge of a “fan” I guess. Most of my idols (if you call them that) are writers and, luckily, I’ve met quite a few of those I really, truly admire. More than anything I want to focus my convention going on writerly events, or at least conventions with a more intimate and immersive writing track (not to say I didn’t experience any good writing panels, I totally did; but the rest of the convention definitely got in the way!).
At any rate. Next year will be WorldCon for sure. I can’t pass up Chicago!
Other than the travels and the sickness there has been very little excitement in the Writing Realm save for the anticipation now that I have sent out books for blurbage. Scary. The book is out in a few months, and I’m feeling anxious. Which I’m told is totally natural, and doesn’t really go away even with subsequent publications.
I have a few posts in mind for the coming weeks including my new thoughts on steampunk, writing when it’s hard, and a revisited discussion of social media and the writer’s life. So stay tuned!
Oh! One more thing. I stumbled upon an old pile of short stories and fragments today while digging through to find “Blue Heron” (a real science fiction story I wrote… which is still hilarious to me) and discovered this little fragment I have no real recollection of writing. But I like the tone, and it has wolves. So I thought I’d share. I honestly have no idea where I was going with it, but I kind of like it. It’s titled “Meander” and is just the beginning of something.
It always starts with thunder, doesn’t it? Atmosphere. The convalescence of sight and sound, the air itself charged and everything rumbling, rumbling, away toward the mountains. Without such a backdrop the story loses some of its power, falters when the imagination cannot rightfully escape the mundane, the steely constraints of our reality.
So I start that way. I tell them about the thunder.
The littlest pups are afraid, even without mention of stranger tides. The weather is enough to frighten them, to remind them of nights huddled together in the cave, the wind and rain lashing against the rocks, light illuminating our eyes with each and every flash.
We are wolves, and we have many stories to tell. I am the wolfteller, and so I begin.
Daja buries her muzzle in her sister’s side, and Old Hide licks his teeth knowingly. He knows this story well.
I am the wolfteller, and I remember when Old Hide was just Hide, named for his propensity toward doing just that. Now his muzzle is white, and he has sired six generations.
But I am still young. The stories keep me so.
Just as I begin again, Daja interrupts. The fear has ebbed away, and she is finding her courage to speak; it will serve her well, someday.