I am learning that I am utter pants at estimating the wordage it will take to cover some chunk of plot. Pathetic is what. In April, when I was coming up on 105k, I thought I might be finished with another 10-15k. Now I'm nudging 140k, and losing hope that I'll be done at 150k. 160?
Griffin joining King Charles's ill-thought-out excursion of the second war against the Scots? I figured that would take up maybe 10k, a chapter and a half, maybe another 5k, tops, to get him back home.
What did it take? 30k, not counting the getting home part.
Lately I've been filling in Alice's storyline, and needed to set up the fellow she eventually marries, a thatcher. So I went back to the fenland riots and gave him the task of getting the sedge-loaded barge up to the sluice gates and burning them down. A couple of paragraphs should have done that, right?
But when I'm there with him, hearing the sedge burn, smelling the smoke and the wet wood of the gates, I realise that it couldn't have been that easy, and that the barge has to (magically) move to block his escape. He has to make it out of course, to marry Alice, but it couldn't have been that simple.
Ah, it's the coastline paradox in action. Beforehand, the distance to be traversed looks fairly smooth and simple. But when I'm on the ground, looking around, that wiggly-but-mostly-straight line turns out to be deep-cut zig-zags of little coves and beaches and ravines and inlets. How far inland should I follow an inlet before I decide that I've lost the coast? How far out should I follow a promontory before I risk getting cut off by the tide?
How closely should I follow the coast?
I imagine it as the coast one gets here in the Pacific Northwest, trees to the land's edge, crumbling rocks, crunching barnacles and slippery kelp, skimpy little beaches reachable only from the water. And somehow I have to traverse it before the end of the month, because in August I'm off to Pennsylvania for 3 weeks.
I wonder if there's a Search & Rescue operation for writers?
Showing posts with label endings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label endings. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Viable Paradise, all done
Saturday.
It's over. I'm in the Montreal airport beside the phones in waiting lounge 11, with a couple of hours to go. Then 5 hours in a plane and I'll be in Vancouver, and Mark will pick me up.
I want to go online, and gush about everything to the Furtive Scribblers. But I must possess my soul in patience, as they once said. I won't be home and online until tomorrow, and even then it will depend whether my hard-drive is really dead. Feeling more uncertain about calling M--. I mean, I will, eventually, but the subject of writing and workshops is so uncertain between us, and although she's told me that she's grown out of being jealous of others' successes, that isn't the same as actually being able to be pleased on someone else's account.
Last night was tearful farewells and partying. I sat in Scott's room and chatted with whoever washed up next to me, which was ... Dave, Diane, Scott, and Terri, who have been in crit sessions with me, Jim Kelly, and Dru and Erin, whom I hadn't had any sessions with and didn't know very well even yet. Erin was the one who warned Evelyn and me about needing sponges in the kitchen. Dru is another in the Dave Foley ecological niche, but dresses more casually than Bart, and is less deadpan. Mac sat in the armchair, looking both regal and tipsy, and asked random penetrating questions. Haven't said anything about Mac, have I? Short blonde hair, boyish, wears shorts and sandals all the time, slightly weather-beaten, makes me think of the Wandervogeln in 1920s(?) Europe, or perhaps Snufkin from the Moomintroll books (though she doesn't have Snufkin's hat). During a discussion of people-who-had-influenced-one, she mentioned a highschool librarian, Mr. MacAllister, who'd been a mentor to her, and my brain went ping and I said 'That's why you're named MacAllister, then?' I remembered Mr. Basowitz, the librarian in senior high who'd been so supportive of my hiding in the library all the time. Not quite so fruitful for naming purposes, but a cool guy. After I moved away in grade 12, he sent me a recording of Faust, out of the blue.
While I was repacking my sports-bag last night (a bit pointlessly, as I'd have to fit my pajamas in the next morning anyways) Diane came in and told me that Teresa and other instructors had joined us, and that I might want to come back and hang out. Which was really nice of her--I wonder if she knew of my TNH-awe? So I buzzed back and sat on the bed with Nicole and listened to people talking until the need for sleep overcame me. TNH was sitting on the bed with her back against the wall and legs stretched out, very relaxed. Zak was chatting with her about graphic novels and printing techniques. Gradually other technically-inclined people drifted over and the discussion went over my head, though I may have become more informed about printing despite myself, just via osmosis. There were some drinks being made, but since I'd already had a couple of glasses of red wine and my has-served-me-well personal rule is to not mix the grape and the grain, I didn't indulge. Other people did, and there were some loud conversations going on about the time I stumbled off to my bed.
The morning had that dislocated feeling of departures waiting to happen. I got my repacking repacked, having thinned down my pile of manuscript pages to those with comments on them--except for the copies reviewed by Cory Doctorow, Debra Doyle, and TNH, which I'm keeping entire for their apotropaic value. I felt bad leaving good-one-side paper behind, since at home I collect it for use in our home printer, but Jim Kelly was quite right, if you're trying to travel light, cut down on the paper.
I deposited my little heap of luggage (one sports bag, one laptop bag, one accordion file) at the side of the driveway and hung out there for a while with the guys. Lucia came by and I followed her into the commons room for the sake of any goodbyes I might have missed giving. This meant I was able to thank Kate for her handholding when I was applying (where I dithered for a week about which story to apply with, made up two complete application packages, and then sent the one that didn't have the fee in it). She said comfortingly that I hadn't needed to worry after all, and that she'd heard good buzz among the instructors about my story (wonder what it would have been if I'd sent the other one, though?) I hope she and Jen like chocolate. I know almost everyone does, but it's still an assumption. Myself I prefer butterscotch, though I don't turn down any sweet thing other than marzipan (owing to an unfortunate incident in my childhood, which did not however involve a locked closet and two jars of honey).
I said some other goodbyes, and sat in the commons room for a while, but the out-of-place feeling was growing, perhaps because the Reunion was beginning for real, perhaps because I was mentally severing ties and setting my face forward. I feel that the Reunion is for those who've Done Something with their VP experience, and I haven't yet.
Then it was time to leave. Not from the Oak Bluff terminal, but the other one, and I was very glad that this was being overseen by Jen and not by me, because I would have dithered. Jen is slender, dark-haired, and possessed of an air of terrifying efficiency, even for those things occupying only a fraction of her attention. She does in-depth travelogue interspersed with scathing social commentary while organising these things--if she were a Hindu goddess, she'd have more arms than Kali. I don't know whether she'd go for the belt of severed heads. It might depend who was annoying her at the time.
Erin and I ended up on the same departing ferry and bus, though she was being met by her husband at the airport, and I was looking forward to another several hours in transit. We chatted on the ferry, about husbands and pets and how to fit writing time in with one's regular life.
Emily was on the same bus, unexpectedly. Emily is quite beautiful, with thick black hair, and dresses in jeans and sneakers like a model going incognito to the laundromat. She had a sort of circle of silence around her, even when she contributed something during colloquia, as if she were a holographic projection and not actually present.
Not going to talk about the airports. Gah and double gah. I've taken my shoes off so many times I don't know why I bother tying them. And I'm tired of nobody looking at my face, so that I can't tell whether they're talking to me or not. Gah.
Think of nice things. Uncle Jim cooking pancakes and explaining the Boskone / Arisia split. Mur explaining how to do the staff tip for the hotel (something I've never known about because I so rarely stay in hotels). The view off the balcony, across the fields. Funny little Queen Anne houses in Oak Bluff. Sitting with Eleanor in the living room, both of us tapping away at our laptops. Mur bubbling over about interviewing Cory and Jim Kelly. Sitting in Scott's room, chatting with him and Mac.
I wonder how long it will take for all of this to settle?
It's over. I'm in the Montreal airport beside the phones in waiting lounge 11, with a couple of hours to go. Then 5 hours in a plane and I'll be in Vancouver, and Mark will pick me up.
I want to go online, and gush about everything to the Furtive Scribblers. But I must possess my soul in patience, as they once said. I won't be home and online until tomorrow, and even then it will depend whether my hard-drive is really dead. Feeling more uncertain about calling M--. I mean, I will, eventually, but the subject of writing and workshops is so uncertain between us, and although she's told me that she's grown out of being jealous of others' successes, that isn't the same as actually being able to be pleased on someone else's account.
Last night was tearful farewells and partying. I sat in Scott's room and chatted with whoever washed up next to me, which was ... Dave, Diane, Scott, and Terri, who have been in crit sessions with me, Jim Kelly, and Dru and Erin, whom I hadn't had any sessions with and didn't know very well even yet. Erin was the one who warned Evelyn and me about needing sponges in the kitchen. Dru is another in the Dave Foley ecological niche, but dresses more casually than Bart, and is less deadpan. Mac sat in the armchair, looking both regal and tipsy, and asked random penetrating questions. Haven't said anything about Mac, have I? Short blonde hair, boyish, wears shorts and sandals all the time, slightly weather-beaten, makes me think of the Wandervogeln in 1920s(?) Europe, or perhaps Snufkin from the Moomintroll books (though she doesn't have Snufkin's hat). During a discussion of people-who-had-influenced-one, she mentioned a highschool librarian, Mr. MacAllister, who'd been a mentor to her, and my brain went ping and I said 'That's why you're named MacAllister, then?' I remembered Mr. Basowitz, the librarian in senior high who'd been so supportive of my hiding in the library all the time. Not quite so fruitful for naming purposes, but a cool guy. After I moved away in grade 12, he sent me a recording of Faust, out of the blue.
While I was repacking my sports-bag last night (a bit pointlessly, as I'd have to fit my pajamas in the next morning anyways) Diane came in and told me that Teresa and other instructors had joined us, and that I might want to come back and hang out. Which was really nice of her--I wonder if she knew of my TNH-awe? So I buzzed back and sat on the bed with Nicole and listened to people talking until the need for sleep overcame me. TNH was sitting on the bed with her back against the wall and legs stretched out, very relaxed. Zak was chatting with her about graphic novels and printing techniques. Gradually other technically-inclined people drifted over and the discussion went over my head, though I may have become more informed about printing despite myself, just via osmosis. There were some drinks being made, but since I'd already had a couple of glasses of red wine and my has-served-me-well personal rule is to not mix the grape and the grain, I didn't indulge. Other people did, and there were some loud conversations going on about the time I stumbled off to my bed.
The morning had that dislocated feeling of departures waiting to happen. I got my repacking repacked, having thinned down my pile of manuscript pages to those with comments on them--except for the copies reviewed by Cory Doctorow, Debra Doyle, and TNH, which I'm keeping entire for their apotropaic value. I felt bad leaving good-one-side paper behind, since at home I collect it for use in our home printer, but Jim Kelly was quite right, if you're trying to travel light, cut down on the paper.
I deposited my little heap of luggage (one sports bag, one laptop bag, one accordion file) at the side of the driveway and hung out there for a while with the guys. Lucia came by and I followed her into the commons room for the sake of any goodbyes I might have missed giving. This meant I was able to thank Kate for her handholding when I was applying (where I dithered for a week about which story to apply with, made up two complete application packages, and then sent the one that didn't have the fee in it). She said comfortingly that I hadn't needed to worry after all, and that she'd heard good buzz among the instructors about my story (wonder what it would have been if I'd sent the other one, though?) I hope she and Jen like chocolate. I know almost everyone does, but it's still an assumption. Myself I prefer butterscotch, though I don't turn down any sweet thing other than marzipan (owing to an unfortunate incident in my childhood, which did not however involve a locked closet and two jars of honey).
I said some other goodbyes, and sat in the commons room for a while, but the out-of-place feeling was growing, perhaps because the Reunion was beginning for real, perhaps because I was mentally severing ties and setting my face forward. I feel that the Reunion is for those who've Done Something with their VP experience, and I haven't yet.
Then it was time to leave. Not from the Oak Bluff terminal, but the other one, and I was very glad that this was being overseen by Jen and not by me, because I would have dithered. Jen is slender, dark-haired, and possessed of an air of terrifying efficiency, even for those things occupying only a fraction of her attention. She does in-depth travelogue interspersed with scathing social commentary while organising these things--if she were a Hindu goddess, she'd have more arms than Kali. I don't know whether she'd go for the belt of severed heads. It might depend who was annoying her at the time.
Erin and I ended up on the same departing ferry and bus, though she was being met by her husband at the airport, and I was looking forward to another several hours in transit. We chatted on the ferry, about husbands and pets and how to fit writing time in with one's regular life.
Emily was on the same bus, unexpectedly. Emily is quite beautiful, with thick black hair, and dresses in jeans and sneakers like a model going incognito to the laundromat. She had a sort of circle of silence around her, even when she contributed something during colloquia, as if she were a holographic projection and not actually present.
Not going to talk about the airports. Gah and double gah. I've taken my shoes off so many times I don't know why I bother tying them. And I'm tired of nobody looking at my face, so that I can't tell whether they're talking to me or not. Gah.
Think of nice things. Uncle Jim cooking pancakes and explaining the Boskone / Arisia split. Mur explaining how to do the staff tip for the hotel (something I've never known about because I so rarely stay in hotels). The view off the balcony, across the fields. Funny little Queen Anne houses in Oak Bluff. Sitting with Eleanor in the living room, both of us tapping away at our laptops. Mur bubbling over about interviewing Cory and Jim Kelly. Sitting in Scott's room, chatting with him and Mac.
I wonder how long it will take for all of this to settle?
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Viable Paradise, day six
Friday.
It's almost over. I feel as if I've been here two weeks, or a month, so much has happened, so much has been learned and experienced. While I want to be home, and to work on my book, I also want to stay, and to get to know these people even better, to read everyone's work, to hang out and talk about what we want to do, what we want to write, who we are.
Diane gave me a poem, one written by a Sufi master, about the vintage man, and said it fit me, and that I was a very genuine person. I'm so touched by that, and abashed, because I don't think of myself as genuine so much as careful. But perhaps careful is more important. I fight against sincerity, because I've seen sincere people who were sincerely selfish and hurtful, so occupied with their own sincere and heartfelt feelings that they had no room to observe or allow for anyone else's. But perhaps genuine is not the same as sincere. And I do genuinely want to encourage people and to help them become better at whatever it is they want to do, without hurting them.
Open discussion in the common room--mostly I've left the colloquium notes in the peace and quiet of my notebook, but maybe I should run through some here, until it's time for food?
Morning was the last lecture, PNH on the state of publishing today. Started off with a history of paperbacks, the expansion of bookselling from 'the carriage trade' to the masses, and very interesting explanation of how it was the truckers who shipped the books who filled the racks in the drugstores and corner stores, which was why those racks held such a variety. Patchwork of tiny distributors all across N America, each knowing own territory intimately. As publishing conglomerated, so did distribution, and economy of scale demanded simplification. Thus supermarkets now carry bestsellers, multiple copies of a dozen titles, instead of a couple of copies of a multiplicity of titles. What's lost is the opportunity to reach the bright kid from a non-reading family, whose exposure to odd or genre fiction would have been while hanging out at the drugstore, etc. Possible loss of a generation of potential readers. (Will the internet change this? Lot of reading on there.)
Long break for lunch. I was going to walk into Oak Bluff, but Diane and Mur were driving in, along with Dave, so I decided why not. I'd already had a sandwich, so didn't bother with lunch, but did some shopping instead. Checked for unusual chips or candy bars (no luck) to bring back for Chris, got some pepper chips for me, took some pics of the insanely picturesque shops, most of which must have been made over from houses (front parlour window revised to shopfront window, so passers-by look in at the occupants rather than the traditional system), and ended up at a bookshop. The owner was repainting, so things were in mild disarray, and it smelled of paint, which is a smell I like. I got the latest Southern Vampire, hardcover, for half price, yay! and an old Ace double from the outside shelf for a donation. Dave had kindly lent me his cell so I could keep an eye on the time, but I'm so used to not having a watch that I found myself glancing at clocks anyways.
I was looking for some place that sold chocolate so I could leave a gift for the staff, but over half the town is closed for the winter, so I did a fair bit of wandering (adjust for the tiny expanse of Oak Bluff) until I found the open choc shop very close to where we'd parked. Coincidentally, the others showed up while I was there (this is like leaving seeds out for birds, isn't it?), and Mur and I ended up at the liquor store choosing wines for tonight. I managed to do this without massive itsalmostoverload hitting me, other than the realisation that I hadn't even talked to every one of the other students yet. What have I missed of brilliance and disorientation?
Jim Kelly on post-VP protocol. This began somewhat alarmingly, with unwonted (that's an o, not an a, gentle reader) seriousness on JPK's part. He began with warning that we had to realise that after Viable Paradise we'd probably encounter the instructors at conventions and elsewhere, and ... (At this point, I was pretty sure he was heading for 'you've finished the workshop, now we are strangers again, don't presume on past acquaintance') ... the instructors will remain your friends and people you can approach as long as you are still writing and submitting. If you aren't, there's really nothing they can do for you / have in common.
Pause for a sigh of relief on my part. Barring unforeseen catastrophe, I expect to continue writing and submitting. That's all it takes? Cool.
Caveats: at cons, the instructors are likely doing business. TNH: if everyone is looking worried, don't break into the conversation. Always introduce yourself with context (I'm thinking I'll permanent-mark my name and story title onto my VP t-shirt, to simplify matters); don't be a jerk; be an interesting person, interested in other people; don't act all buddy-buddy with people you aren't actually acquainted with.
Nicole and I were doing laundry during the colloquium, nipping in and out of the common room to check washer and dryer and push in more quarters, sharing change and soap. Nicole has been spinning yarn through much of the workshop, something I've always found soothing to watch although I don't have the knack for it myself. She, like Lucia, I know from Absolute Write. Niki has long brown hair, sometimes braided, and a high clear forehead and pointed chin that give her a doll-like air, polished and immaculate. Sharing laundry-doing with her did not banish that impression, though I suppose it should have.
A webcam was set up and most of us sat down and had our pics taken for the record. It reminded me of one of those photo-booths from my childhood, with the walls vanished. Though I suspect our pictures had a much lower proportion of people sticking their tongues out than the photo-strips, which must have had at least one tongue-pic per strip. Retterson skipped the webcam, which I can understand, because I don't often see a photo of myself that I like, although growing up with a camera-bug father inured me to the whole thing.
The weekend is the VP reunion, which some people are staying for. A few of the previous years' attendees have already arrived, some with family. I recognised Leo from OWW, and said hi (having the advantage of him, since I don't have a photo up at OWW--though I'd put my nametag back on, so he caught on why this strange woman had walked up and said hi). I chatted with him a bit, feeling oddly responsible--possibly memories of all those times changing schools and meeting a room of potentially-hostile strangers whose names one didn't know? And yet he and the other alumni were the old hands and I was the hapless newbie, surely? More reasonably, I owed him because he's given me some very useful crits on OWW. More alumni and alumnae arrived later in the day, so the effect was diluted, fortunately.
Shameful confession, but I felt a bit resentful of the reunion people showing up early, as if they were infringing on the VPX fellowship. Sibling rivalry?
In part my own fault - I stayed in the common room for the Guess Who Wrote This game, because it felt standoffish to ditch and go hang out in Scott's room with the X-men.
But when I did ditch, it felt like coming home. A good part of this was Mac raising a cheer every time one of us came in--one isn't cheered nearly enough in everyday life.
I drank red wine and ate potato chips until the red wine ran out--alas! Mur was buzzing around giddily taping each of us giving our impressions of the week. I ended up squished up against the coffee table chatting with Jim Kelly and discovered that he was at Worldcon in Brighton when I was (there really are only twelve people in the world) though it appears we didn't meet. Somewhere in there I said something about Tor rejecting my novel (the co-written one, so not really mine) and he put his arm around me and said "Sucks, doesn't it?" because they rejected one of his as well. He said other witty and enlightening things, but I'm very tired right now, and should actually be repacking my bags, not writing this diary. I should stop now and fill in the rest tomorrow, during one of the airport layovers.
It's almost over. I feel as if I've been here two weeks, or a month, so much has happened, so much has been learned and experienced. While I want to be home, and to work on my book, I also want to stay, and to get to know these people even better, to read everyone's work, to hang out and talk about what we want to do, what we want to write, who we are.
Diane gave me a poem, one written by a Sufi master, about the vintage man, and said it fit me, and that I was a very genuine person. I'm so touched by that, and abashed, because I don't think of myself as genuine so much as careful. But perhaps careful is more important. I fight against sincerity, because I've seen sincere people who were sincerely selfish and hurtful, so occupied with their own sincere and heartfelt feelings that they had no room to observe or allow for anyone else's. But perhaps genuine is not the same as sincere. And I do genuinely want to encourage people and to help them become better at whatever it is they want to do, without hurting them.
Open discussion in the common room--mostly I've left the colloquium notes in the peace and quiet of my notebook, but maybe I should run through some here, until it's time for food?
Morning was the last lecture, PNH on the state of publishing today. Started off with a history of paperbacks, the expansion of bookselling from 'the carriage trade' to the masses, and very interesting explanation of how it was the truckers who shipped the books who filled the racks in the drugstores and corner stores, which was why those racks held such a variety. Patchwork of tiny distributors all across N America, each knowing own territory intimately. As publishing conglomerated, so did distribution, and economy of scale demanded simplification. Thus supermarkets now carry bestsellers, multiple copies of a dozen titles, instead of a couple of copies of a multiplicity of titles. What's lost is the opportunity to reach the bright kid from a non-reading family, whose exposure to odd or genre fiction would have been while hanging out at the drugstore, etc. Possible loss of a generation of potential readers. (Will the internet change this? Lot of reading on there.)
Long break for lunch. I was going to walk into Oak Bluff, but Diane and Mur were driving in, along with Dave, so I decided why not. I'd already had a sandwich, so didn't bother with lunch, but did some shopping instead. Checked for unusual chips or candy bars (no luck) to bring back for Chris, got some pepper chips for me, took some pics of the insanely picturesque shops, most of which must have been made over from houses (front parlour window revised to shopfront window, so passers-by look in at the occupants rather than the traditional system), and ended up at a bookshop. The owner was repainting, so things were in mild disarray, and it smelled of paint, which is a smell I like. I got the latest Southern Vampire, hardcover, for half price, yay! and an old Ace double from the outside shelf for a donation. Dave had kindly lent me his cell so I could keep an eye on the time, but I'm so used to not having a watch that I found myself glancing at clocks anyways.
I was looking for some place that sold chocolate so I could leave a gift for the staff, but over half the town is closed for the winter, so I did a fair bit of wandering (adjust for the tiny expanse of Oak Bluff) until I found the open choc shop very close to where we'd parked. Coincidentally, the others showed up while I was there (this is like leaving seeds out for birds, isn't it?), and Mur and I ended up at the liquor store choosing wines for tonight. I managed to do this without massive itsalmostoverload hitting me, other than the realisation that I hadn't even talked to every one of the other students yet. What have I missed of brilliance and disorientation?
Jim Kelly on post-VP protocol. This began somewhat alarmingly, with unwonted (that's an o, not an a, gentle reader) seriousness on JPK's part. He began with warning that we had to realise that after Viable Paradise we'd probably encounter the instructors at conventions and elsewhere, and ... (At this point, I was pretty sure he was heading for 'you've finished the workshop, now we are strangers again, don't presume on past acquaintance') ... the instructors will remain your friends and people you can approach as long as you are still writing and submitting. If you aren't, there's really nothing they can do for you / have in common.
Pause for a sigh of relief on my part. Barring unforeseen catastrophe, I expect to continue writing and submitting. That's all it takes? Cool.
Caveats: at cons, the instructors are likely doing business. TNH: if everyone is looking worried, don't break into the conversation. Always introduce yourself with context (I'm thinking I'll permanent-mark my name and story title onto my VP t-shirt, to simplify matters); don't be a jerk; be an interesting person, interested in other people; don't act all buddy-buddy with people you aren't actually acquainted with.
Nicole and I were doing laundry during the colloquium, nipping in and out of the common room to check washer and dryer and push in more quarters, sharing change and soap. Nicole has been spinning yarn through much of the workshop, something I've always found soothing to watch although I don't have the knack for it myself. She, like Lucia, I know from Absolute Write. Niki has long brown hair, sometimes braided, and a high clear forehead and pointed chin that give her a doll-like air, polished and immaculate. Sharing laundry-doing with her did not banish that impression, though I suppose it should have.
A webcam was set up and most of us sat down and had our pics taken for the record. It reminded me of one of those photo-booths from my childhood, with the walls vanished. Though I suspect our pictures had a much lower proportion of people sticking their tongues out than the photo-strips, which must have had at least one tongue-pic per strip. Retterson skipped the webcam, which I can understand, because I don't often see a photo of myself that I like, although growing up with a camera-bug father inured me to the whole thing.
The weekend is the VP reunion, which some people are staying for. A few of the previous years' attendees have already arrived, some with family. I recognised Leo from OWW, and said hi (having the advantage of him, since I don't have a photo up at OWW--though I'd put my nametag back on, so he caught on why this strange woman had walked up and said hi). I chatted with him a bit, feeling oddly responsible--possibly memories of all those times changing schools and meeting a room of potentially-hostile strangers whose names one didn't know? And yet he and the other alumni were the old hands and I was the hapless newbie, surely? More reasonably, I owed him because he's given me some very useful crits on OWW. More alumni and alumnae arrived later in the day, so the effect was diluted, fortunately.
Shameful confession, but I felt a bit resentful of the reunion people showing up early, as if they were infringing on the VPX fellowship. Sibling rivalry?
In part my own fault - I stayed in the common room for the Guess Who Wrote This game, because it felt standoffish to ditch and go hang out in Scott's room with the X-men.
But when I did ditch, it felt like coming home. A good part of this was Mac raising a cheer every time one of us came in--one isn't cheered nearly enough in everyday life.
I drank red wine and ate potato chips until the red wine ran out--alas! Mur was buzzing around giddily taping each of us giving our impressions of the week. I ended up squished up against the coffee table chatting with Jim Kelly and discovered that he was at Worldcon in Brighton when I was (there really are only twelve people in the world) though it appears we didn't meet. Somewhere in there I said something about Tor rejecting my novel (the co-written one, so not really mine) and he put his arm around me and said "Sucks, doesn't it?" because they rejected one of his as well. He said other witty and enlightening things, but I'm very tired right now, and should actually be repacking my bags, not writing this diary. I should stop now and fill in the rest tomorrow, during one of the airport layovers.
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