Potlatch part three

The rest of the workshop, with a break for Thai food.
The post-disaster story was structurally sound, so comments were mostly about surface detail, using more sensory detail and more nuts-and-bolts (rivets?) to bring the bleak and barely-subsistence level existence across to the reader. A point that had only occurred to me on the 3d reading was whether the nomads wandering the Polluted wore any clothes, since they didn't appear to have time or resources for either weaving or tanning skins (plus the ecology seemed to be humans and insects, no birds or other mammals, so no skins except human, which I think are pretty fragile). If they had no clothes or cloth, then the clothed man and the cloth-bundled baby represented a substantial boost in personal wealth, because cloth is damned useful if you're a gatherer. That came up in discussion, as did the social structure of the small nomadic groups, based on lions and/or baboons. Nobody else mentioned the setting as being overexposed, or overdone, so the story must have been strong enough to carry it.
The ambiguous ending line was added after previous workshop crits said the ending was too harsh without it, but one of the Potlatch critiquers was sure it meant they had died anyway. I wasn't sure, but I'm okay with uncertainty and ambiguity, so didn't feel the need to decide for myself.

The best friends story got strong crit on two grounds: the resolution happening offstage, and the science being handwavium. Fortunately, one of the instructors was knowledgeable about biology and came up with some potential fixes to make the deadly planet believable if still hand-wavy. A longish letter at the end of the story was unanimously scrapped; it was another response to previous workshop crits, but created more problems than it solved, or rather, intensified the existing problem of major story elements happening offstage.
I was a bit pleased to learn that the story had originally been envisioned from the mother's pov (the author being a young mother, imagining facing a terrible choice about her child's future) because I'd seen what I thought were traces of that pov.

Afterwards there was some general chat about Clarion, both instructors having been at Clarion and Potlatch having long-held ties with Clarion West. I ended up in Hospitality chatting about Viable Paradise, though I'd just missed the semi-scheduled Viable Paradise discussion.

So that was the programmed thing that I did at Potlatch. Other things that happened:
Lynn and Tony have a bird-feeder that attempts to be squirrel-proof. Sitting and reading Friday morning, I watched a squirrel perform rhythmic gymnastics while hanging under the feeder, buckteeth scraping at the remainder of the seed-lump behind the bars. Eventually I opened the door and spoke to it, since gesticulating through the window wasn't effective. As Lynn and I left the house the next morning, grey squirrels frisked merrily about on the roadway. A bald eagle skidded out of the sky, scraped across the tarmac, and climbed again, limp grey fur hanging from its talons. We cheered.
Bart was shop-monkey for Elise Matthesen, a position that has DESTINY hanging over it (go, Avocado!) and oversaw the earring haiku challenge. He was inducted into the mysteries of naming earrings via the (bonsai?) Recombinant Title Generator, and enthusiastically promoted haiku during his tenure.
Not having pierced ears, I resisted this for a time, and then overcompensated by writing two tanka (because tanka come in pairs and so do earrings) for the title 'Tiger Waltz'. I won't quote them here, because theoretically they may be part of the haiku challenge chapbook someday. I thought they weren't bad, though they took me ages.
Elise told us one of the secrets of selling jewelry at conventions. But I can't tell you, because it's a secret. She also recited one of her performance poems, a sly and funny piece about tanks and babies and other penis-substitutes, and told us about the time Maya Angelou crashed her birthday party.
Evan discovered the rarity of M-size t-shirts at conventions. He and I helped sort and stack the Potlatch shirts, and there was only one M, which was already spoken for. Fortunately the L wasn't too big on him. We lingered in the Dealers' room, learned about the difficulties of small independent bookshops, and got some amazing deals on books (though not without a melancholy tinge).
Also melancholy and amazing was the stack of books on a table beside Registration, the remaining library of late fan Anita Rowland: Georgette Heyer and Jane Austen, Robertson Davies, craft and comic books, a diversity that said I'd missed the chance to know an interesting person, and could only make do with her gift of books.
Seattle doesn't have Powells, but is still thick with dangerous bookshops. I fell among bad companions (Mac, Medievalist, and others) and was led astray into Twice-Sold Tales, where I found a copy of The Lisle Letters (the abridged version, not the multi-volume complete edition) for only $10 and full of tasty Elizabethan prose and domestic detail, oh, and politickal manoeuvres. And Medievalist gave me a book--the Huntington Library's book on the Ellesmere Canterbury Tales. It's lovely, with full-colour repros of the pilgrim portrait pages and, most book-geekily delightful, of the endpapers (endparchments?) stained and mended and tattered.
All available VPers and sympathisers in the hotel bar made a pact to be at least halfway through a current or new work by the time VPXII arrived. This was sworn in chocolate, so it must be binding.
What else? Friday night there was a quest for bubble tea. It was achieved, but I didn't partake, because bubble tea falls, for me, just in the wrong part of the solid-viscous-liquid range. I rather like tomato juice if I don't think about it, but. So I had a barley tea, pleasant though a bit earnest, and regretted not having the hot ginger milk, because, ginger! I had that the next day and it was good.

I travelled to and from Seattle on the Clipper, taking advantage of a half-price coupon from the previous year, when storms delayed the sailing for a few hours and forced a long and roundabout route sheltering between islands. This return sailing was only a little rough, and passengers were encouraged to stay in their seats and wait for the staff to come to them, not go trotting about fetching themselves tea and other hot drinks.
An unexpected pleasure was the chance to just sit and read, first on the Clipper coming over, because the nearest sockets weren't the right kind for my laptop, and later on Friday morning, while Tony napped, because it was too early to show up for the convention.
I finished reading The Wizard Hunters, by Martha Wells, and was just knocked over by the worldbuilding and the tidy way it was laid in. I finally read Deep Secret, by Diane Wynne Jones, a book that had taken some time for me to get into, because I didn't get on with the first narrator. Oh, and finished Across the Wall, by Garth Nix. That must be the most concentrated bout of reading I've done for some time.
Last time I was over for Potlatch, Lynn had to lend me a dufflebag to hold the books and fabric I'd bought. So this year I brought it back empty. But then I bought books, and took books from the giveaway table. So she had to lend me the dufflebag again, because I had more books than would fit into the Potlatch totebag (Cthulhu memorial con bag). Apparently I have no self-control.
Fortunately, I discovered that Elise also likes odd notebooks, so I can cull my collection and send them to her, hurrah! I just found a great lenticular cover with spiders on it.

Viable Paradise, day four

Wednesday is the short day, lunch but no dinner. Have I mentioned the weather yet? It's been beautifully clear and warm. I wander about in a t-shirt (today is the Not Being Nice to Characters t-shirt). This evening we had wind and spitting rain, nothing severe.

Morning crit was Evan and John, led by Jim Kelly and Jim Macdonald. Other students were Diane, Elise, Terry-Lynn, Linda and me. Evan looks almost alarmingly straight and clean-cut, someone who should be calculating the trajectory of something other than story arcs. Elise is a jeweler, rather deaf, has short white bristling hair, slightly googly eyes, and wrote the best of the openings read by Jim Kelly, one I'd deeply like to read (especially after getting a precis of the world). Linda has short white smooth hair and an intent gaze, like a white mouse that is also an eerily wise familiar to a sorcerer.
Evan's story is sword-and-sorcery turned on its head, though since my s&s reading faded out after the golden days of Fritz Leiber, Howard and C.L. Moore (special exception made for Jo Clayton), about half of his twists went over my head until he provided the interlinear gloss. Everyone liked the patchwork woman warrior held together by sorcery, and everyone agreed the sexual tension between the exiled swordsman and his nubile student needed upping. My difficulty with the text was the many, many modernisms, which jarred me out of the story. Evelyn not being in this session, I waved the language geek flag to the best of my small ability. (Evan came to our room later and Evelyn gave him a terrific reading list of sagas etc. for style and for details of everyday life. Yay!)
John's story is about some laddish boffins and their wide-boy friend, who discover an antigravity drive. The setup is heaps of fun, but the story reads more like an outline. I got major, major geek points for knowing the reference of John's title, which is 'Spaceport to Pimlico', the ref being, of course, to the late '40s? Ealing comedy Passport to Pimlico, where in the repairs after bombing damage, a sealed box is discovered, with a deed by Henry VIII giving Pimlico to some minor European royalty. Hijinks ensue as Pimlico declares itself independent and abolishes rationing, the govt blockades it and sympathetic Londoners toss food over the walls. Also the descendant of the European royalty shows up. I also compared John's work not only to Douglas Adams (I could see him flinching as Hitchhikers came up again and again) but to Tom Holt and to Compton Mackenzie, author of Whiskey Galore. Turns out he has a whole shelf of Ealing comedies at home.

Lecture was Laura Mixon, about the two aspects of the writer's brain, the internal editor and the beast. Stories are lies that reveal truth. Story has the ability to transform our lives (Scheherezade). The beast provides raw material, and must be fed in turn. Other names for beast--silent partner, lizard brain, story place, Fred. Beast doesn't work to deadline, has no logic, speaks in emphasis not words, but is like a 2 year old, requires structure and routine, like setting a time and place for writing. The beast provides, the editor prunes, it's a dance between them. A scene should provide sensory detail, illuminate character, advance plot, reveal theme.
Writing exercise: walk around the room in an unusual way, then ask the beast about the person who walks that way. Take three words at random from the book or magazine we were told to bring, and write a few lines about that person using those words. Bart's was the best, about Mr. Persimmon the bandleader, and his amazing hat.

The rest of the day was free, so we could work on our writing assignments. Or, more likely, socialise and nap. I hung out in Scott's room with him and Mac and got all goofy about Patrick asking for Willow Knot, and they kindly indulged me. Patrick has asked to see Mac's story as well--hurrah!
Back in our room, Mur was feeling the after-effects of mixed feedback in her critique session; apparently non-comics-fans were just not getting it. However TNH was getting it, and that should count for more, I think. Though I admit to surprise that any genre writer in this culture would miss superhero tropes.
I worked on my writing assignment for a while, taking Evelyn's advice about going with the light satirical story rather than the grim predictable one. Then wrote some of this. After a while I realised that I was feeling self-doubt and a conviction that I was really quite a boring person, so I had a nap. And felt more interesting after an hour lying in the dark. It must be the contrast. Evelyn finished her story and read the ending to me--wonderful use of pulp concepts, would have been OTT except, well, how can you be OTT when writing pulp?
I tried to call Mark and vapour at him, but the phone company frustrated that plan (and me) because it wouldn't accept any of my long-distance cards or collect, and when I got to an operator she just put me through into the system where the same thing happened. I tried to phone my service provider's help number, but it too was refused because (oh no!) it's long distance. Jaysus. And I can't email.
Will write more later. Walking to Oak Bluff for dinner now.

Back. One story to read tonight. Monica's. I've read it, but I think the comments will have to wait until morning, except for in-text comments. I'm wiped. But I got a free dinner--thank you John Chu!
Oh, and I got through to Mark, somehow. Still not sure why it worked this time. Gave him my news. His response was "Will you cancel your return ticket and float home under your own power?"

We walked into town along the water. The wind had come up and spray spatted over the retaining wall. It reminded me of the breakwater at home. I'd just resolved (out loud) to be Mature and Responsible and not walk on the wall, when I saw that Mac was doing so. The hell with Responsible. I love walking on top of walls and any wide balance-beamy thing. So I did. The wind blew into my face and spray settled on my glasses and I was cold and happy.
Dinner, yes dinner. We ate at the place everyone recommends for its ambience, they have sawdust and peanut shells on the floor. The decor is lots of wood. And a couple of televisions as well as (I dimly recall) many team banners on the walls, and I think sample hats and sweatshirts that one can purchase to commemorate having visited Martha's Vineyard. VPers were strung out along the booths because there was no table arrangement that would accommodate large groups. I had fish and chips, because it's usually a safe choice in a pub. And a glass of red wine. Prices were high, but not in the dreaded $25 hamburger range.
I compared notes with others who had one-on-ones with Stephen Gould, and the only one who really felt she knew what had been going on was Mac, who asked about agents. Which reminds me that I did get the information that if I get an offer from a reputable publisher, I can phone agent-of-my-dreams directly instead of writing to them. Which I didn't know, so I am wiser by that much. Erin got a nice latte out of it, and John watched laundry be folded, so my experience is in the middle.

I'm sitting in the common room, allegedly working on my Hats of War story (sitting at 2k), but in fact engaged in a long tipsy conv with John Hawkes-Reed and catching up on this chronicle. Names of bands I might check into back home. Severed Head? Instructors have come in, and it looks as if a Thing game may be about to erupt.