under the year-end tree

 The tree came down after Twelfth Night, as it should. I fiddled around with my camera, but couldn't quite catch how silvery and otherworldly it looked in the dark morning.

 For happy things to find under the tree, a round-up of photos from World Fantasy, starring Viable Paradise alumnae/i. First up is Nikki, author and fibre artist, with great hair.

Terri, author, editor, and kick-butt earth-mother.

Dave, author, cool dad, and Voice of Podcastle.

Zak, the best-dressed dark fantasist I know, and Sharon in conversation with Sherwood Smith. More great hair. 

What do you think of this for my new author-photo? I think Cory really makes the composition stand out. 

my WFC tribe

Not much wordage here, just some pictures, valued for their associations rather than their composition or artistry.

Perhaps the coolest thing about WFC2011 was the number of VPXers who were there. It made me realise how much I missed everyone. Following LJs really isn't the same, though maybe if I used twitter? Nah.

Let's see if I can remember who all was there from VPX. Zak and Sharon, Terri and her stalwart husband, Dave, Bart, Nikki, Elise, Erin and Mur--who have I forgotten? Myself? And a bunch of pre- and post-Xers, whom I will not attempt to name without reference materials handy.

 Thanks to everyone else being on twitter or texting, and to Zak and Sharon's hospitality, we managed a VPXetc. room party and a VP afternoon lawn party.
Yay us!

Room party pics:
Bart, about to unveil some amazing chocolate, and Nikki, relaxing.
They are as far as possible from the creepy girl-with-birdcage print, which is why they are relaxed.

 Dave Thompson, the voice of podcastle.org, did not on this occasion fall through the mirror to another world.
But it was a near thing.

 PNH was lively, providing an audio-tour through Great Moments of Making Light and filks of British fandom.
He and Elise make great tour guides of fannish history. I hear there was an impromptu concert another night, but I had puppied out and fallen asleep hours before.






 However I did not miss the music the next day, during the VPetc. afternoon lawn party, at the tables outside the con suite. Someone had provided a ukulele, which lured PNH over.

There was also, nearby, a very scenic and photogenic gazebo, causing a series of wedding-type photos. But I'll leave that for next time, and finish up with another group shot.

my tattoos

Brand new and still healing.



This is the labyrinth pattern I build with stones each year at Fort Rodd Hill. I wanted a human figure in the centre, like the female figure in the Sibbo wall-painting, but it wouldn't have been legible without making the labyrinth huge. So a dot, standing for me being midway (a labyrinth is a two-way journey, there and back)
Also, if I forget the pattern next year at Fort Rodd Hill, I can just ask someone to look at the back of my neck.



A jellyfish, on my right shoulder, for the phosphorescent ctenophora at Martha's Vineyard during Viable Paradise (yes I know this isn't a ctenophore, it's a moon jelly) and for my first pro-rate sale, which features flying jellyfish.
And VPX, for Viable Paradise Ten, my year and my tribe.

two announcements

The first one is bouncy-me business. My first pro sale, On the Transmontane Run with the Aerial Mail Express, is up on Beneath Ceaseless Skies. It has airships, monkeys, air-pirates and jellyfish--what more could you want? Go, read, donate to the zine!

Second is a public service announcement. The story could not have been written or sold if I had not attended the Viable Paradise writing workshop, applications to which open tomorrow, January 1st. If you aren't already an alumnus/a, and you have hopes or plans of becoming a published writer, you should seriously consider applying.
It is only a week long, so the time commitment is more manageable than Clarion or Odyssey, and it will put you in contact with publishing professionals in a much more low-key and satisfactory way than those speed-date writing conferences where you have to pitch in 5 or 10 minutes. You will get invaluable feedback on your writing, and straightforward advice on how the industry works.
The workshop fee is remarkably reasonable, and includes several meals. The hotel rooms make it easy to share space without stepping on each other, and splitting the room costs make that pretty reasonable as well (even speaking as someone who gets all twitchy at anything above a Motel 6).
And hey, maybe by fall the TSA insanity will be reduced to mere imbecility.

public service announcement: writer specific

For the what, three? readers of this blog who weren't at VPX or XI, the deadline for applying to the Viable Paradise Writers' Workshop is the end of this month. That's right, you need to get your application in by June 30, in order to seize the opportunity to:
have your work read and critiqued by professional editors and writers like Patrick Nielsen Hayden and Elizabeth Bear!
learn the secrets of the writing trade from the pros!
FIND your tribe!
SEE Phosphorescent Jellyfish!
CHANGE your life!

You need to put together 8,000 words or less of work you want critiqued, whether novel opening or short story, (including synopsis or outline if it's a novel), and stuff it in an envelope with a cover letter and $25, as detailed here, and place the rest in the lap of the gods.
Do it. It's worth it.

nostalgie de la bbq deux

Setting One: an odd little motel (Rocky River). The rooms were generic hotel rooms, in a confusing number of categories (possibly due to renovations underway), the relation of category to cost being unclear. The layout was single-storey, scattered about the grounds in L or E formations, as if a regular 2 or 3-storey hotel had been experimentally disassembled. All rooms were pleasant and clean, and mine had a view of the well-mowed lawn behind the buildings. Prusik's room had a jacuzzi, which he was told not to use for fear of an extra $30 (like a fine, maybe?) Bart's had a kitchenette, and tv mounted on the wall in disguise as a flat-screen. Scott and Heather had the separate little cottage designated for smokers.
Setting Two: Terri-Lynn's house. Handcrafted in wood, with a spacious open kitchen, an open-to-the-roof living room (with a flatscreen tv so big that TNH and PNH didn't perceive it as a tv), and detailed with touches of sculpture or mysterious tools and decoration. Like walking around inside a Brian Froud painting. Outside, beautifully landscaped with pool and gazebo and the Barbecue of the Ancient Mysteries, the tended grounds giving way to forest and river behind the house.

Characters: Terri-Lynn, her husband and family, the gracious and impressively relaxed hosts.
VP instructors, staff and associates: Debra Doyle and Jim Macdonald in place, Patrick and Teresa Nielsen Hayden later, Jen Pelland and Pippin in place.
VP students and associates: oh gosh. Travelling with Scott and Heather, me, Bart Patton, Chris Azure and John Chu. Erin Underwood travelling with Jen. Laura Strickman staying at Terri's. Terri herself, of course. Have I missed anyone? Of course we did miss Linda, Evelyn, Diana, Cal, John Hawkes-Reed and Lucia, Mac, Lucy, Retterson, and all those who just weren't able to be there.

Montage: driving narrow country roads through dark looming woods, a discussion of whether we'd be in a straight horror flick or a slasher movie. Casting Heather as Final Girl, Bart as Guy Who Gets Killed First, Chris as the Killer No-one Suspects--probably the one who vanishes early on and is presumed to be a victim until he returns in the last reel. Laura decides not to have a shower after all.
-laughing way too much for someone recovering from a cold, with every laugh bringing on a coughing fit, and not minding.
-getting up (kind of) early to write, at the window looking out towards the trees.
-sprawled around Scott and Heather's room, discussing what to do about breakfast and when to head over to Terri's, Scott telling us proudly about Heather's house-repair skills.
-sitting on the edge of John's jacuzzi (if I put one foot into it, is it only $15?) talking about writing and critting.
-touring Terri's house, hearing stories of how the BBQ of the Vanities came to be, and the marble in the bathroom (truly, good fences make good neighbours, or at least good contractors).
-in the gazebo, the scrapy sound of metal chairs being moved around, Jim's narrative of saving a woman's life the morning before leaving for the reunion, complete with ekg printout (annotated commentary provided).
-pockets of intense and diverse conversation everywhere.
-Scott and Terri's husband talking house repair and construction.
-Doyle's stories of Jim phoning out of the blue, perhaps from a bus station to say he'd be home soon, perhaps from overseas just to check in, once from a brothel (in S America?) because it was the only available telephone in town.
-me tempted by potato chips, three months into my resolution to give them up, chewing dried apples for methadone (really not the same).
-Teresa exclaiming in delight over one of Terri's cool devices, the name of which I do not know, a cunningly-made rack, perhaps for clothes, with wooden arms that pulled out horizontally or slid back to hang beside the turned post.
-Jim and Teresa discussing and identifying one of the tools on the wall (a potato-fork, I think).
-Pippin commanding her father to not sing.
-the sun's reflection from the pool climbing the bank and into the gazebo, lighting it from below.
-the brave ones by the pool in swimsuits, swinging their feet in the water.
-Scott discussing why it may be that the book forum is so hard to search and isn't googleable, so clearly that I felt closer to understanding search engines that I've ever been before. Still didn't quite make it, but my mental fingertips were brushing the ideas.
-Teresa annotating the spelling list on Making Light, as various of us around the kitchen workstation admitted to those items that were our personal stumbling-blocks (vermilion is mine, but now I know a trick for it, yay! because TNH pointed out it comes from vermeil).
-Doyle and Teresa sitting on the floor, telling Norse ghost stories and English ballads.

Highlights: Patrick talking about unreliable narrators, Freedom & Necessity, and why do so few people like Instance of the Fingerpost? and why was Dream of Scipio so unreadable? and convincing me I should attend the Farthing Party (alas, transportation costs forbade it).
-learning a new non-slip way to tie my shoes, which works even with the stupid round laces on my other runners, as part of Uncle Jim's Impromptu Knot, Hitch and Bend Tutorial, including examples of the easily-removable hitch for climbing down cliffs, tying in the bight, tying behind the back, why one hitch is better used around round posts than square ones, two lines of different size fastened securely, and much more.
-the Room 50 chocolate cake.
-pancakes! with bonus explanation of why TNH and Jim can't cook together: she is a performance cook and he is a recipe cook (this has elsewhere been described as the difference between cooks and bakers) and they inevitably clash, solved here by having Jim do pancakes and TNH do bacon and eggs.
-forgetting one of the Four Humours and Temperaments, and having three or four people list them in uneven chorus; even more impressive when you consider I could have asked a techie website question and gotten at least as many answers, possibly from the same people.
-Pan's Labyrinth viewing - but I will write more of this later.

If more memories float up from the bottom of my mind, I will add them. Suggestions also welcome. What were your highlights?

nostalgie de la bbq

Viable Paradise Eleven is underway. A new set of students, a new set of works-in-progress. Group critiques and one-on-ones and games of Thing and Mafia.
I feel (as I said elsewhere) as if I should be envious, or wishing I was there with them, but I can't find those emotions anywhere. I feel happy for them, I hope in a vague way that they have even half as wonderful a time as we did, and I look forward to reading Dorothy's thoughts about it all. But I don't imagine myself a student again, especially not a new student coming among strangers, with it all to do over.
I cherish the memories, the lessons and the friends that came from VPX. Those I keep.

Back in August 11-12, Terri-Lynn hosted a VPX reunion bbq at her place, which I mentioned briefly on another post. Of course, since the Xers keep in touch, reunions of some degree happen whenever two or three are gathered together, but this one grew and grew, snagging staff and instructors into its maw. And I was on the east coast in August, in Pennsylvania, hurrah!
The way eastern states and cities fit together confuses me. I mean, I know the names of places, I have all sorts of literary, fictional or historical associations with the names, but only the vaguest idea where the names are in relation to each other. So flying from Pittsburgh to New York in order to visit Connecticut made me dizzy, even when I looked at the map. Fortunately, cleverer people than me were doing all the actual transporting, both driving and flying.

On the way to the Pittsburgh airport, I saw (from a distance) one of the sites where George Romero filmed parts of the Dead series. No ghouls visible at that time. (Night called them 'ghouls'; I'm not sure when the terminology switched to 'zombies')
The staff at the Pittsburgh airport were cheerful and pleasant (huge contrast from my changeover on the way home from VPX) and one complimented my hi-top sneakers, which are a camo pattern with penwork additions by me. The portents were favourable.
Now, the earlier plan had been that Diana would be driving, and would pick up me, Evelyn and Linda on the way (woo! girls' road trip!) but due to family complications (families are complicated) that hadn't been possible. Diana, Evelyn and Linda were sorely missed--I'm harder to shake off, at least in this instance. Scott and Heather were renting a van, and willing to add me to the existing cargo of Chris and Bart. We'd all meet up at the car-rental desk.
I arrived at La Guardia (which I can't pronounce properly unless I stop and say it slowly, but you can't tell that online) and found it to be very large. I cast myself on the mercy of young men in reflective vests and found out that the Hertz desk was not a desk, or rather, that the desk was in a building on the outskirts of the airport.
Okay, I'm resourceful. I can take a shuttlebus as resourcefully as the next person. I did so, and reached the Hertz office, where I settled myself with Game of Kings and some dried apples, knowing I was the earliest arrival and that I could hardly be missed in the small glass box set on tarmac.
Considerably later, I looked up from Lymond being cleverer and more tortured than anyone else for the umpteenth time, and noticed that no one had claimed me yet. Hm. Well, my flight had been delayed due to weather, so might others. I popped over to the desk and asked about the rental, had they heard from Scott at all?
Well no, and they didn't have any rentals booked under his surname.
The unsettled feeling that I'd forgotten something vital and had screwed up and it was all my fault began its creeping progress. I reminded myself that Heather might well have booked the van. Did I know her last name? Um. No, I didn't.
I went back to Dunnett for another period (possibly the lower Cretaceous, since I had neither a watch nor a cellphone to measure it, and the office had no wall-clock) but the you-screwed-up feeling was not to be denied.
I sat at the office phone (THIS PHONE DOES NOT ACCEPT INCOMING CALLS) and called the cell numbers that I had noted down. My husband reported that no one had called him about cancellations or emergencies. Bart reported that he and Chris were happily drinking coffee at the food court closest to Scott's gate and that I should come and wait with them there. Before I could confirm whether Hertz would let me shuttle back to the airport when I wasn't myself renting anything, Scott made contact.
A while later Bart and Heather arrived, picked up a van, picked up Scott and Chris at the airport, and we were on our way.
Addendum: On the road, Chris pointed out where some of the filming of Men in Black had been done. There's some significance there, in my flying from a horror set to an sf set, but I don't know what it is.

More later - must do something about dinner.

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?

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.

Viable Paradise, day five

Thursday. Today is the deadline for the short stories assigned during UJ's lecture on Monday. I have an opening, an ending, and an expandable/contractable middle section that is not actually written. About 2k, not 5k. I could probably have done 5k if I hadn't socialised yesterday, or the day before. Or hadn't slept. Or written any of this. Which is probably over 5k by now, but writing without plotting is way faster.

Breakout group was Monica's story, crit session led by Laura Mixon and Cory Doctorow. Other students were Bart, John, Terry-Lynne, Dave, and Laura. Bart is from Arkansas, short pale-brown hair, narrow face, pressed clothes, makes me think of a deadpan standup comedian, like Dave Foley, maybe. Jen Pelland was giving him a hard time about buying Diet Fresca(?) on Sunday (so long ago!) because she'd expect a country boy to choose something less metrosexual. John is slightly built, Chinese, shaved head and abstracted air--he ought to be able to levitate in the lotus position, or have dragons spring inkily from his brushwork. Dave is a big quiet guy with spiky brown hair, like a punk rocker in jock disguise. It's starting to occur to me that I don't have much time left to get to know people. Monica is very pregnant. She has long brown hair parted in the middle and wire-frame glasses, a pale round face caught somewhere between the inwardness of pregnancy and the almost-painful outwardness of someone being critiqued. Kate Salter and Monica look alike to me, but I'm not sure if it's just that they're about the same height and build, hairstyle and glasses, round serene face, or if the mum-and-baby vibes are what's tripping me.
Monica's story is about a woman who can share experiences with the dead. As the story opens, she's retracing her route through mysteries that she solved when she was much younger. Only a couple in the group read mysteries (me and Laura Mixon?) but that aspect was addressed. More concerns about there not being enough visibly at stake for the heroine, that the exercise of her talent doesn't come with enough cost--should it jeopardise her connection to the living? The concept interested most of the group, and the framing device got a fair bit of discussion.

First lecture was Cory Doctorow, about copyright and Creative Commons, tracing how established industries/technologies have reacted to advances in technology, starting with sheet music and continuing to downloading. Quotes: Technology law lags behind technology; pirates are the industry that hasn't sat down at the table yet; this is an age of superabundance in entertainment and suppliers of entertainment; science fiction is a social process; the internet is a permanent, floating, low-grade sf con full of people sharing books & recommendations of books etc.; who wouldn't licence rather than sell if they could? licencing holds the item in perpetuity; connection with others will drive technology more than entertainment will; live performance was rise of charismatic artist, recorded performance was rise of virtuoso artist, internet is rise of conversational artist (Neil Gaiman, Making Light) having intimate conversation with several hundred people at once; blogging or LJ gives your readers the tools to be your sales force; don't be a jerk online.

Second lecture was Stephen Gould, on the hazards of the writer's life or mental health for writers. Different motivations for writing--decide what yours are and how you reward yourself for writing. Echoes of Hambly's warnings, to have a dayjob or spouse with dayjob and health benefits, can supplement by teaching or lecturing on writing. Advances are paid on signing and on delivery, royalty period are May and November. Do Not fax your mss. or text-message your mss. Do Not 'clear the decks' before writing, instead use dry times to catch up with household stuff and use chores for thinking things over. Whole body is writing tool, change in body can make change in style. Don't tie your writing to any habit or substance, if you drop the habit you may be unable to write.

Writing assignments. We called off numbers and split into groups. I was in group three, led by Steve and Laura, including Elise, Scott, Terry, Zak, and John. Have I forgotten anyone? Zak's story was about obsessive love and the flu pandemic, Terry's was about a young woman finding independence by going off to war, John's was about a cyborg soldier sacrificing himself to save a scientist (with old-movie refs throughout), Scott's was about industrial espionage and torture (with a great hook), Elise's was about an ongoing competition between two dogs, mine was about bureaucracy and psychotropic warfare. The vote went for Elise's story, Scott's being the second choice. Scott's was more powerful but unfinished, so kind of a tough call. All of these did seem to take place at least partly in the Cape Cod house and most involved hats. Elise's had the biplane! Straight on to each group's champion reading their stories. Laura's was the flat-out winner, a surreal/cosy/hilarious story about the daughter of the Devil just trying to have a quiet little dinner with her dad, and instead having to deal with Armageddon. Everyone told her to get it out to the magazines.

Remembered that I meant to go to the beach and find feathers, so bundled up at last and went (not having the story assignment to feel guilty about). It's easy to find y way around, at least. Partway I met Bart, so we went on together and chatted, or attempted to chat against waves and wind. My general inaudibility was a drawback. The wind is surprisingly loud. I don't remember as much difficulty in conversing over the waves and wind at Willows Beach, but perhaps the long shallow rise to the shore is louder than smashing against rocks as at home? Heard about Bart's story, which uses a number of biblical refs in a modern industrial setting and his mild disappointment that no one spotted them, not even TNH, which surprised me. Though it might be something that builds through later chapters until you're slapping your head for not having caught on earlier. I ended up nattering about the Bookwyrms outline, it being my modern fantasy piece.
I found a half-dozen decent feathers, all rather battered, and heaps of shells and horseshoe crab carapaces like relics of an unsuccessful alien invasion (followed by lobster-roast, yeah!) but was defeated by the concept of carry-on baggage, and limited to about 4 small shells for keepers. Still dragged a biggish crab carapace back as a trophy to keep for the last couple of days. Wonder if I could take it back carry-on (yeah, pun, I know) after all, it's not liquid at this point.
Back in the warmth of the common room, I borrowed Mur's pen-knife and Niki brought her ink over, and I messed around with cutting quills. The feathers weren't aged & hardened enough and the paper was too thready and absorbent, but we did succeed in making marks and writing a few lines. Missed my writing slope like heck! All I need is a decent pen-knife and a flat piece of wood, but can I take those as carry-on? Not even a bottle of ink. Sigh.

Tonight is Pizza and Shakespeare, or Beer with Billy. I had a rootbeer, being as cheap red wine with Billy wasn't an option. Retterson, god bless her, sponsored a majestic array of cookies for dessert.
The group this year being unusually large, 28 students rather than 24, added to staff, families of staff and instructors, so that there were too many people for everyone to have a speaking part. Hamlet was thus put in the company of Henry IV, divided into parts one and two. I wonder if TNH has a Shakespeare algorithm for large groups, like the pizza algorithm? I snagged Laertes for pt 1, with most of the casting being more eccentric than even me as semi-incestuous duellist. Pretty quickly saw who had done a smidgen of theatre and who was just a natural ham. Good Guildenstern and Gentle Rosencranz (or vice versa) did a nice patter, and I'm betting Ophelia's death-metal trio "Young men will do't if they come to't, by Cock they are to blame!" will get mention in everyone's memoirs. Best laugh was during the Players arrival, when their play was able to be altered because it was under a Creative Commons license with derivative works allow'd.
Hamlet is a right bastard. I'd forgotten or not realised that his browbeating of Gertrude is done with Polonius's corpse right there in the room. Is he the writer, the way Prospero is, in the Tempest? Or is he a writer-wannabe, whose plots all miscarry?

Enough thought for one day. People are collapsing and melting all about the common room, and I think I'll do that privately.

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.

Viable Paradise, day three

Note: the diary is of events that occurred in October, but is being entered here now with minimal editing. Just because.

Tuesday night
You'll excuse me if I'm a touch incoherent today. blubwublubulubwu. I haven't done anything on my story assignment, but this diary may be approaching the desired word-count of the story.

Group crit was led by Patrick Nielsen Hayden and Cory Doctorow. PNH is short, slightly stocky, dark hair and trim beard, glasses. He projects intensity, an interesting trick since he doesn't often look at the person he's speaking to, but keeps his eyes on the pages or screen while speaking. He reminds me in a way of a couple of my friends, Ken and Larry, guys who aren't physically big but seem physically dense, as if they could just tuck their heads down and barrel through a shieldwall. Cory has his hair very short (buzz-cut? crew-cut?), wears black-framed glasses, was stretched out in the armchair with what could be relaxed calm or jetlagged fatigue. A big guy, sort of former-jock physique overlaid with geek enthusiasm, if that makes any sense?
The other students were Scott, who has the room next to ours (I'll have all this down by the time I leave), has a well-scrubbed, good-natured look, like the guy you really really want as your supervisor because he'll actually listen to you; Greg, whose posts I've read on Making Light, a dark-haired, dark-complected guy with a straw cowboy hat, whom you could imagine meeting in a desert town where he would miraculously fix your broken-down car; Terri-Lynn and Diane who took the heat yesterday; John, long black hair and bemused air, from England--I could imagine him as a roadie or musician. Laura was the other victim. She's probably one of the younger people here, slender, long brown hair, and an alert, almost birdlike way of holding her head. She always looks as if she's about to smile.
Laura's manuscript had some very cool concepts, of big animal spirit totems (mangan) each tied to a particular country, and cultures sufficiently urbanised to have bureaucracy administering the beasties and their human shamans. Some issues about modern language and not thinking through how the level of material culture would be affected by a metals embargo, but apparently she wrote this originally in highschool. (I couldn't write that well in highschool--my faith in educational standards is bolstered). It had a prologue, which everyone liked, but which may be extraneous to the story, giving an impression of the mangan that was a bit misleading. A fair bit of discussion about how much backstory was needed, where was the conflict, where did the story begin.

My crit session was...what do I say? For my author's rebuttal the only thing I felt I could say was 'it's not that good, really, there are some issues that need to be dealt with.' It verged on a love-fest. Terri and Scott want to read it when it's done. PNH said 'a cast-iron grip on non-anachronistic detail'
omgomgomg (that last bit was me, not a quote)
Issues identified: There needs to be more at stake. Tyl's mistreatment needs to be front-loaded so that the impetus for them leaving is more apparent to the reader, something bad enough to drive them into the unknown. Perhaps expanding the scene in the kitchen to show Myl being slapped or pinched surreptitiously, and include the information that Midame overlooks or even encourages that sort of treatment. Also possibly plant here the idea that it's considered unwise to cross Midame, even the hint of witch-fear. Cory suggested that the three springs might be reduced to two, that keeping the story moving might be more useful than keeping to the fairy-tale pattern of threes (which led to a short discussion of triunes and the pleasure of pattern-finding between him and Patrick). Greg felt the witch/deer aspect wasn't laid enough beforehand, which might be helped too by the expansion of the scene in the kitchen. Funny that in OWW that scene was suggested for expansion, and that I did it, but didn't follow why--it needs to show more of the inner life of the house and thus of its mistress. About half the readers felt the dialogue needed to be more differentiated from the narrative, which almost seems like an invitation to raise the archaism of the dialogue--but probably isn't. Nobody had problems with the style, which flat-out astonished me, after OWW (which has run about 50/50 people having trouble with the style and vocab). In fact, it seemed to be the strongest point for everyone, that the style was poetic, and evocative, and lyrical and stuff. Nobody said purple or overwritten or too writerly, which is my great fear. PNH said he wanted to disagree with the poetic etc. and say that it was a good clear style and a grim style, to go with the fairytale grimness, and I shouldn't try to be pastoral and lyrical at the expense of the grimness. He said it read not as if I was drawing from Tolkein but as if I was drinking from the well that Tolkein drank from and that the Brothers Grimm drank from. He said
(I pause for emphasis)
that it was the sort of story he wanted to see. Got that? PNH wants to see my story.
I better finish it. No more messing around with the short stories until the Willow Knot is finished. I didn't get a marked copy back from Patrick (as far as I can tell) but Cory marked his copy mostly with check-marks of spots he thought were good.

Lectures were Debra Doyle and TNH, and I list them together because they were playing tag-team to an extent. DD said she sometimes spoke on 'sentences that go clunk' but we were pretty good that way, so instead it was Style and Story. TNH spoke on Exposition. I made a lot of notes. Random quotes:
Style is what you can't help doing. Strange events should be set in straightforward prose. The Law of Conservation of Wierdness. The main action should be in the main verbs, not in subordinate clauses: Shooting him in the head, I turned and opened the fridge. Words have a budget; some can be used once in a lifetime (formication, phantasmagoria), while others once per book, once per short story. Words have buried history in them, and buried technology. SF/F must worldbuild while telling the story--the Ginger Rogers of fiction. Stephen King's 'the gotta' is a trance state while reading, to achieve it, don't slow the reader down with decoding (adjectives and exposition). A word is the negative space of all the words it doesn't mean. A novel is a transactional space; the reader wants to trust you. Get the economics right--things have price and weight, goods must be paid for and shipped, characters must have jobs.

Lunch break (peanut-butter sandwich, muffins)
Evelyn pleased with her crit session, and some great quotes from the instructors (woo!). From the sounds of it, Evelyn has done the most original world-building of anyone in the workshop. I'm so pleased for her. Hope Mur's session goes well tomorrow.

My second one-on-one was Steve Gould. I really don't know what to make of this, and I'm going to find some others who had sessions with him and compare notes. I feel kind of as if I've had a session with a Zen master but didn't attain enlightenment. I went to the Gould-Mixon room, and Laura Mixon gave me a glass of juice while I waited. When he got in, he asked if I wanted to stay there, and I said whatever was convenient for him, so he drove me into Oak Bluff(s?) and showed me 'Methodist Munchkin Land', the middle of the town. Apparently in the mid-1800s this was a major tent-revival centre, and people came so regularly that they took the same tent-plots each time, rented from the church, and eventually the church built a giant pavilion, like an inflated bandstand or gazebo where the revival tent usually went, and people built summer-houses on their tent plots. The summer houses are like miniature San Francisco painted ladies, Queen Anne houses with front parlour, back kitchen, upstairs bedroom, little front porch or verandah, all within the tent's footprint. Mr. Gould pointed out decorative features like the shape of windows and door arches that mimicked the tent swags. There's no insulation, because they were meant only for the summer. And yes, one does expect Munchkin people to be sunning themselves on the verandahs, or bustling about the streets. "If you're going to write way-out fantasy, you have to be able to describe things more way-out than this reality."
I'd expected him to be tougher than Debra Doyle, because he writes modern sf, and wouldn't be so easily swayed by the tropes of the past. It turns out that he's a Georgette Heyer fan, and we compared notes about favourite Heyers. I asked 'how do I make my book better' and he said 'Zeppelins. Everything is better with Zeppelins.' Then we discussed whether the technology of the world allowed for dirigibles, and decided that hot-air balloons were allowable. Digression on which Heyer has a hot-air balloon ascent (Frederica). Driving back, he did get into the questions of religion and magic in the world, and how the magic works, so I had to put into words more on the knot-magic that Myl learns and remembers. I've been slacking on that rather, because it seems to put itself together as I go, so I haven't worked it out in advance.
Going down for dinner, I saw Mac on the stairs and got up my nerve to ask what the turnaround time was for Coyote Wild. Didn't want to be pestery about the story, but I figured that was a legit low-pressure question. And she said she wants it and would have made up the contract except for being busy prepping for VP, and I said completely understand, no hurry, and did the happy dance because it would be my first sale. Which surprised her (ego-boo all over the place).
Then, walking into dinner, Cory asked me if I did short fiction at all, because he's co-editing the new Tesseracts anthology. So I said yep, I did, and what lengths were they looking for (the usual 7.5k or less) and where should I send it, while being kind of boggled. Mac told Cory he couldn't have my long story anyways, because she was taking it.
My bogglement was tempered by the realisation that I'm the only other Canadian attending, and Tesseracts is Canadian, so it may be more a factor of my having made it to VP and being Canadian than his being overwhelmed by my work. Still, 'at VP Cory Doctorow suggested I submit a story' is better than a cover letter with no creds.
Then during dinner I asked Patrick about submitting to Tor when the Willow Knot was revised and finished, and what I should say in the cover letter. He said to mention VP and that he'd suggested sending it, and also to email him when I did, so he could let his assistant know that there was a legit sub coming and not just someone taking his name in vain. Which apparently happens. Big surprise, hm? I would never have the nerve, because it's so easily checked, but I suppose people are counting on their writing being so wonderful that no one bothers to check their veracity. I said something fumbly about understanding that this didn't mean a sale necessarily, and that the market and the commercial side needed to be right, and he said it wasn't a commercial novel, or not only a commercial novel, it was one with a strong voice and a strong story, like Gene Wolfe or Howard Waldrop.
I wonder if I should start keeping a list of writers I've been compared to? (Kelly Link compared the voice in 'Fluke' to Jennifer Crusie and Connie Willis.) But I don't think anything can beat Evelyn's story being compared to Thomas Wolfe or a Henry James Bildungsroman among the amphibians, by TNH. That purely rocks.

Dinner was shepherd's pie. Nostalgia of a sort, for me, it being the end-of-the-month meal in my family. The first time I saw it on a restaurant (pub?) menu, I laughed. I suppose the equivalent would be seeing sloppy Joe on a menu. Perhaps that too can be ordered now? After meatloaf, all is possible.

After dinner I went over to the NH hotel room to see if Teresa was up for a one-on-one. Met Elise at the door, just leaving. Teresa was just about to eat dinner, Jim Macdonald was just leaving, and she looked exhausted. She asked for a raincheck and I said of course, because I knew this was a bonus, and since getting a line-edit from TNH was like getting beaten up by Emma Peel, I'd want her to be on form for it.
I didn't get a Teresa point, but she did laugh. She said 'So you'd like to see my party trick?" and came around to the table and sat down. And thus did I get a line-crit from TNH. She reads with intense concentration, you can see her gaze tracking down the page; occasionally she smiles or pushes her bottom lip out (which oddly is the trait Tyl has when concentrating). She mutters short comments, and from time to time her pencil darts down, rather the way I'd imagine Duerer or Giotto adding a line to an unfinished sketch. (Yes, I am a fangirl, but I'm a pretentious fangirl, give me credit) She fixed one of my not-quite-parallel constructions, added 'she' to a couple of long sentences for clarity, and pointed out one sentence where the referent may be unclear but didn't fix it because it isn't a straightforward fix (and I must learn to do these things myself). And asked me if Myl used the subjunctive, which I didn't know, off the top of my head. She said that I have good clear prose, and that the mock-archaic is a difficult style, but it looks as if I can handle it. I asked her about my commas, and whether there was a good text for comma usage. She said my commas are pretty good (now I want to tattoo that on myself somewhere) and that a 1st or 2d edition of Fowler's Usage was good for commas, but that commas were variable, and many places had house usages that were just strange. She changed one of my commas to a colon, so I asked her about colons, which frighten me the way semicolons used to. The colon is 'the stage magician conjuring up the rest of the sentence' (PNH added that the semicolon is the maitre-d' showing the rest of the sentence to its table.)
She read both chapters and the outline, though I'd rather expected her to stop after the first chapter, since I'd said I didn't want to impose when she was tired.
Partway through, Patrick showed up and was pleased. He said that when he'd asked her about scheduling a session with me, she'd gotten that hunted look in her eyes (which I can understand) and he'd said: 'No, you want to look at Barbara Gordon's manuscript'.
We had a brief chat afterwards, with sugar cookies, and I explained about being myself the best line-editor I had access to, and needing to know whether I was good enough to trust for my own work, or just wannabe-writer-level-good. Who shaves the barber?
I thanked her again, and asked her if she'd sign my copy of Making Book. She asked if it was a first edition and made a correction in the text of the Bret Easton Ellis article (the compulsion never fades, I see), then inscribed it 'to Barbara Gordon, who knows what she's doing.'
I went back to my room in a state of both exaltation and exultation. I think the only place it can go from here is direct translation into heaven. Where I suspect it would be hard to find an agent.

Viable Paradise, day two

Monday
Morning group crit was Diane and Terri-Lynne in the hot-seat, led by Debra Doyle and James Macdonald, in the Doyle/Macdonald room.
I'm trying to attach names to faces, so let's start. Diane is thin, with short dark hair, and tends to lean forward, which makes her seem both attentive and eager (this might have been because of the situation, though.) She looks as if she's on the verge of racing off after something that she's sensed before anyone else has. Terri-Lynne also has short dark hair, stocky build, and smiles frequently. She reminds me of Sandy, the cook who was so nice to me (and who ran off an armed robber once!) at Buddy's Steak Ranch, a no-nonsense earth mother.
The others giving crits were Evelyn, my roomie, who's tall and gently rounded, with soft brown hair and an unexpectedly intent manner (any language-geek laurels I have handy must go to her); Lucia, from AW, red hair, English accent and great glittery t-shirts; Erin, tall and sturdy, with long brown hair and an open face; Chris, already met on the trip, long brown hair and pale face, good at fading into backgrounds (I thought I was good, but he's better).
This was quite tough for Diane, I think, because nobody was really happy with the first chapter, though the second was strong, and several people suggested she start with it (myself included). The third chapter has some backstory infodump issues and more crucially a number of generic fantasy aspects. The second chapter (and parts of the first) is a convincing and at times touching examination of a schizophrenic girl's inner turmoil. It turns out that Diane had a schizophrenic relative, and she certainly got it right; I was getting Rose Garden echoes. But the third chapter jump to a fantasy world was totally unexpected. As I said then, if I'd picked it up in a bookshop I'd have thought the book was misbound. I didn't give her my annotated printout, because that was all line-crit stuff and if she's going to be rewriting as much as it seems, she'll be dumping most of the problem stuff anyways.
ETA: turns out her original submission began with an action-packed prologue, which she later cut, because of what everyone says about prologues. Sounds as if she'd do better to call the prologue ch.1, and cut her current ch.1 instead. Debra Doyle pointed out that moving from fantasy to our world is simpler than moving from our world to fantasy, because if you start in our world, you set the reader up for a realistic story. (The children's books that move from our world to fantasy have a prominent means of moving the characters, not a scene-break.)
Terri-Lynne's was easier on everyone, because she's more at ease with the structure than I think Diane is. It's an easy read, though a couple of spots dragged a little, and the fantastic elements are really nicely woven in. The weakest part is the plot element of the game, the thing that will presumably suck the characters into the fantasy world. It's spoken of as an FRP, but it reads like Fox and Goose, or Candyland, or any one of those roll the dice and jump a few spaces games. The role-playing aspect just didn't appear. Partly because I think she skimped on the gaming session, making it an explanation of mechanics instead of a chance for the characters to show themselves in play. She's not a gamer, and that did show, but it's an easy fix. I got props for my summary, which she said she'd like to use for agent queries. Woo! I am so the summary girl!
Back to the commons room, which is a large neutral-coloured room with what looks like indoor-outdoor carpetting. Pillars, and glass-paned doors to the outside. An alcove to the right with tables for coffee and hot water and bottled water. The challenge of getting hot water out of the coffee-maker while it brewed was met and mastered, though I almost stuck my foam cup to the hotplate by holding it too low.
First lecture was Jim Macdonald on plotting, with models of a chess-game and a model(yeah, model demonstrated by a model) of a house to explain art as being done within limits but providing the illusion of reality, which does not have limits. Much of this is covered in the Writing with Uncle Jim thread, so I won't retype it here. Positional chess, putting elements into story because they may be useful later or are just cool--you can always cut in revision. Can't count the rivets on a moving car; to fudge firearms use the word 'modified' because firearms and horses are what the readers will get you on; every piece and pawn thinks the chess game is about them.
At the end we got a story assignment: the editor of the anthology Hats of War has had a 5k story withdrawn, after the cover art and layout was done and the covers printed (so the anthology must be the right size or the spine won't fit. The cover shows the clapboard shingled house in the model, so that has to be included, because the withdrawn story is the one featuring that house. Plus, it has to feature the toy we were each given on arrival. (Mine is a crystal cat lick'n'stick tattoo.) Put 'an interesting person' into an interesting place (in this case the house) at an interesting time. Just that simple.
Jim is a big bear of a man, with a fondness for going barefoot. This makes an interesting conjunction with his leather jacket, sort of a biker guru.
Second lecture was Jim (James Patrick) Kelly on cheap plot tricks and other snippets. The reader's three questions: What is this story about? Is anything happening? Why should I care? The construction trick of Leaving Out the Boring Parts. Damon Knight(?) in a hurry, once wrote only the interesting parts of a story, planning to fill in the necessary transitions later. Found out that none of the boring parts were really necessary.
P pretty protagonist plot
G good goal generation
P plot problems paradigm
He talked about openings that make you want to read more, and read out a selection of openings from our subs. Mine was one, but he read the Brothers Grimm quote, which I can't take credit for, other than good taste in theft. He also talked about transition scenes, walking from one place to another, and how to skip them. Funny, because it's the analogy I use in the ballads class, about transitions in ballads being sudden but followable, and how close they are to cinematic transitions. Then I was beset with misgivings, realising that my story begins with three chapters of walking. It's one long transition scene. Okay, one of the characters is turned into a deer, but otherwise it's walking. In fact, the first 2/3ds of the book are walking back and forth, with occasional breaks for sleep and food.
Jim Kelly is a leprechaun (both stereotype and cliche, yet accurate). Small and spry, with immense energy, he springs about the room, gesturing and talking. He teaches creative writing, and must be a compelling lecturer.
Break for lunch. Muffins and peanut-butter sandwich for me.

My first one-one-one was with Debra Doyle. I brought cookies, the sugar cookies with cardomon. (Always bribe the judges) And my copy of the Madhouse Manor Pleyn Brown Wrapper songbook. She likes my story (woo!) though she gave the caveat that she loves this sort of thing and she may be so close to my perfect target audience that she will miss problems due to bias. No problem with the language, loved the physical details and the upstairs/downstairs interplay of the staff; we shared a brief gripe about pre-industrial fantasy settings without servants and attendants, and where nobles and powerful people were able to get privacy easily, or able to be seen and met with at a moment's notice. She suggested that I need more dialogue and interplay between Myl and Tyl before he's turned into a deer, to clarify their relationship, and that he might be made much younger than her, like 8 or 9 years old, so that his somewhat feckless behaviour is more excusable, and her mothering of him is intensified. Which I think would work really well, and would also make the beating and bruises crueller, because he's 'only a child'. He does need to be old enough to remember something of their life before Midame, though. Maybe 9 years old, that would leave him 3 when they arrive, depending on birthdays. Also what brings Myl back out of the willow knot? If Alard is endangered and she comes to warn him as well as nurture her baby and brother, it makes her commitment to him more of a factor in her finally abandoning her safest nest of all.

This was jellyfish night, it being clear. The beach is an easy walk away, and there are streetlights. The instructors and staff led the way, with students in untidy clumps trailing after. We reached a wooden bridge (untarmacked) with heaps of large stones flanking the banks beside it. The water rushed under it with a tidal sort of hurry.
Some people said they'd seen the glimmers, but it was hard to tell (for those who hadn't previously seen them) from moon reflections on the ripples. The kids were the first to clamber down the rocks, and I followed, giving in to my fondness for rock-clambering (which has been hampered by having to be careful of my stupid shoulder) and we found that under the bridge, shaded from the lights of passing cars, was the best spot.
The jellyfish are small, green-tinged lights, flickering on when they're disturbed, like fireflies under water, no larger. Many had gathered or been swept into the quiet bits between the rocks and the pilings, and lit up like tiny Christmas lights if you swished your hand in the quiet water. The kids found many stranded on the land after tide-change, and hopped up and down to shake the ground and light them up. After a while I climbed back up to let others use my prime spot by the piling, and ended up babysitting a plush bat brought by one of the kids (small, long blonde hair, determined). Her dad asked why she'd brought the bat, but it seemed obvious to me that it was because it was night, and bats go out at night.

And I only have one ms. to read tonight, Laura's, because I'm the other one on deck. I am too tired for trepidation. How are other people getting these things done? Do they not need to sleep? I have done nothing with my story assignment.

Viable Paradise, day one

Sunday...very tired.
Have two manuscripts to read and crit before sleeping. Managed to nap a fair amount in the airport, on the plane, and on the bus. After arriving at Boston I had my usual panicky time assuring myself that the bus stop right outside International was indeed the correct bus stop, but after asking three bus drivers in succession about getting to Woods Hole I felt somewhat calmer.
When the Peter Pan / Bonanza bus rolled up I saw that I shouldn't have worried, as they are completely unmistakable, painted with scenes of Peter and the Lost Boys frolicking about. Each has a name, also. Ours was Fly Away Home, and others were Wolves and Crocodiles, Peter's Promise, and Home Again. But, gentle reader, you note that I have said 'ours'. I was carrying my Making Light totebag with the list of auctorial insanities, and it was recognised. Evelyn Browne, my roomie-to-be was on the bus already, and so was Chris Miller (online Chris Azure). So we bunched up--the bus was nearly empty--and spent a little time swapping nervousness and excitement.
I slept through most of the bus trip (fortunately Woods Hole was the last stop) prying my eyelids up occasionally to notice sun-spattered leaves and much general greenness. So my opinion of Mass. so far is that it's sunny and green.
The ferry terminal is about the size of the Saltspring/Fulford terminal, but less organised. It was all very sunny and bright. The lack of sleep made me feel like an overexposed photograph, bleached to sepia shadows (there's probably a Photoshop filter that does that). At the ferry terminal I noticed a woman with an English accent and wondered if it was Lucia, but felt a bit funny about asking just on that basis. It turned out that yes, it was, and the second redhead was Retterson. Evelyn spotted two (three?) more, but the only name I remember right now was Evan Goer, no, wait, John Chu as well. And we formed a clump disembarking, though somehow I ended up in front, possibly from many many years of riding ferries. I were riding the ferries afore some of ye were born, aaarrrhhh.
We were met, by one of the staff (a burly fellow with a van, probably Bill--thanks Jennifer!) holding a VP sign, and followed him like Robert McCloskey ducklings across the street. He gave us a brief travelogue while driving to the Inn. Martha's Vineyard is insanely picturesque. I managed to stay awake, probably because it's a very short drive. I could have walked it, though it would have been a pain with the bags.
The Island Inn is very nice and the townhouse is huge. Mur Lafferty's got the upstairs bedroom, which is reached by a skinny spiral staircase, all treads and wire struts. Not what one would want to ascend while inebriated. I wonder how the maids manage, because it doesn't look like fun to haul anything large up or down. Evelyn and I have the downstairs double bedroom, which is again roomy, none of this turning sideways to squeeze between the beds. It has a long hallway/closet that leads to the passthrough for linens, so I imagine the maids have an easier time of it downstairs.
The sitting room is a storey and a half high, wooden plank ceiling, plastered walls and french doors leading onto the verandah/porch. There's a tv and a sound system that I suspect will be untouched. And a small but complete kitchen, though Mur has determined that there are no baking sheets, which limits the usefulness of the oven. Maybe I'll pick some up if I go shopping again.
The view from the porch reminds me, oddly, of Suffolk. Flat, hedges, trees, green. I started thinking of Mary and Griffin and Jem again. Or Tom, trudging along the edge of the fens in The Astrologer's Death.
Almost immediately after signing in (and Evelyn cleverly thinking of picking up the highspeed internet connection thingy right then, before the office closed - turned out it was the last one) we were off again on a shopping run with Jen Pelland. Me, Evelyn, Bart and John Chu. I had to borrow $10 from Evelyn on discovering that my US$ stash was still in my laptop bag. Remember to pay this back!
Mur arrived after we got back and then she went off shopping. We asked her to pick up a sponge for washing (Erin having let us know that there were only paper towels, and both of us having forgotten that.)
Meet and Greet. Dinner was hamburgers, meat or veg.
We got portfolios with info in them (mine is blue) and printouts of the stories we'll be group-critting as well as our own. I must read those tonight and make notes. In the folder is a how-to sheet which is pretty much the Clarion style used at VCon. I can probably do it if I limit my comments to that and don't run on and on.
But then we played Thing (which I kind of enjoyed)--though our group was at one point reduced to spinning the bottle to pick Things--and Mafia (which I couldn't get a handle on at all). TNH was accused early on of being Mafia and staged quite the flounce, which made me sympathetic yet suspicious--on the other hand, it seemed likely to be a more entertaining game with her in than out, and the value of 'winning' was unclear, so I voted to let her live, as did most others. I can see where the games do get one acquainted with the other students, and I have a handle on a few of them now. The Mafia circle was everyone, so it was harder to keep track of name/face connections, but more were covered at once.
I wish I were one of those personable people who remember names easily. Good thing we all have nametags.

I've begged off the last game so I can get the crits done, so I'll stop this instalment now (though I may fill in gaps later) and go do that.

Viable Paradise, sudden realisation

Not a new diary post, but an insight! I've fussed on and off about what makes an applicant acceptable to Viable Paradise, and I think I've figured it out, fueled by two glasses of ginger wine (mmmm, ginger).
A successful VP applicant is in the top 10% of the slushpile. While unproven, this theory fits well enough to leave my mind at ease.

In other news, I'm just able to type again, after bunging up my hand making four batches of shortbread (double batch of plain Scots shortbread, one cheese and one chocolate). Apparently the tendons in the hand don't like doing that all in one night. But I prefer to blame my calculator at work, which requires the buttons to be pushed by the eraser-end of a pencil, and even then the 4 and the 0 don't always work. And having to get the Visa statement done before leaving for Christmas.
Merry Christmas to all, and Happy Boxing Day to those who observe it, whether by shopping or by giving gift-boxes to the tradesmen.