The trip should have been simple: fly to San Diego,
spend one hour on a panel and two days in the embrace of the fantasy community, bracket the convention with family time with my cousin Jon and his
awesome better half, Christy. That simple plan lasted about five minutes. Here's how it actually played out:
Two weeks before WFC: my
niece Prachi announces her engagement (CONGRATS, you two!). Soon thereafter I find myself making
arrangements to rendezvous with her and her fiance the day after the
convention. No problem; can’t wait.
One week before WFC: a caller
floors me with the news that I’m a finalist in the utterly bizarre Esquire
Magazine contest described in a previous post, and that they’re ready to fly me to
New York on Halloween day. No problem; I can cut the trip short and still see
everybody.
Six days before WFC: finally
get my panel assignment. Going to be mighty well prepared.
Three days before WFC: my
cousin gets called for jury duty. At least we’ll still have nights.
Two days before WFC: the
weather gods announce that the northeast is going to be mauled by an early
snowstorm. Blackouts guaranteed. I fly off worrying how my wife Kiran will keep
herself and the animals warm.
Wednesday, 26 Oct: Hartford
to San Diego. Prepare for my panel. Listen to the audiobook of Graham Joyce’s The
Silent Land and am almost in tears.
Dinner with Jon and Christy. Best Mexican meal in ten years.
Thusday, 27 Oct: Exploring
San Diego in the blazing sun. Drive to the beach at La Joya--sea lions,
pelicans, osprey, tidal pools. Ask myself, bewildered, why I’ve been in New
England for fourteen years.
Arrive that night at the WFC
convention center (huge, hulking, green; visions of Gaddafi’s compound) with
sand in my shoes. Registration desk abandoned. Undocumented, I go in search of
Karen Lord’s reading (from her World Fantasy Award-nominated Redemption in Indigo), meet her agent Sally Harding desperately seeking
the same room. Lord’s reading is brilliant and mischievous, and it’s a shame
to slip away before it’s over—but my own panel’s starting.
Nothing remarkable here. The
would-be moderator [I won’t name him; he has twice in my hearing introduced
himself as “moderately famous” and so requires no further boost] has failed to
notice the [m] beside his name in the panel description, and promptly hands off
that responsibility to Barb Galler-Smith, who rises nimbly to the occasion. We
discuss “The Ship (or Dirigible) as a Fantastical Character” and I try to steer
us away from the predictable question: “What if the ship is ACTUALLY ALIVE, you
know, with ITS OWN BRAIN and maybe A FACE, and, LUNGS, and KIDNEYS…” but the
draw of such questions is irresistible. The hour passes. I’m overjoyed (will
always be overjoyed) at the chance to sign some books.
Friday, 28 Oct: Mad joy.
Writers, writers, writers. Bump into Lord early on and find she’s even smarter
and funnier one-on-one. Coffee with Rani Graff (Graff Publications, Tel Aviv)
and fantasist Kate Elliott; her son has told her she must read Red Wolf. More coffee with Jonathon and Shawna Burgess, of
Alaska. Jonathon is not only at work on his own fantasy novel, but has twenty
times my experience at sea, and I quake to consider the mistakes he may unearth
in my books. Too late now. Quick hellos to Nalo Hopkinson, John Connolly,
Mishell Baker, N.K. Jemisin. Great, boisterous panel with Connolly, Graham
Joyce, Pat Murphy and others, fighting about fairy tales. Went to Daryl
Gregory’s book launch party (best beer & nicest host in the compound) and
saw Liz Argall, who I have missed for her bright goodness and knowledge of
animals. Meet Rome Quezada, senior editor at the Science Fiction Book Club.
Daryl is charming & deadpan funny, as ever.
Then comes dinner, with my
own wünder-agent, John Jarrold; and Betsy Mitchell, outgoing and legendary
leader of Del Rey. Around our table lumber giants in the field--Tim Pratt, Greg
Bear, Robert Silverberg—and I am a little boy again, agog.
Parties afterwards—loud,
packed, overwhelming. Peat Brett and Sam Sykes are lobbing missiles of wit;
they also introduce me to the incredibly impressive Myke Cole. Myke is a
writer, soldier and three-tour veteran of the war in Iraq, with a three-book
deal from Ace (Shadow Ops) soon to
burst upon the genre.
Back home, the snow has
begun.
Liz Gorinsky, Paul Kane, Guy Gavriel Kay, Diana L. Paxson |
Saturday, 29 October: More,
and more intensely, the same. Jonathon Burgess tells me of almost dying on his
father’s fishing boat. Silverberg tells me that much SFF disappoints him at a
craft level; “the music of the language” just isn’t there, he says. Lunch is
peanuts and dry granola. The hotel staff are trying to extort $150 from Karen
Lord to pick up her mail. There’s a panel on wishes and Faustian bargains,
chaired by Guy Gavriel Kay, who is so erudite that the other panelists tend to
answer “Yes” [full stop] in reply to his long, qualifier-rich questions.
At happy hour I’m happy to
see Scott Lynch, however briefly; he is a mystery presence to be sure. Then
it’s an interview with Gillian Redfearn, editorial director of Gollancz, my
beloved U.K. publisher. I’d met Gillian only once (I work directly with Simon
Spanton), but quickly discover that the Dread Power she holds over the heads of
writers has not kept her from being the nicest person you’ll ever meet. As our
chat winds down I learn that she’s going to New York the same day I am. In a
matter of moments it’s decided: she will be my +1 at the Esquire event. Minutes
later, alone among the Gaddafi flower beds, I begin to wonder what the hell I
thought I was doing. Why should this worldly editor waste her valuable New York
time at a party with some random author? Especially one hosted by a magazine
dedicated to the proposition that all men deserve Louis Vuitton.
Too late. Next panel. Holly
Black and Patrick Rothfuss discuss fairies. Apparently the better sort are
nasty. Back home, no power; my dear wife is walking around the house in
Gore-Tex and gloves.
Dinner with Theodora Goss,
now Professor Goss (as well as an amzing author). We take the tram to Old Town,
San Diego, and have such an intense discussion that we don’t notice that the
restaurant is filling up with the gory undead. A zombie crawl has ended here;
when at last we look around us we see nothing but bloody, decaying mouths
gulping tequilas and chile relleno.
Parties follow, interminable
and welcome still. At N.K. Jemisin’s event we play Twister, and I deport myself
acceptably until felled by Liz Argall, who goes on to fell all who come before
her (lastly Scott
Edelman) in this game she’d never
played before. Five or six people I wanted to see are mysteriously elsewhere,
though. I am staggering home sore and puzzled when Karen Lord appears out of
the foliage and tells me of “the British party,” on an upper balcony. Spotting
my hesitation, she tugs my sleeve decisively. The next phase of debauchery
begins.
Sunday, 30 Oct: Thank God I’m
a lightweight drinker. No hangover to speak of, though I’m so exhausted I can
barely think. Still I recover enough to enjoy the day immensely when Prachi and
her fiance, Shreyas, pick me up at Gaddafi Gate. We have a great meal at the San
Diego seaport, then march the waterfront under the blazing sun, stopping to
admire the Star of India
(beautiful, ancient fore-and-aft rigged tall ship). H.M.S. Surprise (from the film Master and Commander) and the U.S.S. Midway (on which the Japanese surrender was signed; these
WWII aircraft carriers served as my size model for I.M.S. Chathrand, the giant sailing ship in my series. They are
H*U*G*E when you stand in their shadow, but small beside today’s equivalents).
^^^^^^^^^^^ WORLD FANTASY COVERAGE ABOVE
vvvvvvvvvv ESQUIRE/NEW YORK COVERAGE BELOW
Monday, 31 Oct: Flight to New
York. Gillian and Myke Cole are on the same airplane. When we land, Gillian takes off so fast
I’m certain she’s rethinking this whole Esquire adventure. But there’s no escape from baggage
claim, and there I learn that she’s actually quite looking forward to it. This
should set my mind at ease, but doesn’t.
Trains to Penn Station, then
a short march to the hotel, which is adjacent to the Empire State Building. In
my room there’s a king-size bed, and Rihanna, staring up at me from the cover
of a complimentary Esquire. She is
dressed in chocolate shavings, or perhaps they’re strands of seaweed from La
Joya. Quick glass of wine downstairs with the other finalists, then a beer with
my friend David Bell, who is kind enough to journey all the way to the hotel
vicinity after a work day that lasted until eight. David tells me that his
father handed him Esquire in his
teens, along with the stern explanation that it mattered, in the late 20th
century, how any serious man presented himself to the world. It had an effect,
David admits.
Tuesday, 1 Nov: Ascent to the Esquire offices, in the Hearst Tower. The Hearst lobby is a
silver double-escalator parting an aluminum tidal wave, flooded with light from
a vast, remote upper atrium. Matrix agents (ear pieces & all) guard the
entrance ferociously, but we are whisked inside and high into the stratosphere.
Here, in the Esquire conference room, we work for three hours with Colum
McCann, National Book Award winner and one of the most amazing fiction writers
alive. Colum is a passionate and generous teacher as well as a brilliant mind,
and that time was just amazing. The other finalists, who I’m getting to know in
moments and snatches, are all delightful: strong writers from immensely
different backgrounds. One is retiring from 15 years on the radio in West
Virginia, another a smoke jumper who parachutes into Montana forest fires. All
their stories are superb.
Halfway through the workshop, I slip away & put on my glad rags in the men's room, fearing there won’t be time later on. David
Granger, Esquire’s editor-in-chief,
surprises me with my pants off. He is unflappable, not to say unaware of me.
Suddenly it’s five o’clock:
time to meet Gillian downstairs & escort her up for a cocktail hour hosted by Mr
Granger, in his eyrie on the 44th floor. But the drink is not to be.
There’s no one to be spared to escort us through the bunker defenses at ground
level: once outside, I’m out. That’s quite alright with me, actually: I feel
somewhat lost among the impeccably groomed.
There’s Gillian at the
corner, in good spirits and a cocktail dress. She’s not put out to be locked
out, and we have a pretty great time finding our way by train to the Brooklyn
waterfront. I forget when I learn (but am amazed to learn) that this is her
first visit to New York). After
staggering around in the windswept darkness awhile, we take shelter in a humble
Italian restaurant, down some beer and calamari, and then it’s showtime. A few
more twists and turns, and we reach the Esquire Apartment.
Oh, that place. Picture a
huge, turn-of-the-century garment factory on the waterfront, crowned by an
immensely wide, four-story tower with 14’ tall clock faces looking out the
Brooklyn Bridge, the Manhattan Bridge, lower Manhattan and the East River. Now
hollow out the inside, all the way to the roof. Run a big glass elevator
straight up the middle, wrap a glass-and-hardwood staircase around the
elevator, and build floating hardwood floors at various heights as one ascends.
Place multiple delux bars and expensive sculpture on each floor. Glass in the
clock faces, leaving the cast iron arms and frame in situ. Sprinkle with
aquaria, light shows and hanging crystal spheres, add loud music and fancy hors
d’oeuvres. Blow in beautiful people as one might insulation, until the place is
bursting with them.
Gillian Redfearn on the roof |
That’s the scene. I think I'm ready, having glimpsed the apartment’s website. As it happens I can barely
speak. The best I can manage is to turn to Gillian and say, “Welcome to New
York—we do this all the time, you know.”
We finalists read our tiny stories in
rapid succession beside the Steinway. How anyone is able to digest all ten is
beyond me, but they seem to. People actually come forward and speak to us intelligently, and the compliments feel sincere. They’re
readers, these beautiful people. At the microphone, I think unaccountably of a green stuffed dinosaur that my poodle once disemboweled.
Events soon start to blur.
Lisa Consiglio of the Aspen Writers Foundation (which co-sponsored the competition) makes a gracious speech,
thanking Esquire for its 78 years of commitment to serious writing (a
compliment very much deserved; forget the crack about Louis Vuitton).
Don Julio (the tequila company) gives away all the tequila the masses can
drink—including, if you ask especially, glasses of Don Julio 1942, aged in oak.
Specially trained barmen smoothly transfer our drinks from glass to plastic
(classy plastic) before we step out on the rooftop patio, lest we drop something lethally. I wonder if they
will be transferred back again when we descended (no).
Posing with Adrienne Celt, one of the finalists |
A stranger high-five's
me. An old, white-suited man with a cane lets me help him down the Cinderella
staircase. A young woman lolls on a divan beneath a fur that could hide a grizzly
bear. Jon Fine of Amazon stands on a landing, larger than a grizzly, power
streaming from him like waves of heat.
After meeting Josh Ritter,
who plays two f---king brilliant songs for us, I get up my courage to say hello
to him and find an incredibly friendly, down-to-earth soul in the space filled
by the unapproachable star a moment ago. His talent is shattering. So is the
fall my camera takes when a stranger tries to take a photo of me with Colum
McCann—later I download some earlier shots, the Fuji’s last full measure. In a
fit of generosity the man presses five twenties into my hand, then
vaporizes—poof—before I can speak.
To my delight, Nate Ochs (the
smoke jumper) wins the competition: his story is beautiful, and he had not
written a word in ten years. It will appear next year in Esquire.
Late that night, after Gillian catches a taxi back to Manhattan, and the
Agents herd us gently out the doors, and Jon Fine doesn’t quite persuade us to
join him at a bar called Superfine (or rather, as he puts it repeatedly,
SUPERFINE!), we finalists drift in a dream back to the hotel.
There we shed our glad rags and pull on pajamas, pile on & around Nate’s
bed, toast him, and laugh & bemoan the writing life for so long that at last even
the street below grow quiet.
The next morning we scatter,
and real life resumes. My plan had been to cap the trip off with a quick trip
down to Occupy Wall Street. But to go there for an hour seems almost a shameful
act—that is to say, an act, not a commitment—and the truth is I long for home.
I’m there by evening; Kiran and the animals and the restored electric lights
draw me in. Fantasies are fine things, but I have stumbled, exhausted, back to
waking life.
4 comments:
What a madcap, surreal set of travels from start to end! Glad you enjoyed the Esquire experience; we know winning isn't needed to have fun ;) It was great meeting you at WFC2011, and I look forward to our next mutual con attendance.
Wow! You had an even crazier trip than I did!
Your description of the New York trip is amazing. Aside from the glamour and glitz you describe, it's a place I've always wanted to see. Likewise, it was great meeting you in San Diego. Keep in touch!
It was SO terrific to meet (or re-meet) you all in San Diego.
Merumsai: you're right about the winning/fun disconnect. I think I got more joy out of Nate's win than I could have if I'd taken the big prize myself.
Jon: this is the first time I've seen any New York glitz; often what one notices is the way the garbage competes with the foot traffic.
Janeite: thank you for bringing me books to sign, and for being a friend to my books & reading generally. And for explaining the source of the massive continuity of ducks.
A very good and informative article indeed . It helps me a lot to enhance my knowledge, I really like the way the writer presented his views. I hope to see more informative and useful articles in future.
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