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Sep. 24th, 2007
Three. Days. Off.
Sep. 24th, 2007 07:39 pmWell, a day-and-two-halves at FantasyCon, including one day where I did five panels in three different guises (you didn't know I guised, did you? But yes: I am a guiser) which it's hard to call a day off, but three days in which I did not write a word of fiction. Yay.
What did I do? I drank. To excess, apparently, both nights (according to other people's reports, that is: what do I know?). And talked, both privately and professionally, and also to excess (according to my own report). And ate fine curry-food, two nights running, and very possibly to excess (but I have no reports on that). And did a reading (of this year's Summer Phantoms story, "The Summer House") very late at night, and was wise next morning with Alex Davis of Alt.Fiction on the subject of funding projects, and then had a mad afternoon of being myself on one panel at two o'clock and Chris Fowler on another panel at three (Chris himself being unable to arrive, alas, so I had to be blond & gorgeous in his stead) and then myself holding forth on the writing life for an hour and a half from four. Kept my voice, kept my cool, decided I was probably fabulous after all. And then was asked to be Ramsey Campbell on a ghost-story panel, 'cos the man himself had gone to bed. So I did.
And the next day I went to the AGM and argued my case and won the votes I cared about, which was greatly satisfying; and sat through the banquet, which was not (open letter to FantasyCon committee: if I ever ever try to book for the banquet again, tear up the cheque and call the police; either it's a fake or I've gone insane); and then there was the awards ceremony. Where I had to accept Julie Phillips' award for her book on Tiptree, if she won, which she did not; and I had to present two awards myself, one as myself and one as Chris Fowler; and I had to make an idiot of myself in my own name, happily, rather than Chris's (K - I - D spells 'kid' - who knew?); and then I had to not-win the best novel award, because Tim Lebbon did that instead. Which I suppose it was his turn, because when I won it my own self I beat him - but I do not think these things should be decided by turns, Buggins' or otherwise. I think I should get them all, because I am clearly Best. And it was all a mistake by the voters, as so many of these awards turn out to be, because they do keep not giving them to me.
What did I do? I drank. To excess, apparently, both nights (according to other people's reports, that is: what do I know?). And talked, both privately and professionally, and also to excess (according to my own report). And ate fine curry-food, two nights running, and very possibly to excess (but I have no reports on that). And did a reading (of this year's Summer Phantoms story, "The Summer House") very late at night, and was wise next morning with Alex Davis of Alt.Fiction on the subject of funding projects, and then had a mad afternoon of being myself on one panel at two o'clock and Chris Fowler on another panel at three (Chris himself being unable to arrive, alas, so I had to be blond & gorgeous in his stead) and then myself holding forth on the writing life for an hour and a half from four. Kept my voice, kept my cool, decided I was probably fabulous after all. And then was asked to be Ramsey Campbell on a ghost-story panel, 'cos the man himself had gone to bed. So I did.
And the next day I went to the AGM and argued my case and won the votes I cared about, which was greatly satisfying; and sat through the banquet, which was not (open letter to FantasyCon committee: if I ever ever try to book for the banquet again, tear up the cheque and call the police; either it's a fake or I've gone insane); and then there was the awards ceremony. Where I had to accept Julie Phillips' award for her book on Tiptree, if she won, which she did not; and I had to present two awards myself, one as myself and one as Chris Fowler; and I had to make an idiot of myself in my own name, happily, rather than Chris's (K - I - D spells 'kid' - who knew?); and then I had to not-win the best novel award, because Tim Lebbon did that instead. Which I suppose it was his turn, because when I won it my own self I beat him - but I do not think these things should be decided by turns, Buggins' or otherwise. I think I should get them all, because I am clearly Best. And it was all a mistake by the voters, as so many of these awards turn out to be, because they do keep not giving them to me.
Cute, and uncute
Sep. 24th, 2007 10:54 pmDozing this morning because I didn't want to get up, I dreamed that I was in a van parked by the zoo and I'd just acquired a new cat from a passer-by, and I was holding her in my arms wondering whether she was going to stay there all the way home - and then I woke up, to find Mac-the-cat entirely snuggled in my arms and fully intending to stay there. Aww.
Which he did, until I had to move because of pain. I have sprung my back somehow over the weekend - probably drunken folly - and everything is very ouchy, to the point where I am thinking of visiting my doctor. Granted, he will only say 'give it six months, Chaz' - but he might give me megapainkillers, which would be welcome just now, given that the ibuprofen I can buy legally ain't touching it. But it'll be a week before I can get an appointment, and by then it will likely have faded anyway, to the point where ibuprofen is all I need. We have been here before.
Which he did, until I had to move because of pain. I have sprung my back somehow over the weekend - probably drunken folly - and everything is very ouchy, to the point where I am thinking of visiting my doctor. Granted, he will only say 'give it six months, Chaz' - but he might give me megapainkillers, which would be welcome just now, given that the ibuprofen I can buy legally ain't touching it. But it'll be a week before I can get an appointment, and by then it will likely have faded anyway, to the point where ibuprofen is all I need. We have been here before.
Story time
Sep. 24th, 2007 11:00 pmAlso, I came home to find a gentle reminder in my e-mail, that I had promised to deliver a short story. Before the end of this month. Eek.
Happily, I have characters to hand, who are known to have secrets: a couple of eunuchs from 'Selling Water by the River' used to go off for midnight excursions and never really said where they went or what they did. As they haven't said, I do of course have no idea my own self where they went or what they did; here is the perfect chance for them to 'fess up.
I have sent them on their way, and am following with interest.
Happily, I have characters to hand, who are known to have secrets: a couple of eunuchs from 'Selling Water by the River' used to go off for midnight excursions and never really said where they went or what they did. As they haven't said, I do of course have no idea my own self where they went or what they did; here is the perfect chance for them to 'fess up.
I have sent them on their way, and am following with interest.