A vague and annoying placeholder

I know, I should be posting a serious con-report about WFC - but nah. Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery panels and parties. I will just note en passant that San Diego was gorgeously hot, that I have a brick red neck broken only by the line of my lanyard, and that I had a conversation with Peter Beagle. That's Peter S Beagle. We spoke of good beer and bad news, the death of Diana Norman whom we both adored.

Then we came home in an airplane, and this morning I heard from my editor, who rather likes the new novel. So that's okay. Juliet and I went adventuring in San Francisco, on trolley-buses and feet, to view the Golden Gate Bridge rising through the fog. Bright sun on us, thick fog-banks on the water. It was lovely. I did take photos, tho' I was mostly grumbling that I needed a better camera, which I do. If any of them are adequate, I'll post them here (Karen observed that there's a difference between preparing something for publication and sharing it with friends; I kind of suggested that maybe somewhere in my head was an editorial voice that didn't quite recognise the distinction).

Then Jules got on a plane to leave us, and I sat in the sun and read Tim Powers and wandered through the gorgeous-foodstalls of the Ferry building until it was after work and I could meet K and we could come home. Which we have, just in time to be pestered by little kids trick-or-treating. I wouldn't mind, but a very small boy dressed like Michael Jackson and doing a dance that involved clutching at his groin... Um. I did kind of wish we'd got home ten minutes later.

In the meantime, my throat is sore but that might just be from a weekend of talking more than usual. I have laid in whisky and honey and lemons, though, just in case; and tomorrow, I really ought to do some work.

Post-con update

Yeah, so I don't feel good now. Sick and sad and angry, that's how I feel.

The sick is nothing; my throat is scratchy and my head is fluff. I have whisky and honey and lemons, I have pills of many colours, I'll be fine.

But? All the WFC round-ups I'm seeing this morning are talking about one guy, and a sequence of harassment and assault that seems to have gone on way too long before anyone took meaningful action. Jaym Gates has a detailed summary here. And the thing is, you feel sad and angry for the victims and their friends, and then you feel sad and angry at a good con soured, and maybe you clutch your head a bit and cry "How long, O lord, how long?" - and then you read Jaym's post again and start wondering if there's anything you can actually do to help, at future cons or betweentimes. And - if you're me, at least - you realise suddenly that you're drawing up a long and very convincing list of reasons why you can't help, why there isn't anything you personally can usefully do. You're not physically imposing or personally assertive, you're not a black belt in anything, you're the wrong gender, you're not connected or influential, etc etc. And that, right there? Is one of the reasons why the situation perpetuates, why people go on behaving this way and expect to get away with it, because some of us find too many reasons not to get involved.

So, yeah. Jaym gets an email from me, and I am now officially involved. For whatever use I can be, and whatever value that has.

Now it can be linked

Charles de Lint on Desdaemona:

THE FIRST chapter of Desdaemona is one of the best openings I've read in a long time: intriguing and edgy, with so much forward propulsion it's hard to catch your breath as you turn the pages. The event it describes is simple, but with the weight of a world of promise and mystery behind every word and action.

In other news:

Fruit flies like a hot toddy, and so do I. Mostly I like them made by the patented Brenchley Method, where you squeeze a chunk of lemon into a receptacle, add a squirt of honey, slosh in near-boiling water, top up with whisky, taste it - and then go around again, doubling all ingredients except the water. (At home I'd add a few drops of Angostura bitters, but I have none here.) (Geoff Ryman adds ground cumin, or used to twenty-odd years ago. I might try that again, see how I like it now that I'm nearly as old as he is.)

I am also very grateful to whoever it was who thought of putting really good honey into silly bear-shaped plastic squeezy bottles. So much easier than spooning the stuff.

I remember two dreams from last night: one where the boys were here (can I be missing the boys?) and they made an unauthorised escapade into the back yard and freedom - but they were good boys and came when they were called, which makes it a Good Dream; and one where self and friends-from-here were at a Chinese restaurant and one bottle of wine was never going to be enough but that was all we had and the food kept disappearing before I'd eaten any and then so did the guests and thus it was a Bad Dream, and I was glad to wake myself up. And then I was awake, pretty much, but I still let Karen get up and go off to work on her own, rather than rising before her and commuting with her. By definition, then, Not Well. Am trying to work, but it's all a little desultory. Darling du jour, so far: "I wasn’t doing myself any good, I knew that; this wasn’t an argument you could win by arguing."

Time for another hot toddy, I fancy. And I might just sit in the yard with a book for half an hour, catch the last of the sun. It's been quite breezy today - but, y'know. Warm and pleasant are the breezes. It's still sunshine and sandals weather, on the first of November.