A vague and annoying placeholder
Nov. 1st, 2011 03:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceI 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.
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.