Friends and Breastfeeding

Here's a cute pic of me at the Carnivale Fancy dress party at WisCon. My head looks weird because there's a mask on it, though you can't tell. Rebecca and Carla are with me, two friends I actually managed to make this weekend.

On the plane home from WisCon, who just happened to be sitting by me, but Sharyn November, senior editor for Peguin's YA scifi/fantasy line. Watch me twitch with anxiety. She noticed I was reading her latest anthology as we waited to board the plane, and then on it, she was sitting just behind me. As the plane landed and we waited for everyone to get off (we were waaaaay at the back), I got her to sign the book and chatted with her about past and future anthologies. Now, I didn't exactly secure an invitation to submit, but she did mention that she never gets enough science fiction and is looking for it for her next anthology. So in the next 30 days, I must finish the sci fi story I'm writing right now and send it to her. She's one of the top editors around, which means my chances are slim, but what the heck, it's a chance.
So, last time I wrote my dispatches from WisCon, I was just sending them as emails to Jen. In them, I wrote extensively about the heavy-breather girl I recognized from an English class I took and her Jesus-esque boyfriend. They were back this year. The entire weekend, he wore Ali Baba-style pants that allowed us all to see his lovely black brief underwear. And guess what? They've procreated. There was a kid, walking and talking, probably 2 or 3 years old. Which means she could have been pregnant last time I saw her, three years ago. OK.
So I'm sitting in the room where everyone gathers between panels. They have soda and cookies and cheese and tables for everyone to hang out and eat. I'm waiting for my bagel to toast. Heavy-breather English girl is lying on a couch nearby napping, until her child comes and sticks its hands down her shirt. I kind of laugh, because kids do things like that. Heavy-breather then proceeds to haul her shirt up, yank her bra down and pop out a boob. Snack time for junior.
Now. I am all about women breast-feeding in public. Most women are very discreet about it, covering up with a baby-blanket and kind of just tucking the kid under there. It's beautiful and healthy and brings joy to my heart to see it. But don't just flop it all out there, people. And how does the saying go? "If they're old enough to ask for it, they're too old to have it." This kid stood next to the couch, took a drink, then went back to playing with legos. Ugh ugh ugh.

Final Report

I just finished accosting Holly Black in the book signing room. She wasn't sitting at a table with a name sign like everyone else, probably because her books weren't being sold at the convention, but I had brought "Tithe" with me. So I screwed up my courage and walked up to her and asked her to sign it. Here is what she wrote: "To Jasmine--what belongs to you, but others use it more than you do? Holly Black"
My name.
She was really nice and I got to talk to her a little while about her award and about the sequel to "Tithe." Then I made a rather ungraceful exit because I was afraid I would bug her. I like her a lot. I attempted to get Kelly Link's signature, but have failed so far. She's not at a table either, and accosting her has been more difficult.
I have mixed feelings about this weekend. It made me more frustrated that I haven't been published yet, but it didn't make me doubt my own writing abilities. Which, I guess, is a good thing. It made me want to grow up to be Jane Yolen, and it made me want to take more classes and read more books. I made enough friends to be able to sit around talking to them until 1 a.m. last night. But will the friends get me anywhere? I understand that that is not the point of friends, but that is part of the point of coming here. To make contacts that can help me out. But you never know who the next Holly Black will be. I hope I can come back; I hope I will be published by next year. I hope the panels will get better, or I will get better at choosing them and at understanding what they are telling me.
I cried at the Guest of Honor speeches last night. Jane Yolen spoke about her husband who just died, Kate Wilhelm told us how she would never compromise what her books were about, even if it meant they wouldn't get published. Easy to say when you're Kate Wilhelm.
One last thing. I have decided I need to go to Clarion. Maybe not next year, or the year after, but soon. It is six weeks long, but it's something I have to do (if they'll take me. But why wouldn't they?).
There is such a great community, and such great personalities here. Even when I can't stand the level of nerdiness (I heard a guy say today: "I'm biligual--I speak English and Computer. I put that at the top of my resume...") it's still an incredibly open and creative atmosphere.

Report of Exhaustion

I'm tired. I'm tired of talking about science fiction. Scratch that. I'm tired of listening to mostly uninteresting people talk about science fiction. There are very few panels today that I had any interest in.
Last night was the Tiptree Auction, which is the highlight, not to mention the heart and soul, of WisCon. It is hilarious, and they auction off some really cool stuff--like a fan letter from James Tiptree (aka Alice Sheldon) to Carol Emshwiller. It went for $700. Also yesterday I attended an excellent panel titled "Never the Hero: Girls in Genre Literature." Sharyn November, a YA editor, moderated it. She's fun to listen to and so incredibly knowledgable.
I got to speak very briefly with Carol Emshwiller last night too. She is so amazing, and older than my grandma. She writes books and stories that I, even if I could manage to think up this stuff, would be too afraid to write.
Tonight the Guests of Honor will give their speeches. I love listening to Jane Yolen. She is the reason I came this year, and I have enjoyed all of her panels. She is so interesting and wise and truly intelligent. I can't wait to hear her speech.

Report #SI565

I tire of social ineptitude.
I went to a panel on "Dark Fantasy" yesterday that I was looking forward to very much. It was so painful I wanted to leave but I was trapped in a corner by several barge-sized women with bad hair. The moderator was one of those girls who always acts like she's putting on a show. She's one of those people who will talk at top volume while waiting in line in case someone around her thinks she's funny. I made a mental note never to buy her books. Most of rest of the panelists were barely published women who giggle about vampire erotica and ghost stories the rest of the time.
Why are three-quarters of the people here overweight? Why do I have to be part of their cliche?
I did go out to dinner with a group of first-timers and managed to make a few friends--including one girl who writes Fan Fic, something I have no interest in. It was still fun to hear about.
At last, I went to a really good panel. Probably because it was sort of a wise old woman panel, with Jane Yolen and Suzy Charnas, among others. This morning was an even better one, again with Jane Yolen and also Sharyn November, an editor I really respect, and who is incredibly funny.
I caught my first whiff of Weirdo B.O. yesterday, which is unusual. Most people must have showered for the Opening Ceremony, and are only now becoming rank. I dread tomorrow, where it's supposed to get up to 88 degrees.
After a near social anxiety attack at the parties, where even Spotted Cow on tap wasn't enough to coax me to approach random important editors, I went home and got in bed.
Ten minutes later, my cousin showed up with a bachelor's party. Give me strength. Luckily they didn't stay long, but he then proceeded to play music for the next hour. The walls in that apartment are nonexistent. I was pretty sure he had fallen asleep by halfway through it, but I still thought it might be rude to barge in there and turn it off. Oh well, beggers and choosers and all.

Dispatches from a SciFi Convention--Report #JH975J

My arrival was flawless, though filled with anxiety. I stood around in the hallway waiting for the lunch room to open. People immediately grouped into laughing circles, while a few of us stood against the wall. Eventually, I managed to introduce myself to another wallflower, a soft spoken woman who stuck close to me all during lunch. Only two weirdos spied at lunch: one woman with the fiercest mullet I've seen this side of the Mississippi and another guy who came with business cards with a short story printed on the back.
My writing workshop went well--great, actually. No weirdos there. I got some new ideas and new friends. Dinner was leftover meatloaf at my cousin's, which is conveniently located a block and a half from the con. He is conveniently gone most of the time too.
I volunteered to stuff packets, which was fun and chocolate-filled, but overwhelming. No matter how much I WANT to make new friends, after a certain point I can't talk anymore. Luckily someone told me I should go to the reading down the street rightnow and cash in on the cheese plate. I saw Kelly Link. Froze up when I thought about talking to her. I heard Jane Yolen read and liked her even better. Now I'm waiting to go to an evening party.
I have a few things going for me here: one, my age. There is definitely a younger crowd here, but I have mostly talked to older people. I think it makes me unintimidating to them. Two: my tattoo. Great conversation starter, especially in this audience. Three: my Strand sweatshirt. Covers the tattoo, but anyone who knows the Strand digs it.

You know you're a loser when your Great-Aunt parties harder than you

It sounds weird, but I actually had a really good time going home for my grandpa's funeral. I was homesick. I got to spend Mother's Day with my mom and to see all kinds of relatives I haven't seen in years. One of my mom's cousins has four kids--two of which I've never even heard of, much less seen. My Uncle Marty flew in from Germany. Even though he drives us up the wall, it was nice to see him.
Sunday night, after the wake, we had a few family memebers over for pizza. We plowed into the pizza and beer, then sat around the kitchen talking. It was getting late, nearly 10:30, and I was thinking about going to put on my pajamas, when my great-aunt Sandy (my grandpa's little sister--she is, by general family consensus, our favorite relative) came over and put her hand on my head.
"How late is the casino open?"
So we called the casino, found out we had a few hours left, and I, my parents, my two great-aunts, their husbands, and a cousin or two piled into cars and drove over. I played nickel slots most of the night and came out two dollars ahead. My mom won thirty bucks at one point. Then for the last hour we were there, I sat next to my dad and played the poker machines. We both had a lot of fun and we're thinking of making this a family tradition.
The funeral the next morning was perfect. We thought hymns for my grandpa would be silly, so there wasn't going to be any music but a guy volunteered to sing and play guitar and it was beautiful. I read my blog entry and actually made people laugh (at a funeral!). Then I handed out lollies afterwards and I got a few requests for copies of what I read. I'm glad people liked it so much. The graveside service was short and then we all went to T-Bob's for fried chicken and beer. All in all, it was a fitting tribute to my Grandpa Hammer.

George Hammer, the Devil, and Pete Kevilus.

My Grandpa Hammer passed away this weekend. He had lung cancer, and was doing very badly for a while, so this was not unexpected. He smoked two packs of Camels a day for most of his life, so the lung cancer itself wasn't even unexpected. For the first few minutes after my mom told me the news I felt...nothing. Then I shed some tears and felt sad. Now I am left with a feeling that I never would have expected: confusion. I have no idea how to mourn my grandfather's death.
It's not like when my great-grandma died. It was just a few years ago, but I had only met her a half-dozen times in my life. "That's so sad." I spoke my sadness rather than felt any and continued on with my life.
Nor is this like when my maternal grandmother died. I was just thirteen. I cried hysterically, comforted my brother who was crying even more hysterically, and looking at my mom's and grandpa's faces, I thought "Nothing will ever be the same." Nothing ever was.
But with my grandpa's death, I have to think about what will be different. No one will show up to family functions an hour late, carrying either cheap alcohol or greasy food. I will get $20 less every Christmas. There will only be one grandpa sleeping in front of the TV instead of two. When people hear he has died, they ask me if we were close, and I don't know how to answer that. Close, as in confidantes, as in a wise grandfather who taught me valuable life lessons? No. But growing up he lived just two miles away from us. I saw him at least once a week. I guess I knew him pretty well and it turns out I actually really liked him.
But what about my mom? Was she "close" to him? I'd say yes, even if she seems to have had the same relationship with him as I did. For the last few months of his life, he lived with my parents. My mom shuttled him back and forth to doctor's appointments. She got him in and out of bed when he needed help. Before all this, she still spoke to him once or twice a week, still gossiped with my aunt about his antics. She remembered his birthday, asked him out to go shopping or to the movies, even when he drove her nuts.
I wasn't sure whether or not to go to the funeral. It's a lot of time, a lot of money, time off work, hassle. All for a grandpa I can't even decide whether or not I was "close" to. Then I saw that my mom might spend Mother's Day at her dad's funeral--with neither of her children there and I decided that I had to go. Because, after all, funerals are not for the dead, but for the living. They are so that those left behind can be comforted by how many people they still have around them. I want to be one of those people. I want to hug my mom and my dad and my uncle and my cousins and cry over that gruff old tavern-owner who gave me lollies and always let me turn up his jukebox when Roxette came on. I am going to miss him.

Sally Field is Crankier than you'd think at 6 a.m.

But she knit between interviews which was cute. So it's OK.