Theodora Goss

A couple of status reports.  First, two more writers have joined the YA Novel Challenge and blogged about their goals.  Take a look at these posts:

Emily Jiang
Stephanie Lawton

Second, I’m still sick. I can’t seem to get rid of the cough, and the cough won’t let me sleep, so I’ve been staying up late working. Last night I stayed up, writing the scene in 221B Baker Street. Despite being sick, staying up late imagining dialog, imagining what the inside of 221B Baker Street looks like, is a deep, deep pleasure. (There’s a stuffed alligator on the sofa. And a lot of cigarette ash. Mary is not amused.)

That’s is, there’s no third. That’s all the status reports I have for you today.

But a long time ago, I promised that I would tell you who killed Amelia Price. (If you still even remember that post. If not, look here.) And we’ll pay attention to the reading protocols.

(Last night, I sat in front of the television, coughing and watching one of the police procedurals. For about ten minutes, until The Actor Who Always Plays the Killer showed up. At that point, the show was over for me. I knew the show wouldn’t do anything as interesting as NOT make him the killer, so the rest of the hour would involve elaborate ways for the other characters to not realize that he was the killer. If the show wasn’t going to treat me like a knowledgeable viewer, what was the point of watching?)

On to the murder mystery. Let me summarize.

1. Amelia Price lives with her aunt, Emmaline Price. Amelia has just finished her third year at Harvard before coming home from summer vacation. One June night, she is shot. Her body is found the next morning in one of the fields close to the Frobishers’ house. She was shot at relatively close range, from the front so she probably saw her killer. Emmaline is the housekeeper for the wealthy Frobishers. There are three of them: Elaine Frobisher, who is a widow, and her two sons, Lance and Galahad Frobisher. Lance works at the law firm his father founded. He was Amelia’s boyfriend until they broke up over Thanksgiving break. Galahad is in college at Princeton. He has always had a crush on Amelia, but she has always rejected him.

2. On the night of the murder, there was a break-in at the Frobishers’ house. The Frobisher were at a local charity ball, but Lance says he took a telephone call from a client for an hour and Galahad says he wandered around outside for a while because he hates to dance. When he came back, he couldn’t find his mother, although she swears she was in the ballroom the entire time. The butler, James, had the night off. He was at the local bar, and two of his buddies swear that he was with them until they took him home, drunk. The maid, Maire Ross, was there, but she says that she slept through the whole thing. Maire, who is from Ireland and has overstayed her visa, is pregnant with Lance’s child.

3. Amelia’s father, Martin Ames, came from a wealthy family. His mother, Hillary Ames, left Amelia a lot of money in a trust fund. Elaine Frobisher, who was a friend of Hillary, is the trustee. Amelia’s father is in jail for shooting Amelia’s mother. He was an alcoholic and shot her one night while he was drunk. He claimed it was an accident, but the jury convicted him of manslaughter. Amelia was really Amelia Ames, but when she went to live with her aunt Emmaline, she took her mother’s name. She was only seven. Martin Ames was released from jail a week ago. He’s supposedly clean and sober. He’s been sleeping in the woods around the Frobishers’ house.

4. There are a couple of other things you should know. James is not the butler’s real name and he has a rap sheet. Lance has been accused of being physically abusive by a former girlfriend. Galahad has pictures of Amelia, a lot of them. He keeps them in a dresser drawer. In her safe, Emmaline has pictures of Elaine Frobisher from when she worked in a gentlemen’s club. (Yes, she was a stripper. And probably a prostitute.) And Amelia was shot with the same gun that her father used to kill her mother.

I received a number of ingenious answers when I first posted this scenario. Let me take you through how I thought about it myself.

One important murder mystery protocol is that under the right circumstances, anyone can commit murder. So everyone is a suspect. Here are possible reasons and ways in which any of these characters could have murdered Amelia.

Lance: could have snuck out of the charity ball and killed her because he’s still angry over their breakup. He wants her back and she won’t agree to it.

Galahad: could have snuck out of the charity ball and killed her because he’s obsessed with her and she won’t pay attention to him.

Maire: could have lied about sleeping through the burglary and gone out to kill Amelia because she and Lance were planning on getting back together, and Maire would be alone with an illigitimate child.

Martin Ames could have killed Amelia because he’s mentally unstable. In fact, he’s probably going to be the first suspect. But Darcy Chase, my detective, will know at once that it couldn’t be him. She will suspect that the killing of his first wife was accidental. He’s a broken man who just wanted to see his daughter again. He’s unlikely to have shot her. And he’s not the most likely person to have his gun, not after all these years.

By the way, halfway through the investigation the gun is found in the forest, as though Martin had simply left it there. Darcy will correctly deduce that someone is trying to frame him.

Another important reading protocol is that when there are two crimes, you need to untangle them. Here, there was a burglary on the same night. There is initially suspicion that Amelia saw the thieves and they shot her, but if she had seen strange men in the woods at night, she would have run, whereas the evidence shows that she was not afraid. She was killed by someone who was able to approach her, get close to her. That rules out Martin as well, because she would never have trusted him that much, not after all the stories she’s been told.

Hercules Poirot says that we must allow for one coincidence and no more. The burglary happening that night was a coincidence. It’s suspicious that Maire slept right through it, but not if she was given sleeping pills. The person who could most easily have given them to her is James, the butler. She would never suspect him bringing her a glass of milk, whereas she would be astonished if one of the Frobishers did so (even Lance).

James and his friends, the ones who provided the alibi, are the burglars, which lets them out of the murder. The two crimes are almost never linked in that way.

So, we’ve gotten rid of Martin, James, and Maire. Who’s left? Lance and Galahad had motive and opportunity. Elaine had opportunity but no motive. Emmaline had opportunity, but why in the world would she want to kill her own niece? In fact, she loses a small income she earned while her niece was alive, for serving as her guardian. We have to ask about money, but when Amelia dies, the fortune in her trust fund goes to a hospital. So no one gets it.

Now what? We can trace the gun. Hillary Ames had it for a while, but no one knows what became of it when she died. If I were writing an actual murder mystery, at this point I would probably muck around a bit with Lance’s alibi, show that it was valid, then that it wasn’t, all based on different time zones.

Here’s how Darcy solves the mystery. There’s one person who has never seriously been suspected. Emmaline Price actually loses money when her niece dies. But for several years now, Emmaline has been blackmailing Elaine Frobisher with those pictures. Elaine isn’t actually as wealthy as she seems. Her husband’s death left her in a difficult financial situation. (Lance is trying to save the firm.) So she’s been taking money from Amelia’s trust fund. She tells Emmaline that she’s been taking the money, and that as soon as Amelia turns twenty-one, which will be in three weeks, the entire game will be up. Elaine will be exposed as a former stripper and a current thief. But worse, Emmaline will be exposed as a blackmailer. Emmaline has been respectable her entire life. She is not about to let that happen.

She tells Elaine to give her Martin’s gun. (Elaine is the one who has it, and the only one who could, logically. After the trial, it was returned to Hillary. It’s an antique gun and has significant value. Elaine was Hillary’s friend and Amelia’s trustee. Hillary passed it on to her in case Amelia should ever ask about it. She wanted Amelia to be the one to decide whether it should be kept in the family, put in a museum, or destroyed.)

Emmaline chooses that night because the Frobishers will be away, but also because she’s seen Martin in the woods. As far as she’s concerned, he killed her sister and deserves to be framed for Ameila’s murder. Emmaline has no compunctions in killing Amelia, whom she thinks of as an Ames rather than a Price. She meets Amelia in the woods, and when Amelia gets close enough, she shoots her.

Elaine was absent from the charity ball for a while because she was giving the gun to Emmaline. Galahad really did wander around outside for a while.

If Emmaline had succeeded in casting the blame on Martin, the trust funds would have passed to the hospital, where Elaine is on the board. She would have ensured that the trust was never investigated thoroughly. So both she and Emmaline would have been safe.

I’ve fudged a bit over why they needed to kill Amelia that night, with such urgency. I think I’ll have to invent an impending visit from a lawyer. But I hope this all makes sense? And it’s clear how I’m thinking about and responding to the protocols?

I’ve been sitting up for a while writing this draft, and I need to go lie down again. I’ve noticed that with the constant diet of cough drops, I’m simply not hungry for ordinary food. But I’m tired all the time, so I’d better get some rest.

I hope my solution to the mystery makes sense. Emmaline is the logical killer in terms of the protocols. She seems so sweet throughout, until you realize what she’s done. There are all sorts of things I haven’t done here, all sorts of ways I haven’t played with the protocols. But perhaps I have shown a bit about how they work. Emmaline is exactly the sort of person who is the murderer in murder mysteries. Real life doesn’t work quite that way, does it?

Seriously, I’m going to pass out. So more later. But this exercise has been very interesting. Could I write a murder mystery? You know, I just might pull it off . . .

So first, I’ve been playing around a bit with this website. I’ve updated my About page. I had added a Favorites page, but you know, it just didn’t feel right? So instead of listing favorite posts, which may have been favorites only for a specific period of time, I created a new page: Advice. It contains many of those favorite posts, but it focuses specifically on advice about writing and the creative life. Here’s my description of the page:

“Some of you have suggested that I write a book about writing. And not just about the act of writing, but also about other aspects of being a writer, such as branding and marketing, and creating the life that writers need in order to produce their best work. I don’t have time to do a project like that at the moment, and probably won’t for a while. But in the meantime, I thought I would share the blog posts I’ve written on those topics. I hope this advice helps you with your own writing, and with your creative life as a writer.”

Go on over to the page and take a look. Feel free to tell me what you think!

Also, I moved the Press and Purchase pages into new positions, and if you look at the Purchase page, you’ll see that I’m adding books. Eventually, you’ll be able to see all the different places where you can buy what I’ve written.

What do you think? I want to make sure that this website remains useful, timely, and easy to navigate.

Oh, and in case you didn’t notice, I’m adding YA Novel Challenge links as people send me the URLs for their blogs. If you want to join the challenge and blog about your progress, send me your URL!

So, what do I mean by two worlds?

As you know, last weekend I was at Wiscon. I still remember what it felt like to walk down the hall on the sixth floor, where all the parties take place. I remember what the people there looked like, how they interacted. Yesterday, I went to the art show for Ophelia’s after-school program. There I saw all the parents from Lexington. And, as you can imagine, it was a completely different crowd. It was a crowd of people who looked like, and probably took themselves seriously as, grownups. (If you’ve seen pictures of Wiscon, you’ll know that none of us looked like grownups. At least, not there.)

This isn’t a particularly fair comparison. Wiscon draws people from all over the world. It’s an incredibly diverse crowd, and a crowd that is generally liberal, creative. Lexington is an expensive suburb of Boston. It’s filled with people who can afford to live here (and us, but I won’t get into that, although thank goodness for writing income). They moved here because of the schools. So they have children, and the children go to the schools, and to music and riding and karate lessons. They have two cars and commute into the city or work in one of the technology companies that have relocated to the suburbs. They shop at the local mall.

Wiscon and Lexington are two different worlds. What I realized, walking through that after-school program art show, is that I belong to the Wiscon world. And I wondered once again, as I’ve wondered a number of times during the past year, how in the world I ended up in Lexington.

Sometimes events just move you around, you know? You move to Boston for graduate school, and then you have a child, and the child needs to go to school, and the Boston school system makes absolutely no sense. So you think, I’ll move to Brookline, and you can’t find a place you can actually afford that has the right number of rooms, and you know you’re going to have to pay for parking and laundry. And you see an advertisement for a house in Lexington, and you think, the commute can’t be all that bad, after all, some people commute from Maine. (They do. I’m not joking.) And so there you are, in the suburbs.

I’m not sure what to call these two worlds. Perhaps the ordinary world and the extraordinary world? The ordinary world is the one in which you grow up to become a lawyer, and you make sure your benefits package has a good health care plan, and you move into a neighborhood in a good school district, and there are playdates and PTA meetings. The extraordinary world is the one in which you and your illustrator friend collaborate on a book, and then your friends who know about video help you make a trailer for it, and then your musician friends make a CD and you all go on tour together. Most of us creative types live in both worlds. After all, we still have to pay taxes. We still have to go to the dentist. (Although I have met people who live almost entirely in the extraordinary world.) But I suppose the reason I’m writing this is that if you’re a creative type, you can’t just live in the ordinary world. You need the extraordinary.

I’m not sure this is making sense, so I’m going to quote from a blog post called “How to Tell If You’re a Writer” that I happened upon recently. (It’s an incredibly funny blog post, by the way.) Those signs include the following:

Your first friend was imaginary.
You hold conversations between people who don’t exist.
Your brain is tuned to some mad, intrusive frequency.
You know how you would do it differently. (Meaning, you watch a movie or read a book and immediately start thinking about how you would do it – the right way!)

And this brilliant rant is from the comments:

“One of the hardest things for non-writers to understand is that YOU CANNOT TURN IT OFF. Ideas keep coming. They form unions and picket your brain. They fight turf wars over your attention. They butt in on each other when it’s not their turn to be written.

“A writer will come to a point of choice and pick a direction, but the possibility of that other choice will spawn an entirely new idea. Then your tenth grade English teacher’s voice pops into your head, reciting ‘The Road Less Traveled’ and suddenly that other idea now stars a guy named Frost because there’s no other possible name for him.

“Schrodinger and his cyanide-huffing cat had nothing on the infinite possibilities that live inside a writer’s mind. To a writer, there’s no question that multiple universes exist because we see them all, simultaneously, running side-by-side with their infinite branches splitting each possible storyline.

“And it NEVER STOPS.

“It’s the only profession in the world where you can get paid for quoting the voices in your head, rather than paying out money to make them stop.”

That last sentence? I don’t wear t-shirts with quotation on them.  But I might wear that one.

And these are also from the comments:

“Writers are too mad for any other job, just sane enough to stay free, hungry enough to be motivated, full enough to think, jaded enough to see the dark side of the world, hopeful enough to see the better alternative.”

“There is only one writer’s motto that matters. ‘I can use that.’ If you find yourself sitting at the deathbed of a dear friend, there is one part of your mind that is recording the pallor, the way he twists in pain, the color of the vomit. You’re ashamed of yourself, but you do it anyway.”

“You’re a writer if you’re mulling over going someplace relaxing on vacation – and all you can think about is how great it will be to WRITE there. (Beach house, the mountains, etc.)”

I suppose what I’m trying to do in this post, really, is figure out why, after being at Wiscon all weekend, I went to the after-school program art show and thought, WHAT am I doing here? Of course, the answer was obvious. In the ordinary world, one goes to the after-school program art show. But my native country is that extraordinary world of people who make stuff up. Who have imaginary friends; hold conversations between people who don’t exist; are tuned to some mad, intrusive frequency; and do it themselves (write books, make movies, create art).

So if you see me walking around Lexington, looking like a perfectly nice, ordinary person, you should know: there are voices in my head.

As you may remember, I’m reading Mario Vargas Llosa’s Letters to a Young Novelist. In it, he has an image of the literary vocation that I think is both brilliant and profoundly disturbing. Here it is:

“Your decision to claim your literary leanings as your destiny must lead you into servitude, into nothing less than slavery. To put it graphically, you’ve just done what some nineteenth-century ladies, concerned about their weight and determined to recover their splendid silhouettes, were reputed to do: you’ve swallowed a tapeworm. Have you ever come across anyone who sheltered that terrible parasite in his gut? I have, and I assure you those ladies were heroines, martyrs to beauty. In the early sixties in Paris, a great friend of mine, José María, a young Spanish painter and filmmaker, was invaded by such a creature. Once the tapeworm establishes itself inside an organism, it merges with it, feeds off it, grows and is nourished at its expense; the worm is very difficult to expel from the body it thrives on and effectively colonizes. José María kept getting thinner, even though he was constantly forced to eat and drink (milk, especially) to satisfy the gnawing of the creature housed inside him, since if he didn’t, his suffering would become intolerable. But everything he ate and drank was for the tapeworm’s benefit, not his. One day, when we were talking in a little Montparnasse bistro, he surprised me with the following confession: ‘We do so many things together. We go to theaters, exhibitions, bookstores, we spend hours and hours discussing politics, books, films, friends. And you think I do these things for the same reason you do, because I enjoy them. But you’re wrong. I do them all for it, for the tapeworm. That’s how it seems to me: that my whole life is lived no longer for my sake but for the sake of what I carry inside me, of which I am now no more than a servant.’

“Ever since then, I’ve liked to compare the lot of the writer to that of my friend José María when he had the tapeworm inside him. The literary vocation is not a hobby, a sport, a pleasant leisure-time activity. It is an all-encompassing, all excluding occupation, an urgent priority, a freely chosen servitude that turns its victims (its lucky victims) into slaves. Like José María’s tapeworm, literature becomes a permanent preoccupation, something that takes up your entire existence, that overflows the hours you devote to writing and seeps into everything else you do, because the literary vocation feeds off the life of the writer just as the tapeworm feeds off the bodies it invades. As Flaubert says: ‘Writing is just another way of living.’ In other words, those who make this enchanting and engrossing vocation their own don’t write to live but live to write.”

That’s brilliant, right? Because you’re not going to forget it, are you? The imagine is so disturbing, and yet so interesting, that I find myself coming back to it again and again. I think, is literature that way for me? Or is it that way only for people who win Nobel prizes, like Llosa? Maybe that’s what literature needs to become for you, to win a Nobel prize?

And yet I think there is a fundamental truth to the image. Once, when I was pregnant with Ophelia, I was given a thyroid medication that it turned out I didn’t actually need. It made me very sick. I stumbled to the bathroom to throw up, then lay on the bathroom floor for hours, with the room spinning around me. I couldn’t stand up. It took me a week of lying in a dark room, eating saltines and sliced turkey, to recover. But I remember that, even as I was lying there, feeling sicker than I had ever felt in my life, part of me was filing the experience away. Observing it, saving it for later. And I used it recently in a scene where a character overdoses on her medication. There’s a certain mercilessness about being a writer. You use yourself mercilessly, the people around you mercilessly. And that means you can’t harbor many illusions about them. You have to be able to see them as they are. If you have social skills, you never let them know and hope they don’t see themselves in your characters. And you can’t have many illusions about yourself either. You have to ask yourself questions like, “Under what circumstances would I commit a murder, and how?” And you have to answer honestly.

Likewise, when you visit a city, you think of what stories you could set there. When you eat a particular food, you mentally record how it tastes, so that later a character can eat the same food and remark on it. It’s an only partly-conscious process that goes on all the time. Being a writer means living with this split consciousness. Every day of your life.

The tapeworm is a parasite, and parasitism is one type of symbiosis. But there are also two other types: commensalism and mutualism. Symbiosis is when two organisms live in close association with one another. Parasitism is when one organism benefits from that relationship but harms the other. Commensalism is when one organism benefits and does not affect the other. Mutualism is when both organisms benefit. In the end, brilliant as it is, I don’t think Llosa’s tapeworm analogy fits. I think the symbiotic relationship between literature and the writer is mutualism, not parasitism. We are not harmed by writing, any more than the dancer is harmed by dance. Rather, we are made in such a way that writing helps us, allows us to process a world that, to the sort of person who becomes a writer, might be overwhelming, unbearable. Writing provides a refuge. At least, that’s what I feel when I sit down to write. I suspect a musician feels that when sitting down to play, a painter feels that when starting to paint, a dancer feels that when getting into position.

I realize that what I’ve written above contains an unstated assumption, that the artist is somehow different from a lawyer, for example. Or an accountant. A lawyer is not necessarily someone who needs the law to live in the world, or understands the world through it. (I’ve known enough lawyers to be fairly confident of that.) But an artist is someone who needs his or her art. For whom it’s a necessity, the way food is. For whom it functions as a way of understanding, of dealing with, the world around.

I have to think more about this topic, because I can see, from what I’ve written above, that my ideas are not well-developed. But what I’m trying to do is provide an alternative to Llosa’s image of the tapeworm while acknowledging that what he describes is, very much, true for me. That I do find myself living for the writing. But also, the writing is a way of living, as Flaubert says. It provides me with a way of functioning in the world, which is something the tapeworm does not do. An orchid living on a tree is an example of commensalism. Ants living on an accacia are examples of mutualism. The ants make a small hole in the accacia, and the accacia provides them with sugar. But at the same time, the ants protect the accacia. They attack anyone who tries to damage it. I think my relationship with literature is much more like that. It’s not as arresting an image, the writer as ant and literature as the accacia. But I rather like it.

I’m so sick.

I woke up this morning coughing, with an aching throat. I know, you don’t need to tell me. You’re not the first person to point out that I’m pushing myself too hard. But tomorrow is June 1st, and I have a project this summer. No, it’s not finishing the dissertation. It’s not even writing the YA novel, about which more later. It’s changing my life. And that’s a hard thing to do, so I’m pushing myself with the sort of relentlessness I often have, the willingness to drive myself hard, even make myself sick in pursuit of a goal. And this is the most important goal I’ve ever had, which is to make a life for myself that focuses on what I want to do, on my writing.

At the Fairyland party, I had a long talk with Kevin Wiley, who is S.J. Tucker’s partner, a singer and fire-spinner. He told me about a talk he gives called something like “Making Your Life” (although I’m not sure I have that exactly right). But it’s about the fact that we are told the sort of life we should live. We are told what we should want, what should matter to us. But we don’t have to accept that. We can step outside of it, choose our lives for ourselves. He said, you have to choose what actually matters to you. Does owning a nice house matter to you? Then work to own that nice house. But make sure it actually matters to you, that it’s not something you’ve simply been told you should want. I think his advice was both simple and powerful: choose what you want and then work to make it happen.

So I’ve been thinking about what I want in my life. The center of my life will always be my creative work. That’s what I and only I have control over. That’s what I will always do, what I will sacrifice for. But what surrounds that is the desire to be among people also doing creative work. Those are the people I love and admire, and I want to be with them. I want to work with them. And what surrounds that, imagine concentric circles here, is finding a place where all that can happen. A community, a home. Kevin said that when he and Sooj first met, she was working at a job that was making her sick: denying health insurance claims. And he asked her, what do you really want to do? And she said, I want to travel around the country playing music to my friends. I hope he doesn’t mind my paraphrasing him here. But this was an important conversation for me, because it made me think about what I really want to do. And watching people like Cat and Seanan and Mary create their lives made me think about that as well.

Of course, I have to do it in a way that doesn’t make me sick all the time. I can’t push myself quite so hard. But tomorrow is June 1st, and I think it’s going to get easier. Today, I started going through the books. I’m making piles of the books I’m keeping, piles of the books I’m giving away. I want a life in which I’m surrounded by the things I love, not burdened by the things I don’t. And going through stuff is the first step. What stuff do I really need and want, what have I simply accumulated over time? It can be hard to give up the barnacles that have encrusted your hull. But they slow you down in the water.

That’s all I want to write in this particular blog post. I need to lie down and rest so I have energy for this evening. And I want to post some thoughts later today on writing. But I also want to leave you with two videos.

The first is a video I found on YouTube of Kevin spinning fire to Sooj’s “In the Name of the Dance.”

The second is Sooj’s first music video, the very funny parody “Playing D&D,” which you, my nerdy readers, will hopefully appreciate as much as I do. (You don’t mind me calling you nerdy, do you? In my personal dictionary, it’s a term of high honor.)

And yes, I heard her play this at Wiscon. My tribe . . .

I’m so tired!

I’m home from Wiscon. I woke up at 3:00 this morning for a 6:00 a.m. flight. And of course I had parties to go to last night, so I got only about two hours of sleep. As soon as I came home, I went to bed. Now I’m sitting here listening to S.J. Tucker’s Blessings, about which more later. And catching up on this blog.

On Saturday night, I went to the Fairyland party. Here are some pictures from before the party itself, when we were setting up and when people first started coming into the room.

Once the party began, the room was absolutely packed. What do you expect, when S.J. Tucker and her friends are singing? The party ended with Seanan McGuire singing “Wicked Girls,” which as you know is my personal anthem.

I’m happy to report that both of the dresses I brought did get worn. See? (Yes, these are photos in the bathroom on the first floor. I find my full-length mirrors where I can.)

Notice that with the second dress I wore flats (sacrilege!). That’s because on Saturday, I injured my foot. No, I didn’t kick anyone. Somehow, I pulled the muscle right behind the ball of the foot, the one that you use as a dancer to go up on your toes. (At least, I always feel it there in dance class.) By Sunday, I was limping. So this picture isn’t entirely accurate. In the evening, I actually walked around with one shoe on, carrying the other in my hand. And I spent as much time as I could with my foot on one of these:

After my relaxing Saturday, Sunday was very, very busy. In the morning, I had a reading with Haddayr Copley-Woods, Mary Rickert, Marguerite Reed, and Kat Beyer. I was surprised at how many people turned out that early. It was a very good reading and gave me another chance to read from “Pug,” which is currently out in Asimov’s.

That afternoon, I had three panels back to back. The first was a panel on anthologies moderated by Sharyn November. Advice to new convention goers: if Sharyn November is on a panel, go! I learned so much simply from being on that panel and hearing her speak. My second panel was on how being able to access research so quickly has affected writing, which was quite interesting. It turns out that I’m not the only one who writes with the internet available, so I can go over and quickly research what the characters would be eating for lunch at a pub in Cornwall. But we also talked about the need for more extensive research, when you’re writing a novel and you need to establish a firm understanding of the world your characters are going to be moving around in. The final panel was on “indigenous” American fantasy, and I was the moderator. We talked about what indigenous means, why Native American mythical and religious figures and themes don’t appear more often in fantasy, that sort of thing. It was one of the most interesting panels I think I’ve ever moderated. And if you ever have a chance to moderate a panel with Andrea Hairston, know that it’s going to be easy: she always has such terrific points to make. It’s good when a panelist has strong opinions but is also thoroughly informed. That’s the best kind of panelist, I think.

Then I got ready for what I always think of as the banquet but is actually the Tiptree Ceremony and desert salon. That’s where I wore the burgundy velvet dress. And then, there were the parties.

So now you know what I did at Wiscon. Two more things, though.

First, I bought the most beautiful painting, by the artist Ingrid Kallick. It’s called The Green Man’s Final Hours.  I saw it in the art show and knew I had to have it.

I wish I could have gotten a better photograph of it. It’s absolutely beautiful, acrylic and oil on top of a graphic print, I believe. I actually ran into the artist, in the same bathroom in which I took the pictures of my dresses, of all places. I would have liked to talk to her more, but I was between panels, rushing. That’s the one thing I splurge on at conventions: art.

I also bought one other thing: the CD Blessings, by S.J. Tucker, which has one of my favorite songs on it: “Witch’s Rune.” Here it is. If you like this blog, I think you would like this song.

That’s my Wiscon report. And that’s all I can write at the moment. I’m back, but quite sick, and need to go lie down again. So I can get some rest.

One final thought. Catherynne Valente and I were talking about blogging, about what our blogs provided, what made them appeal to readers. She said that what her blog provided was sincerity, which I think is absolutely right and an important insight to have. Cat’s blog is always absolutely sincere. That started me wondering: what does my blog provide? I’m not entirely sure, but I hope it provides at least a bit of enchantment. You can come here to see or learn about something beautiful, like Ingrid Kallick’s paintings or S.J. Tucker’s music. And then, you can incorporate those things into your own lives.

On the way to Wiscon, as I was going through airports, there was a game being played on Twitter. It used the tag #lessinterestingbooks and it involved people suggesting book titles. Like the following:

Fatigue in the Afternoon
Jude the Obvious
The Reasonably Bearable Lightness of Being
The Moped Diaries
To Hurt a Mockingbird
Fried Eggs and Ham
Animal Farming
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Commerce
For Whom the Bell Rings
The Welder in the Iron Mask
The Old Man and the Swimming Pool
The Maltese Sparrow
The Once and Future Shift Manager
The Pilgrim’s Impasse
A Tale of Two Suburbs
Ten Habits of Fairly Effective People
The Girl With the Temporary Tattoo
Gulliver’s Staycations
The Average Gatsby
Lord of the Files
Good Expectations
Peter Hamster

I thought this game was actually very interesting from a writing perspective. In the workshop I led on Friday morning, I commented that a couple of the proposed novel titles were not very interesting. And I wondered what makes for a powerful, interesting title. Of course, what the #lessinterestingbooks titles do is deliberately undercut the power of the originals. But there’s a lesson there.

In keeping with my theme for this Wiscon, which is not pushing myself too hard, I had a very easy day today. Lunch with Mary Rickert (during which I had my first bento box), then talking with various people. Tonight I will be at the Fairyland party (for The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making, which by the way is a wonderful book title). It’s almost time to get ready, so I’ll leave you with one more lesson, if you’re a writer. The Fairyland trailer is the best book trailer I’ve ever seen. If only all of them were this good:

Last night, I was up late again finishing my critiques for the writing workshops. I finished them around 4:00 a.m., then slept a few hours, got ready, and workshopped. It went well. It always does when you have a group of talented writers and critiquers.

Afterward, I was so tired that I had to rest, so I actually got some sleep. I’ve never been quite so tired at Wiscon before. I think it’s because this has been such a tiring year in general. I haven’t had time to recover yet. When I get home, I’m going to spend a couple of days sleeping. After finishing my revisions, I mean.

When I woke up, I went down and walked around the book room, and took a few pictures.

At the Small Beer Press table, I saw David Schwartz and Genevieve Valentine.

And here is Genevieve’s book, which just came out.

Genevieve and I got into a fight. Yes, right there among the books.

But then we made up and started to tango.

Afterward, I went to dinner with Catherynne Valente, and Annalee Newitz and Charlie Jane Anders from io9. We ate Nepalese. And then, I skipped all the parties. I know, it’s Wiscon. But I’m tired, and I’ve been to enough conventions now to know that when I want to rest and be by myself, I should.

So tonight I’m going to rest.  There are plenty of parties tomorrow.