naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Enochian Keyboard)
Our local sci-fi/fantasy convention was this weekend and I had a really great time. I got to spend time with almost all my friends, which was awesome. I got some cool swag, an Abe Lincoln steampunk shirt, and was exposed to pretty much the best breasts in the world at dangerously close range. Win.

A highlight was meeting [livejournal.com profile] lanerobins who, good lord, if you aren't reading her books, why not? And totally making a dork out of myself fangirling and completely failing to express anything in a coherent fashion. But oh god, oh god, nobody told me she was going to be there! I didn't know! I had no time to mentally prepare! She is so nice, so there was no reason for me to be terrified, but . . . yeah.

Once more it is brought home to me that I completely suck at meeting people in person stuff. I'm inexplicably awkward and withdrawn in person, just in case you ever manage to track me down. I often wish I could hire [livejournal.com profile] apocalypticbob to do all my social interaction with awesome people, because she is way, way better at it than I am.

At least she has read portions of my Livejournal, and is aware that I actually am an articulate person.

Anyway. Had a great time. Came home with a rather nasty case of the convention blues, which I will try to articulate some other time, but right now I just wanted to say that this was good. A good time. I did not get to see enough of everyone. Thankfully, many of these people come to my house once a week, and some of them will be here tomorrow.

I didn't have anything in the art show this year and I sort of missed that, but I really wanted to clear myself of obligations this year and just enjoy myself, and that is pretty much how it went down. So, huzzah to that. Though I do feel bad that other people I care about were busting their asses working on con staff, and I was basically jerking around all weekend like some sort of slacker.

The only thing I missed was acquiring a playmate, and, well, there just weren't any cute boys around. Okay, one maaaybe sort of had potential, but oh god, the last thing you want to hear when you are evaluating someone for potential pounceability is "Where's my mom?" I have no problem being a dirty old woman, but that crosses some sort of line and I discovered that I can indeed be shut down cold.

Wasn't sure that was possible.

Right now I am going to go read something and think about petting Hugh Dancy like a puppy until I feel like I can sleep.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Enochian Keyboard)
Our local sci-fi/fantasy convention was this weekend and I had a really great time. I got to spend time with almost all my friends, which was awesome. I got some cool swag, an Abe Lincoln steampunk shirt, and was exposed to pretty much the best breasts in the world at dangerously close range. Win.

A highlight was meeting [livejournal.com profile] lanerobins who, good lord, if you aren't reading her books, why not? And totally making a dork out of myself fangirling and completely failing to express anything in a coherent fashion. But oh god, oh god, nobody told me she was going to be there! I didn't know! I had no time to mentally prepare! She is so nice, so there was no reason for me to be terrified, but . . . yeah.

Once more it is brought home to me that I completely suck at meeting people in person stuff. I'm inexplicably awkward and withdrawn in person, just in case you ever manage to track me down. I often wish I could hire [livejournal.com profile] apocalypticbob to do all my social interaction with awesome people, because she is way, way better at it than I am.

At least she has read portions of my Livejournal, and is aware that I actually am an articulate person.

Anyway. Had a great time. Came home with a rather nasty case of the convention blues, which I will try to articulate some other time, but right now I just wanted to say that this was good. A good time. I did not get to see enough of everyone. Thankfully, many of these people come to my house once a week, and some of them will be here tomorrow.

I didn't have anything in the art show this year and I sort of missed that, but I really wanted to clear myself of obligations this year and just enjoy myself, and that is pretty much how it went down. So, huzzah to that. Though I do feel bad that other people I care about were busting their asses working on con staff, and I was basically jerking around all weekend like some sort of slacker.

The only thing I missed was acquiring a playmate, and, well, there just weren't any cute boys around. Okay, one maaaybe sort of had potential, but oh god, the last thing you want to hear when you are evaluating someone for potential pounceability is "Where's my mom?" I have no problem being a dirty old woman, but that crosses some sort of line and I discovered that I can indeed be shut down cold.

Wasn't sure that was possible.

Right now I am going to go read something and think about petting Hugh Dancy like a puppy until I feel like I can sleep.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I'm crashing from the greatest con in years, and if I'm not around too much it's because I'm decompressing. I'll try to get back to everyone.

In the meantime, announcements.

[livejournal.com profile] goldenwolfen, your "Fantasy" piece inspired a bidding war that will live in the memories of those who saw it for years to come. It was truly, truly epic. I got applause and congratulations. I really wanted that piece. Now I have it, and several others. [livejournal.com profile] ssantara, your wild boys came home with me, too. Odin and Herne the Hunter are now mine. Exert caution clicking those links at work. Y'all did pretty well, I think, and I'm so glad you sent stuff in. Thank you!

I met a bunch of LJ people, but I'm awful with names. If you want to introduce yourself and remind me who you were, please feel free to do so.

The play was wonderfully bad and entertaining, and my face hurt from laughing at one point because the puns were getting out of hand, especially on the audience's end. Hence the screaming. Also, [livejournal.com profile] farrandy looks really cute in a suit. It's not, like, his thing, but it still looked good.

Now, sleep. Tomorrow, some updates.

Cheers!
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I'm crashing from the greatest con in years, and if I'm not around too much it's because I'm decompressing. I'll try to get back to everyone.

In the meantime, announcements.

[livejournal.com profile] goldenwolfen, your "Fantasy" piece inspired a bidding war that will live in the memories of those who saw it for years to come. It was truly, truly epic. I got applause and congratulations. I really wanted that piece. Now I have it, and several others. [livejournal.com profile] ssantara, your wild boys came home with me, too. Odin and Herne the Hunter are now mine. Exert caution clicking those links at work. Y'all did pretty well, I think, and I'm so glad you sent stuff in. Thank you!

I met a bunch of LJ people, but I'm awful with names. If you want to introduce yourself and remind me who you were, please feel free to do so.

The play was wonderfully bad and entertaining, and my face hurt from laughing at one point because the puns were getting out of hand, especially on the audience's end. Hence the screaming. Also, [livejournal.com profile] farrandy looks really cute in a suit. It's not, like, his thing, but it still looked good.

Now, sleep. Tomorrow, some updates.

Cheers!
naamah_darling: Tribal design of a wolf's head. (Wolfie)
Conestoga 12, here in Tulsa, is still looking for artists to fill out the art room. A lot of our regulars can't make it this year, and we always love to see new folks! You don't have to come in person to be in the show; we take mail-in art.

From the newsletter:

Art Panels Still Available

If you have not signed up for a panel in the art show, there are a few left. As for what we display? Art should be in the science fiction, fantasy, horror, media, space or humor genres and can be prints, reproductions and/or originals. The Print Shop (a bin full of prints for sale) is available at no charge, and panels are available for $10 each (with a maximum of three). We're extending the deadline for reservations until June 15th. If you're interested, you can download the Art Show Rules and Registration Form.


Our guests of honor this year are Diana Gabaldon and Stephen Hickman.

I will point out that we do take jewelry, which typically sells pretty well. It just has to be flat-mounted and wrapped (shrinkage protection, not that it's ever been a problem). And, actually, if we don't sell out of panels, we may be able to wrangle room for extra tables for flat display of jewelry. ([livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva, didn't you say this would maybe be possible?)

Anyway. Pass the word around!
naamah_darling: Tribal design of a wolf's head. (Wolfie)
Conestoga 12, here in Tulsa, is still looking for artists to fill out the art room. A lot of our regulars can't make it this year, and we always love to see new folks! You don't have to come in person to be in the show; we take mail-in art.

From the newsletter:

Art Panels Still Available

If you have not signed up for a panel in the art show, there are a few left. As for what we display? Art should be in the science fiction, fantasy, horror, media, space or humor genres and can be prints, reproductions and/or originals. The Print Shop (a bin full of prints for sale) is available at no charge, and panels are available for $10 each (with a maximum of three). We're extending the deadline for reservations until June 15th. If you're interested, you can download the Art Show Rules and Registration Form.


Our guests of honor this year are Diana Gabaldon and Stephen Hickman.

I will point out that we do take jewelry, which typically sells pretty well. It just has to be flat-mounted and wrapped (shrinkage protection, not that it's ever been a problem). And, actually, if we don't sell out of panels, we may be able to wrangle room for extra tables for flat display of jewelry. ([livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva, didn't you say this would maybe be possible?)

Anyway. Pass the word around!

Dammit.

Aug. 1st, 2006 02:36 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Emo Icon)
I am exhausted.

This morning I went to go see my granddad in the hospice. He's developed pneumonia, and they don't think it will be long now before he goes. Maybe two more days.

I said goodbye, but he was not lucid at all -- the dementia combined with the pneumonia and the drugs has him pretty much out of it. It's horrible seeing someone you love like that, so close to death. I'm getting tired of doing this. I care about the people in my family; I hate it when they suffer.

So I mostly wanted to stop in here, let everyone know I'm not dead, and let everyone know that I will not be around much for a while. If you've emailed me, I'll try to get to it, but non-critical stuff is getting shoved to the back burner. To anyone with a commission pending: I'm still working. I'll just be a bit slower. Anyone who knows me in person, I just don't expect to be on the phone much for a while. I really, really need to just be away, and sometimes even the kindest demands are too much to deal with. I've hit the point of fragile and tired where even answering the question "Are you okay?" is painful. So I'm going to go into my hidebox for a while and just stay there until it quits bothering me so much. I'm okay. Really. I am.

Conestoga 10 was also this weekend; I hardly slept at all and spent most of it severely overstimulated, so now I'm hitting the crash from that in addition to dealing with the extremely unpleasant prospect of losing another family member.

But it was a killer show, despite the following laundry list of upfuckery:

1) Major-name artists who sadly wound up having to cancel, and couldn't send their art.

2) The hotel double-booking the art show space for a breakfast meeting Friday morning. We were supposed to have the room that morning at eight, and usually the hotel lets us in Thursday for panel setup. We were not able to set up this year until ten. Which is when the art show is usually opening. We were going in circles like chickens with the heads cut off who've been tossed into an industrial tumble-dryer. The hotel also screwed a number of other unfortunate pooches, so I'm not so much feeling the love for them right now.

3) An honest-to-god fire alarm going off as soon as we got all the art hung. Thousands of dollars worth of art. I never heard what caused that, but it wasn't us.

4) Losing a piece at the beginning of the show and spending the whole time wondering how the fuck it could have escaped from a sealed box. (It was stuck to another print.)

5) Most of us manning the art show didn't even knew what we were doing! This was not poor planning, it's just a matter of this year's staff (including both chairs) being a mostly-new crew.

Ugh. There's more. Undoubtedly I'll remember some heinous trespass and feel obligated to recount it later, but for now those are the only memories I can concretely dredge from my sedimental brain.

Still, we had a record year. There are pictures, even some good ones, but those are going to have to wait. There's a lot I want to share with you, including pictures of two gorgeous new boxes, and a mess of BPAL reviews, but I've got a lot to deal with just now. I do appreciate your patience. No, I was not put on Earth to amuse you lot. I realize that. However, if it didn't concern me at least a little bit, I'd have a private journal, wouldn't I?

Right now, I'm going to bed because I am too tired to type for much longer. My brain is seriously disjointed and if I don't stop now, I'll start either writing porn, bad metaphors involving red, red ponies, or possibly both.

It's happened before.

Dammit.

Aug. 1st, 2006 02:36 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Emo Icon)
I am exhausted.

This morning I went to go see my granddad in the hospice. He's developed pneumonia, and they don't think it will be long now before he goes. Maybe two more days.

I said goodbye, but he was not lucid at all -- the dementia combined with the pneumonia and the drugs has him pretty much out of it. It's horrible seeing someone you love like that, so close to death. I'm getting tired of doing this. I care about the people in my family; I hate it when they suffer.

So I mostly wanted to stop in here, let everyone know I'm not dead, and let everyone know that I will not be around much for a while. If you've emailed me, I'll try to get to it, but non-critical stuff is getting shoved to the back burner. To anyone with a commission pending: I'm still working. I'll just be a bit slower. Anyone who knows me in person, I just don't expect to be on the phone much for a while. I really, really need to just be away, and sometimes even the kindest demands are too much to deal with. I've hit the point of fragile and tired where even answering the question "Are you okay?" is painful. So I'm going to go into my hidebox for a while and just stay there until it quits bothering me so much. I'm okay. Really. I am.

Conestoga 10 was also this weekend; I hardly slept at all and spent most of it severely overstimulated, so now I'm hitting the crash from that in addition to dealing with the extremely unpleasant prospect of losing another family member.

But it was a killer show, despite the following laundry list of upfuckery:

1) Major-name artists who sadly wound up having to cancel, and couldn't send their art.

2) The hotel double-booking the art show space for a breakfast meeting Friday morning. We were supposed to have the room that morning at eight, and usually the hotel lets us in Thursday for panel setup. We were not able to set up this year until ten. Which is when the art show is usually opening. We were going in circles like chickens with the heads cut off who've been tossed into an industrial tumble-dryer. The hotel also screwed a number of other unfortunate pooches, so I'm not so much feeling the love for them right now.

3) An honest-to-god fire alarm going off as soon as we got all the art hung. Thousands of dollars worth of art. I never heard what caused that, but it wasn't us.

4) Losing a piece at the beginning of the show and spending the whole time wondering how the fuck it could have escaped from a sealed box. (It was stuck to another print.)

5) Most of us manning the art show didn't even knew what we were doing! This was not poor planning, it's just a matter of this year's staff (including both chairs) being a mostly-new crew.

Ugh. There's more. Undoubtedly I'll remember some heinous trespass and feel obligated to recount it later, but for now those are the only memories I can concretely dredge from my sedimental brain.

Still, we had a record year. There are pictures, even some good ones, but those are going to have to wait. There's a lot I want to share with you, including pictures of two gorgeous new boxes, and a mess of BPAL reviews, but I've got a lot to deal with just now. I do appreciate your patience. No, I was not put on Earth to amuse you lot. I realize that. However, if it didn't concern me at least a little bit, I'd have a private journal, wouldn't I?

Right now, I'm going to bed because I am too tired to type for much longer. My brain is seriously disjointed and if I don't stop now, I'll start either writing porn, bad metaphors involving red, red ponies, or possibly both.

It's happened before.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Horatio Stupid)
I'm taking a break from my mad scrambling to update you on the State of the Naamah. I'm also killing time 'cause if I don't take a break, I'll probably implode.

The convention (Conestoga 10) is this weekend. I'll be helping run the art room. Any of you in driving range are welcome to come by and see us.

That said, my sanity is slipping. I have nine million things to do, not much time to do it in, and of course I'm stressing all out of proportion to the actual event.

I have about thirteen GIANT boxes of mail-in artwork in my living room, which has created a space and storage crisis of epic enough proportions to prompt me to rearrange so I can still walk through it without tripping over prints of scantily-clad fairies. I spent two hours erecting and then filling a new set of shelves with supplies, so I could pile the artwork on the tables that had previously been festooned with art crap.

In case you can't tell, I'm busy, and will likely be busy well into next week.

What's bothering me most about all this is, typically, a stupid detail. You see, by focusing on silly crap, I keep from worrying about major shit going wrong – it's a workable coping mechanism. This time, I am fussing over the fact that I want to go in full pirate regalia on Saturday, but I have no boots. And I can't order any online – over and above the fact that I don't have the money right now, I'm a very hard size to fit for leg boots, since my feet are small but my ankles and calves are very thick.

I may be stuck wearing my pointy witch boots and painting a skull and crossbones on them. Which is not a good idea, exactly, since they have giant long pointy heels, and I'm not a fucking retard. (Translation: I'm not going to try to run an art show in high-heeled boots, thanks.)

Arr.

Oh, hey. Speaking of things piratical, Dead Man's Chest kicks incredible amounts of ass. stupid? Check. Over-the-top? Check. Loads of fun? CHECK. And yes, the whipping scene was too a fun scene, grody pirates notwithstanding. It had the two things I wanted: reaction shots of him grimacing and wincing manfully (just two, but hey, he looked great) and a nice shot of his bloody back with his shirt hanging all ragtaggle around his ribs. Okay, I would have preferred if it had been delivered by Catherine Zeta Jones, but you can't have everything.

In related pervy ramblings, I don't find it at all alarming to lay down for a nap only to dream about getting a first-rate blowjob from a girl who looked suspiciously like Kristin Kreuk. I do find it a little disturbing to wake up with my pants undone.

Oh, and this is just a PSA: People who can't follow instructions piss me off. People who cannot keep their mouths shut when they are told piss me off even more. Is it just me or has Fate suddenly disgorged the contents of a flotilla of short buses onto the information superhighway? I have run into more backbirths this past week than I have in the three months previous. Christ. And every single one of them has an opinion they wish to share with the world in some dazzlingly inappropriate and insulting way. Furthermore, they believe we should thank them for their insight.

Assholes like that are clearly not created by God (who does too create lots of human garbage, despite what the "God don't make trash" bumper stickers and infants' tee shirts would have you believe). Therefore I must conclude they are descended from apes. Y'all can be related to monkeys if you want to be. Me? I'm secretly from Mars or something. 'Cause I refuse to share a species with those dog-prongers.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Horatio Stupid)
I'm taking a break from my mad scrambling to update you on the State of the Naamah. I'm also killing time 'cause if I don't take a break, I'll probably implode.

The convention (Conestoga 10) is this weekend. I'll be helping run the art room. Any of you in driving range are welcome to come by and see us.

That said, my sanity is slipping. I have nine million things to do, not much time to do it in, and of course I'm stressing all out of proportion to the actual event.

I have about thirteen GIANT boxes of mail-in artwork in my living room, which has created a space and storage crisis of epic enough proportions to prompt me to rearrange so I can still walk through it without tripping over prints of scantily-clad fairies. I spent two hours erecting and then filling a new set of shelves with supplies, so I could pile the artwork on the tables that had previously been festooned with art crap.

In case you can't tell, I'm busy, and will likely be busy well into next week.

What's bothering me most about all this is, typically, a stupid detail. You see, by focusing on silly crap, I keep from worrying about major shit going wrong – it's a workable coping mechanism. This time, I am fussing over the fact that I want to go in full pirate regalia on Saturday, but I have no boots. And I can't order any online – over and above the fact that I don't have the money right now, I'm a very hard size to fit for leg boots, since my feet are small but my ankles and calves are very thick.

I may be stuck wearing my pointy witch boots and painting a skull and crossbones on them. Which is not a good idea, exactly, since they have giant long pointy heels, and I'm not a fucking retard. (Translation: I'm not going to try to run an art show in high-heeled boots, thanks.)

Arr.

Oh, hey. Speaking of things piratical, Dead Man's Chest kicks incredible amounts of ass. stupid? Check. Over-the-top? Check. Loads of fun? CHECK. And yes, the whipping scene was too a fun scene, grody pirates notwithstanding. It had the two things I wanted: reaction shots of him grimacing and wincing manfully (just two, but hey, he looked great) and a nice shot of his bloody back with his shirt hanging all ragtaggle around his ribs. Okay, I would have preferred if it had been delivered by Catherine Zeta Jones, but you can't have everything.

In related pervy ramblings, I don't find it at all alarming to lay down for a nap only to dream about getting a first-rate blowjob from a girl who looked suspiciously like Kristin Kreuk. I do find it a little disturbing to wake up with my pants undone.

Oh, and this is just a PSA: People who can't follow instructions piss me off. People who cannot keep their mouths shut when they are told piss me off even more. Is it just me or has Fate suddenly disgorged the contents of a flotilla of short buses onto the information superhighway? I have run into more backbirths this past week than I have in the three months previous. Christ. And every single one of them has an opinion they wish to share with the world in some dazzlingly inappropriate and insulting way. Furthermore, they believe we should thank them for their insight.

Assholes like that are clearly not created by God (who does too create lots of human garbage, despite what the "God don't make trash" bumper stickers and infants' tee shirts would have you believe). Therefore I must conclude they are descended from apes. Y'all can be related to monkeys if you want to be. Me? I'm secretly from Mars or something. 'Cause I refuse to share a species with those dog-prongers.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (KILL! KILL! KILL!)
"Are you not entertained?!"
-- Maximus, in Gladiator

I am so blitzed.

Conestoga was this weekend. I won't dwell, but highlights included dinner with the guest of honor, George R. R. Martin, and, on the last day of the convention hearing him read a new chapter from the fourth book. I can safely say that was about the coolest thing ever.

Got signed copies of Swordspoint, The Fall of the Kings trade paperback, and Thomas the Rhymer. Ellen Kushner was not at the convention, but she will be here in October, apparently, and I'd love to try to meet her then. I seem to have turned into a huge fan overnight.

God, I live for the new relationship energy that comes from finding a new writer to love.

What else . . . hmm. Made some money at the art show, sold a painting, a box, and a print. Good news. Chatted with Steven Wedel, who, like our good [livejournal.com profile] eugie, is on at Scrybe Press, bought his new book which looks incredibly cool. Met Brad Denton, who wrote Blackburn, which is the finest book about misanthropy and sarcasm ever written. Left the windows down in the car so that it got rained in. Hobnobbed with other writerly-type-people, had a grand time, and in general, did stuff that is quite a bit less entertaining in the telling than it was in the living.

I had the time of my life.

I will tell you one really, really, really embarrassing story, though.

I use love notes from my husband as bookmarks. I am telling you this, because when I handed Mr. Martin my much-loved copy of A Game of Thrones, there was a mash note projecting from it that I had failed to notice in my excitement.

It read "I LOVE YOU."

He took the book, looked at it philosophically, then gave me the eye. "Someone," he said, "has been writing you love letters."

I actually blushed. Unflappable me. And then I laughed and pulled it out and showed him the silly drawing of The Mocus that Sargon had doodled below it.

"You missed the cat!" I chirped, only barely able to stop myself from cracking up completely.

Then I retreated to the art room for fortifications of chocolate, and a bracing look at my mostly empty bid sheets. I am still kind of chagrined. Y'all remember that part in the Indiana Jones movie where the girl has "I LOVE YOU" written on her eyelids?

Yeah. I hope to God he believed me that that's what it was about.

In short, people, I'm back. And I lack the fortitude to really scroll back through a weekend's worth of posts, so I'll be a little late in replying. If anything earthshattering happened, let me know, okay?

And for added entertainment, THIS is the entry I posted on Friday night, but kept private until now so that I would be awake enough to actually respond coherently to your comments. It features what I type like when I am dead tired. I hope you are all quite amused.

Because I can laugh at myself, I am always entertained.

* It is only with great restraint (and out of respect for the writer) that I am able to keep myself from retitling this post "I Inadvertently Flash George Martin My Pussy."
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (KILL! KILL! KILL!)
"Are you not entertained?!"
-- Maximus, in Gladiator

I am so blitzed.

Conestoga was this weekend. I won't dwell, but highlights included dinner with the guest of honor, George R. R. Martin, and, on the last day of the convention hearing him read a new chapter from the fourth book. I can safely say that was about the coolest thing ever.

Got signed copies of Swordspoint, The Fall of the Kings trade paperback, and Thomas the Rhymer. Ellen Kushner was not at the convention, but she will be here in October, apparently, and I'd love to try to meet her then. I seem to have turned into a huge fan overnight.

God, I live for the new relationship energy that comes from finding a new writer to love.

What else . . . hmm. Made some money at the art show, sold a painting, a box, and a print. Good news. Chatted with Steven Wedel, who, like our good [livejournal.com profile] eugie, is on at Scrybe Press, bought his new book which looks incredibly cool. Met Brad Denton, who wrote Blackburn, which is the finest book about misanthropy and sarcasm ever written. Left the windows down in the car so that it got rained in. Hobnobbed with other writerly-type-people, had a grand time, and in general, did stuff that is quite a bit less entertaining in the telling than it was in the living.

I had the time of my life.

I will tell you one really, really, really embarrassing story, though.

I use love notes from my husband as bookmarks. I am telling you this, because when I handed Mr. Martin my much-loved copy of A Game of Thrones, there was a mash note projecting from it that I had failed to notice in my excitement.

It read "I LOVE YOU."

He took the book, looked at it philosophically, then gave me the eye. "Someone," he said, "has been writing you love letters."

I actually blushed. Unflappable me. And then I laughed and pulled it out and showed him the silly drawing of The Mocus that Sargon had doodled below it.

"You missed the cat!" I chirped, only barely able to stop myself from cracking up completely.

Then I retreated to the art room for fortifications of chocolate, and a bracing look at my mostly empty bid sheets. I am still kind of chagrined. Y'all remember that part in the Indiana Jones movie where the girl has "I LOVE YOU" written on her eyelids?

Yeah. I hope to God he believed me that that's what it was about.

In short, people, I'm back. And I lack the fortitude to really scroll back through a weekend's worth of posts, so I'll be a little late in replying. If anything earthshattering happened, let me know, okay?

And for added entertainment, THIS is the entry I posted on Friday night, but kept private until now so that I would be awake enough to actually respond coherently to your comments. It features what I type like when I am dead tired. I hope you are all quite amused.

Because I can laugh at myself, I am always entertained.

* It is only with great restraint (and out of respect for the writer) that I am able to keep myself from retitling this post "I Inadvertently Flash George Martin My Pussy."
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (You Fool!)
Parked my ass at Conestoga today and have since been shaken like a bug in a jar. Lots of people and things going on. Pardon me if I'm not real coheren't, because I'm incredibly tird and I really want to go to bed, but I'm still dto wired to actually sleep. NOt helpful.

It'll be mofe fun if I don' tcorrect all my typos, so you can see what I type like when I'm really goddamn out of it and one of my hands hurts for a reason I cannot immediately discern.

Fun day. SEt up my art show stuff, wandered around, bought books. BOOKS!!!

SIGNED COPIES of Swordspoint and Fall of the Kings and Thomas The Rhymer BITCHES! And There's an excerpt from a third Riverside novel in Thomas, and Ellen Kushner isn't actually here I just bought htem signed but she will be here in October for a conference thing, so I am totally fangirling all over the place like a . . . umm. Fangirl?

I am heraing bagpipe music. We had bagpipers for the Harry Potter release party because our Con organdiser person is all about the Scotsmen, and the tiny part of my brain that is SCOTTISH (as opposed to the Irish rest-of-it) is like: "You will be stuck on bagpipe music until the end of time!" Anyway, they piped the new Harry Potter book in with a drummer and two pipers and a guy with a big stick he kept raising in a formal and eyt sily fashion, and they all had kilts and sporrans and shiny shoes, and there were some spats involved, and it was tremendously cute, and now that I look at bagpipes, I can see that they totally used to be made from dead sheep, because the chanter goes in the left foreleg hole, and the long tube-y noise things go in the other leg holes, and the fingering parts come out of the neck.

They are actualyy blowing into a cdead sheep.

I'm sure this is not news to anyone else, btu it seemed revelatory to me at the time. Am I right about that? I was too busy buying the new Harry Potter book to ask them. I have the new book. I made Sargon read the first page to me out loud.

Then We paid the pipers. with books. It was cool.

Anyway, I dressed like a big idiot. Like whoa. Hat, green cloak, I had a fricking WAND, people. We tried to get a picture of me swirling the cloak dramatically, like the Phantom or Zorro, but we kept getting shots of just the cloak, which is apparently larger than me (well, it engulfs me), so Sargon ended up throwing his hands in the air and saying "You look like a hedgerow." Which is a great line, really. and, as the pcitures prove, it is true.

We had the guest of honor dinner with George R. R. Martin, who is an incredibly cool guy.

OH. And I forgot. I sold some stuff at the art show already and it's only Friday. Saturday is the huge art acution day. (Ooo. Acution is cooler than auction.) So I may make enough cash to cover the money I am spending on books. When I already have a million books scowling at me and waiting to be read.

And I totally love Ruth Thompson, so I put a bid on this piece in the art show. shut up. He;s hot. This is a print of the pencil sketch for what will eventually be a painting. Growl.

Sargon bid on this incredibly cool print, which is the companion to the above.

And I think that's all the writing I can stand as I'm actually yawning now, an need to go to bed before I collaspe, because Im getting up at ten tomorrow and its four now. I have panels!

Edit, Sunday night: We didn't get either print. The brain damage I appear to have sustained above was apparently not permamnent.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (You Fool!)
Parked my ass at Conestoga today and have since been shaken like a bug in a jar. Lots of people and things going on. Pardon me if I'm not real coheren't, because I'm incredibly tird and I really want to go to bed, but I'm still dto wired to actually sleep. NOt helpful.

It'll be mofe fun if I don' tcorrect all my typos, so you can see what I type like when I'm really goddamn out of it and one of my hands hurts for a reason I cannot immediately discern.

Fun day. SEt up my art show stuff, wandered around, bought books. BOOKS!!!

SIGNED COPIES of Swordspoint and Fall of the Kings and Thomas The Rhymer BITCHES! And There's an excerpt from a third Riverside novel in Thomas, and Ellen Kushner isn't actually here I just bought htem signed but she will be here in October for a conference thing, so I am totally fangirling all over the place like a . . . umm. Fangirl?

I am heraing bagpipe music. We had bagpipers for the Harry Potter release party because our Con organdiser person is all about the Scotsmen, and the tiny part of my brain that is SCOTTISH (as opposed to the Irish rest-of-it) is like: "You will be stuck on bagpipe music until the end of time!" Anyway, they piped the new Harry Potter book in with a drummer and two pipers and a guy with a big stick he kept raising in a formal and eyt sily fashion, and they all had kilts and sporrans and shiny shoes, and there were some spats involved, and it was tremendously cute, and now that I look at bagpipes, I can see that they totally used to be made from dead sheep, because the chanter goes in the left foreleg hole, and the long tube-y noise things go in the other leg holes, and the fingering parts come out of the neck.

They are actualyy blowing into a cdead sheep.

I'm sure this is not news to anyone else, btu it seemed revelatory to me at the time. Am I right about that? I was too busy buying the new Harry Potter book to ask them. I have the new book. I made Sargon read the first page to me out loud.

Then We paid the pipers. with books. It was cool.

Anyway, I dressed like a big idiot. Like whoa. Hat, green cloak, I had a fricking WAND, people. We tried to get a picture of me swirling the cloak dramatically, like the Phantom or Zorro, but we kept getting shots of just the cloak, which is apparently larger than me (well, it engulfs me), so Sargon ended up throwing his hands in the air and saying "You look like a hedgerow." Which is a great line, really. and, as the pcitures prove, it is true.

We had the guest of honor dinner with George R. R. Martin, who is an incredibly cool guy.

OH. And I forgot. I sold some stuff at the art show already and it's only Friday. Saturday is the huge art acution day. (Ooo. Acution is cooler than auction.) So I may make enough cash to cover the money I am spending on books. When I already have a million books scowling at me and waiting to be read.

And I totally love Ruth Thompson, so I put a bid on this piece in the art show. shut up. He;s hot. This is a print of the pencil sketch for what will eventually be a painting. Growl.

Sargon bid on this incredibly cool print, which is the companion to the above.

And I think that's all the writing I can stand as I'm actually yawning now, an need to go to bed before I collaspe, because Im getting up at ten tomorrow and its four now. I have panels!

Edit, Sunday night: We didn't get either print. The brain damage I appear to have sustained above was apparently not permamnent.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
This is the Obligatory Con Summary With Pictures Post.

I'm back! Back in the land of the living, back from the dead, revived from the post-con exhaustion. Thank you, thank you, I missed you all.

This was a writer's convention, and I learned a lot. I won't try to wax philosphical about the publishing industry, not when I could post pictures (and I'm already waxed), so I'll save it for another time.

I meant to post lots of fun pictures. I am afraid there will only be a few. The disposable cameras I got were really shitty, and only about half the pictures turned out, and of those most were still tres crappy.

There is still fun to be had, however.

Brave the cut to check it out. )

Later, by which I mean in the next couple of days, I will post a couple book reviews, and then I will show you a very bad picture of a very beautiful costume. Right now, I have to get something constructive done.

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
This is the Obligatory Con Summary With Pictures Post.

I'm back! Back in the land of the living, back from the dead, revived from the post-con exhaustion. Thank you, thank you, I missed you all.

This was a writer's convention, and I learned a lot. I won't try to wax philosphical about the publishing industry, not when I could post pictures (and I'm already waxed), so I'll save it for another time.

I meant to post lots of fun pictures. I am afraid there will only be a few. The disposable cameras I got were really shitty, and only about half the pictures turned out, and of those most were still tres crappy.

There is still fun to be had, however.

Brave the cut to check it out. )

Later, by which I mean in the next couple of days, I will post a couple book reviews, and then I will show you a very bad picture of a very beautiful costume. Right now, I have to get something constructive done.

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Well, I'm alive.

I'm going to post about the convention in bits and pieces over the next few days, and it will probably be pretty incoherent. I'm still really stirred up from being out of the house and around so many people.

Prepare for shameless name-dropping, people.

Husband and I went to the toastmaster dinner with Walter Jon Williams, who I believed was the best living SF writer even before I met him and discovered that I like him immensely. Now that I know I like him, well . . . he's gone from being a good writer to a good person in my mind. The two do not meet as often as you might believe.

There were about forty people at the dinner, which was an invite-only affair. Luckily, we got to sit at his table, so I can now say with certainty that Walter Jon Williams does not sugar his iced tea, and takes it with one lemon, exactly like me. He will also pass you the lemons if you ask politely. He also owns cats. A civilized man.

There was much conversation, and my husband only made an ass out of himself once. I feel that we all did very well. Walter is an incredibly interesting guy. The Q and A session was a lot of fun. I don't know if he made me feel better or worse about my odds, but I do know that it's nice to have a reality check that validates what you already thought was true.

He recounted Roger Zelazny's tale of the Lucky Chicken, and I will attempt to paraphrase the gist of it here, because I think it is important.

Roger was talking at a convention about breeding a race of super-lucky chickens (I don't know why). But his theory was that you would take all the eggs laid by the chickens and throw them into the air. The ones that didn't break, the lucky ones, you would hatch, then throw their eggs into the air, and so on and so forth, until you had a race of super-lucky chickens, which would then proceed to rule the world.

Roger's point -- and Walter's -- was this: writers are the luckiest people on the planet. We are the eggs that get thrown up into the air again and again, and we don't break.

Zelazny asserted that anytime writers gathered, trouble was in the offing, because they would use up all the ambient luck in the area, and he was apparently fond of citing evidence for this in the form of accidents that frequently happened just after he left someplace.

I think there may be something to that. Not that we use up our luck, or anyone else's, but that there is something different about those who are successful and those who are not. Those who are not eventually break under the pressure. Those who succeed never break. They never quit.

Walter confessed that there was a point a few years ago, after he published The Rift, which did not do well, where he thought his career was dead. Not just in trouble, but hanging-by-the-heels, hide-on-the-barn-door dead. Which comes as a shock. I have been an admirer of his books for years. It seems unthinkable . . . unfair . . . that a writer as tremendously talented as he is should suffer the same fear and uncertainty about his career that, say, I do. But things don't change. One book, or twenty, or fifty, doesn't change the fact that if your luck runs out . . . it's out.

He's doing better now. He's got some new work out, and he's excited about what he's working on. Not all his eggs are broken. He's still got chickens, and he's a lucky old bird, himself. All his old stuff is out of print, though (check your local used shops right now, people). And that's upsetting. Books that meant a lot to me, Hardwired, Voice of the Whirlwind, Aristoi, those books are not being printed anymore.

I did manage to pull him aside at one point, and attempted to express to him how meaningful Aristoi was to me.

I hate being a fan. I hate trying to explain something so bone-deep and visceral. I told Elizabeth Moon last year something like "I read your book and liked it a lot, thanks for keeping me happily entertained for a week." Her work was entertaining, but not really earth-shattering to me. But telling Walter Jon Williams that I am not normally moved by things that I read, but that I have read Aristoi three times and every time it has just knocked the Hell out of me, that it meant a lot to me, that was very hard.

I don't know how he meant what he wrote. Aristoi is a complicated book. Very complicated. Heck, it's meant something different to me every time I have read it. So I can't say "I understood it." I don't think anyone can ever understand exactly what a writer meant. I think that doesn't really matter. All I can say is that Aristoi was meaningful to me at a time when I desperately needed to hear what it seemed to be saying about humanity and the strength within the broken soul. And that kind of thing, that baring of a naked wound, it's hard to do it without overdoing it.

It's easy to say "I admire your work. It makes me want to write." But his doesn't. It makes me want to live.

But I tried to make him understand anyway, with words that never come when you want them to, and he really seemed to appreciate it even though it is just hard for me to talk like that to anyone. I tried not to be all fawning, but it was not easy. I am sorta naturally doe-eyed. I smiled a lot and made bad jokes, and he listened when I spoke. I had a good night.

A thousand years to him. And a thousand worlds.

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Well, I'm alive.

I'm going to post about the convention in bits and pieces over the next few days, and it will probably be pretty incoherent. I'm still really stirred up from being out of the house and around so many people.

Prepare for shameless name-dropping, people.

Husband and I went to the toastmaster dinner with Walter Jon Williams, who I believed was the best living SF writer even before I met him and discovered that I like him immensely. Now that I know I like him, well . . . he's gone from being a good writer to a good person in my mind. The two do not meet as often as you might believe.

There were about forty people at the dinner, which was an invite-only affair. Luckily, we got to sit at his table, so I can now say with certainty that Walter Jon Williams does not sugar his iced tea, and takes it with one lemon, exactly like me. He will also pass you the lemons if you ask politely. He also owns cats. A civilized man.

There was much conversation, and my husband only made an ass out of himself once. I feel that we all did very well. Walter is an incredibly interesting guy. The Q and A session was a lot of fun. I don't know if he made me feel better or worse about my odds, but I do know that it's nice to have a reality check that validates what you already thought was true.

He recounted Roger Zelazny's tale of the Lucky Chicken, and I will attempt to paraphrase the gist of it here, because I think it is important.

Roger was talking at a convention about breeding a race of super-lucky chickens (I don't know why). But his theory was that you would take all the eggs laid by the chickens and throw them into the air. The ones that didn't break, the lucky ones, you would hatch, then throw their eggs into the air, and so on and so forth, until you had a race of super-lucky chickens, which would then proceed to rule the world.

Roger's point -- and Walter's -- was this: writers are the luckiest people on the planet. We are the eggs that get thrown up into the air again and again, and we don't break.

Zelazny asserted that anytime writers gathered, trouble was in the offing, because they would use up all the ambient luck in the area, and he was apparently fond of citing evidence for this in the form of accidents that frequently happened just after he left someplace.

I think there may be something to that. Not that we use up our luck, or anyone else's, but that there is something different about those who are successful and those who are not. Those who are not eventually break under the pressure. Those who succeed never break. They never quit.

Walter confessed that there was a point a few years ago, after he published The Rift, which did not do well, where he thought his career was dead. Not just in trouble, but hanging-by-the-heels, hide-on-the-barn-door dead. Which comes as a shock. I have been an admirer of his books for years. It seems unthinkable . . . unfair . . . that a writer as tremendously talented as he is should suffer the same fear and uncertainty about his career that, say, I do. But things don't change. One book, or twenty, or fifty, doesn't change the fact that if your luck runs out . . . it's out.

He's doing better now. He's got some new work out, and he's excited about what he's working on. Not all his eggs are broken. He's still got chickens, and he's a lucky old bird, himself. All his old stuff is out of print, though (check your local used shops right now, people). And that's upsetting. Books that meant a lot to me, Hardwired, Voice of the Whirlwind, Aristoi, those books are not being printed anymore.

I did manage to pull him aside at one point, and attempted to express to him how meaningful Aristoi was to me.

I hate being a fan. I hate trying to explain something so bone-deep and visceral. I told Elizabeth Moon last year something like "I read your book and liked it a lot, thanks for keeping me happily entertained for a week." Her work was entertaining, but not really earth-shattering to me. But telling Walter Jon Williams that I am not normally moved by things that I read, but that I have read Aristoi three times and every time it has just knocked the Hell out of me, that it meant a lot to me, that was very hard.

I don't know how he meant what he wrote. Aristoi is a complicated book. Very complicated. Heck, it's meant something different to me every time I have read it. So I can't say "I understood it." I don't think anyone can ever understand exactly what a writer meant. I think that doesn't really matter. All I can say is that Aristoi was meaningful to me at a time when I desperately needed to hear what it seemed to be saying about humanity and the strength within the broken soul. And that kind of thing, that baring of a naked wound, it's hard to do it without overdoing it.

It's easy to say "I admire your work. It makes me want to write." But his doesn't. It makes me want to live.

But I tried to make him understand anyway, with words that never come when you want them to, and he really seemed to appreciate it even though it is just hard for me to talk like that to anyone. I tried not to be all fawning, but it was not easy. I am sorta naturally doe-eyed. I smiled a lot and made bad jokes, and he listened when I spoke. I had a good night.

A thousand years to him. And a thousand worlds.

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
This is pretty fucked up.

I have to write my own bio for a sci-fi/fantasy convention I'm attending as a guest.

What the Hell am I supposed to write?

This is my previous bio. )

Which is about as serious as I can be. I mean, really! A bio? Self-important much?

But I have to write a new one. What am I going to write?

Suggestions? Opinions? Offers of ginger snaps? I'll be here all week.

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
This is pretty fucked up.

I have to write my own bio for a sci-fi/fantasy convention I'm attending as a guest.

What the Hell am I supposed to write?

This is my previous bio. )

Which is about as serious as I can be. I mean, really! A bio? Self-important much?

But I have to write a new one. What am I going to write?

Suggestions? Opinions? Offers of ginger snaps? I'll be here all week.

link

Profile

naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
naamah_darling

September 2017

S M T W T F S
     12
3456789
101112 13141516
17181920212223
24252627282930

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 22nd, 2017 02:44 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios