Felicity
See coraa's post here and here for our trip so far (in other entries she's got excellent panel and roundtable notes); now we are at Writers' Horse Camp for several more days. Already Rachel and I have gotten two goals met, and I got another met. Cora's written most of a short story. Every time we come to Camp we get tons done, while having fun with the horses--we'll be having a session in about two hours, and tomorrow is the major lesson day. We can wander outside and look at the horses and pet muzzles any time we feel like it. Writers' Camp has become a must for us all.
I don't have a detailed account of Sirens; being me, I managed to leave my notes at the hotel, somehow, though two of us did sweeps after we'd hauled our stuff out. Others are doing a better job than I would; my problem with anything like this is that as soon as I hear an interesting idea, my brain will shut out the following discussion while it ruminates. I use ruminate in the sense of ruminant, that slow chewing.
These cons all develop their own personality, sometimes quickly. Sirens has done that quickly, I think partly because of the unusual setting (a resort, high in the Rockies) and partly because Amy Tenbrink and Hallie Tibbetts, the main organizers, have brought considerable organizational skills to their very specific dream. They wanted a conference that looked at the women's side of literature, specifically fantasy, and in an atmosphere that I define as safe space.
Not all conferences need to be safe space--there is no "should" here--but it happens to be the kind that I like best. At Sirens, when people talked about the books that influenced them most, or got them reading fantasy, you could hear someone mention Dragonlance, or David Eddings, and there was no vestige of a snicker of superiority, no looks exchanged telegraphing Bad taste alert!. No Twilight wars! Readers either love them or leave them, no jousting. Just as there is no green room, so that guests of honor and attendees are mixing all through the day and evening, going off to the comfortable tete-a-tetes established along the con lobby area, or else going off into the beautiful scenery. No A list, no tiers of insiderness that is pretty much inevitable in most human congress, and sometimes built right into an event as a preferred thing.
At the ball, you could dress up any way you loved best, and just dance. Nobody has to wait for a partner.
My writing workshop I believe went exceedingly well. I've gotten that particular workshop idea honed so that the chances are pretty high that writers will go away with a minimum of sting, but a maximum of useful feedback.
The altitude is physically taxing; last night was my first good sleep in six days, and my lips are still chapped in spite of liberal applications of gunk--but the cost is worth the days of talk about the things that excite my mind the most. I didn't do the funky chicken dance at the ball this year, sparing the eyes of fellow attendees, but I did get to do what I love best, brainstorming with another writer. Nothing I said is likely to stick, but that doesn't matter. The fun is in throwing ideas out, and having someone else respond in the same way-and listening to their process. This is the kind of thing I have learned to decently smother at home, as it's sadly boring to non-writers, at least the ones I know. I'm a hapless housekeeper and a loving mom, a sort of clumsy well-meaning member of family and society who has learned over the decades to keep her weird side to a socially tolerated minimum, so chances to unbutton among others also unbuttoned is felicity and bliss.
I don't have a detailed account of Sirens; being me, I managed to leave my notes at the hotel, somehow, though two of us did sweeps after we'd hauled our stuff out. Others are doing a better job than I would; my problem with anything like this is that as soon as I hear an interesting idea, my brain will shut out the following discussion while it ruminates. I use ruminate in the sense of ruminant, that slow chewing.
These cons all develop their own personality, sometimes quickly. Sirens has done that quickly, I think partly because of the unusual setting (a resort, high in the Rockies) and partly because Amy Tenbrink and Hallie Tibbetts, the main organizers, have brought considerable organizational skills to their very specific dream. They wanted a conference that looked at the women's side of literature, specifically fantasy, and in an atmosphere that I define as safe space.
Not all conferences need to be safe space--there is no "should" here--but it happens to be the kind that I like best. At Sirens, when people talked about the books that influenced them most, or got them reading fantasy, you could hear someone mention Dragonlance, or David Eddings, and there was no vestige of a snicker of superiority, no looks exchanged telegraphing Bad taste alert!. No Twilight wars! Readers either love them or leave them, no jousting. Just as there is no green room, so that guests of honor and attendees are mixing all through the day and evening, going off to the comfortable tete-a-tetes established along the con lobby area, or else going off into the beautiful scenery. No A list, no tiers of insiderness that is pretty much inevitable in most human congress, and sometimes built right into an event as a preferred thing.
At the ball, you could dress up any way you loved best, and just dance. Nobody has to wait for a partner.
My writing workshop I believe went exceedingly well. I've gotten that particular workshop idea honed so that the chances are pretty high that writers will go away with a minimum of sting, but a maximum of useful feedback.
The altitude is physically taxing; last night was my first good sleep in six days, and my lips are still chapped in spite of liberal applications of gunk--but the cost is worth the days of talk about the things that excite my mind the most. I didn't do the funky chicken dance at the ball this year, sparing the eyes of fellow attendees, but I did get to do what I love best, brainstorming with another writer. Nothing I said is likely to stick, but that doesn't matter. The fun is in throwing ideas out, and having someone else respond in the same way-and listening to their process. This is the kind of thing I have learned to decently smother at home, as it's sadly boring to non-writers, at least the ones I know. I'm a hapless housekeeper and a loving mom, a sort of clumsy well-meaning member of family and society who has learned over the decades to keep her weird side to a socially tolerated minimum, so chances to unbutton among others also unbuttoned is felicity and bliss.