The Nebulas Awards banquet was held last night in San Jose, and usually, I’d have been there. But this year, I wanted to attend the the March George Formby Society Convention in Blackpool, and so something had to give—which meant the Nebulas as well as this year’s World Horror Convention in New Orleans were out.

So I amused myself this weekend by looking back two years to my photos from 2003 Nebula Awards weekend and sharing them on Twitter, but thought I should gather them together here as well.

So get ready to flashback to a gentler, more innocent time …

Scott Edelman (with butterfly) and Bill Shunn

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Irene and I had a wonderful time in Chicago over Thanksgiving weekend, a visit that was sparked entirely by my desire to experience Next restaurant’s transitory Kyoto menu. I’ll share more about it when I can, but for now, let these seven photos stand in for a more detailed write-up.

Looking up at the stained glass dome of the Driehaus Museum

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Back in 2003, I was standing on the lawn of the State University of New York at Stony Brook, chatting with pals Bill Shunn and Bob Howe at that year’s I-Con, when we spotted a camera crew in the distance. As usual, the spotlight was on the most colorful attendees, the folks dressed up as stormtroopers or wearing chain mail.

Understand that I’ve got nothing against cosplayers—I’ve worn the occasional costume myself.

See?

It’s just that reporters always seem to focus on the outrageously dressed, and not to celebrate or explore (which would be a nice change once in a while), but in order to give their stories a “hey, look at these weirdos” slant. So as the three of us chatted, we tsk-tsked this mindset and bemoaned the fact that cameras never got pointed at those less flamboyantly garbed.

We turned away and got back to catching up in the sunshine, when about 15 minutes later, we found that the crew had moved along and was now pointing its cameras … at us! (more…)

I dreamt I was in one corner of a busy con suite, banging away at a toy typewriter while Bill Shunn watched me and other writers waited their turn to use it. It was a pretty crappy toy typewriter, plastic instead of metal. The keys were of a solid piece with the body, so that they didn’t move when you hit them. The platen was fused into the rest of the machine so that it didn’t return, and there wasn’t even room to fit in a sheet of paper. So it almost looked like a fake you’d find in a furniture store to stand in for a real typewriter in a pretend office.

Bill asked me whether I wasn’t wasting my time banging away at a machine like that.

And I told him no, not really. It didn’t matter whether I was leaving any evidence of what I was writing there in front of us, because I knew that whether or not I had a record, somewhere in the world, someone I didn’t know was seeing my words appear in front of them. That was all that mattered. And I went back to typing.

Now there’s a dream that’s easy to interpret!

A note about my dreams in general, for those of you who follow them: When I wake from a dream in the middle of the night, I’ll scribble down a few words, sometimes only two or three, as a tickler. For example, with this dream, I scrawled, “Bill Shunn waste time plastic toy platen.” Then I’ll go back to sleep. And when I wake, I sometimes don’t even remember whether I’d had a dream or not. Until I look at the notepad. And when I read those few words, the entire dream comes rushing back.

Is it that way for any of you?

I had a dream early this morning in which I was hanging out with Bill Shunn and Wil McCarthy on the way to the Denver WorldCon. We’d bumped into each other at some interim airport at which we were changing planes. Our conversation was so interesting that at one point I realized I was about to miss my flight, and so I was forced to run for my gate. As I raced, two things caused me to wonder.

First, I passed a healthy Jerry Orbach, that song-and-dance man who became a star of Law & Order, which confused me, because I thought, “Isn’t he dead?” (In the waking world, he is.) And then, as I continued running, I got to thinking—why would I bump into Wil at an airport on the way to Denver? Doesn’t he live in Colorado? (In the waking world, he does.)

Once I got to my gate, I learned that I still had plenty of time, so I sat and opened my mail, which included cards (that I never got out of their envelopes, so I never learned the occasion—Happy Birthday? Congratulations? Get Well?)—or who they were from, and copies of (gulp!) Reader’s Digest (which in the real world I only ever flip through when the line at the supermarket check-out aisle is moving too slowly). I woke up before I could board the plane.

Later that morning, I had a second SF-related dream (and can recall three other dreams that had nothing to do with writers or writing). I was attending a reunion of the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writer’s Workshop—one made up not just of my year, but of all years. While there, I bumped into Cory Doctorow. We caught up for awhile, and then I moved on to look for other familiar faces. And strangely, though the public areas of the building were packed, I recognized no one else from my year or any other year.

I was given a pamphlet that contained photos of all other graduates, but I could recognize no faces there either. In the dream, I wasn’t perturbed by this, just found it odd and interesting, since from my years attending cons I figured I should be able to recognize graduates from almost every year of Clarion. I woke while flipping through the pamphlet, which was laid out like a high-school yearbook.