After leaving the Hyatt bar, John Kessel, Sheila Williams, and I wandered over to 16th Street for lunch and ended up at the Appaloosa Grill, where I ate bison for the third time this trip. Before the meal began, John and I
cracked open our laptops, and we attempted to transfer a multi-gigabyte video I had made of him performing in one of Jim Kelly’s plays at Readercon.

We failed miserably.

No matter what we did, the computers wouldn’t talk to each other. (Never send a Humanist to do an Analog writer’s job.) What we needed, we decided, was a Stross, or someone like him. So we shut down our computers and stopped torturing poor Sheila with our ineptness.

After an hour or so of chatting about short stories, internet flame wars, and the trials of international submissions, John and I headed back to the convention center in search of a Hard SF writer who could solve our problem. Along the way, we bumped into Stephen Baxter heading the opposite direction on California Street. Surely he would be able to link up our laptops! Alas, he knew better than to even try.

His solution? Find Stross. (more…)

I had a 7:30 a.m. breakfast with Bob Silverberg at the Hyatt Friday, which turned out to be the second of three breakfasts he was to eat that morning. How he keeps his boyish figure I have no idea, considering that at our breakfast alone he gobbled a huge open-faced bagel with a great schmears of cream cheese and mounds of smoked salmon. (Well, actually, Bob never gobbles, as he’s far too dignified for that … but you get the idea.)

As we were finishing up our meal, Gardner Dozois passed by to tell us that he saw Fred Pohl having breakfast alone (not many of us were up that early after Thursday night’s partying), and so we joined him, along with Susan Casper, and we all kibitzed for another hour. Who needs a convention when you can sit at a table like that?

I could have spent the day there having a ball chatting and doing my best to absorb the assembled wisdom of the ages, but I had to leave for my 10:00 panel, “SF Magazine Publication and Market Share.” Bradford Lyau moderated me, Sheila Williams and Stanley Schmidt on the proposed mandate of “How many people are still reading short fiction in monthly magazines? Is the market growing or contracting? What influence do anthologies and web-publications have on market share?” I’m not sure whether we fully addressed the topic—I know that we were all trying to remain as upbeat as possible—but the following issues came up. (more…)

Irene and I went to dinner Thursday night with Bill Shunn, Laura Chavoen, Geoffrey Landis, and Mary Turzillo. Laura charmed the concierge into getting us reservations at Vesta Dipping Grill, which we were told was a hot restaurant in the hippest part of town.

What that turned out to mean was a room so dark that the menus were almost unreadable, and food so overproduced as to detract (as far as I was concerned) from the true pleasure of the ingredients. After all, does a well-cooked scallop really need to come with three overpowering dipping sauces that mask, rather than complement, the tender taste of the flesh?

But both the conversation and company were excellent, which, after all, was why we were really breaking bread together anyway. (Above, in order, that’s me, Laura, Irene, Bill, Geoff, and Mary.)

After dinner, we headed straight for the SFWA suite over in the Sheraton, where I got embroiled in a conversation about science-fiction cliches with Benjamin Rosenbaum, John Kessel, Michael Swanwick, Leslie Howle, and others, sparked by some comments Ben had on a story John recently wrote. Eventually, I slipped away with Sheila Williams and Robert Silverberg to a quiet and air-conditioned back room to discuss the history of magazine price and page-count changes going back the beginning of the SF magazine. We chewed over this topic for at least an hour, which would probably interest no one except those who also have ink for blood the way we do.

Nearing exhaustion, Irene and I finally left, and—after a brief survey of the Australia party and the Con Suite—staggered off to the free bus at 16th Street which would get us a little closer to the Marriott. Lawrence Watt-Evans and Julie Evans were already there. As we chatted, Paolo Bacigalupi turned up, which changed the wait into a mini-convention all its own.

For those who need more visual aids to imagine themselves there, I’m now up to 72 photos over at flickr.

I had some time between my morning panels and my planned lunch with Jetse de Vries, so I decided to check out the art show. Many times I overprogram myself so extensively at Worldcons that I go home without having taken a leisurely stroll there, and I didn’t want that to happen again. Aside from John Picacio and his diorama that turned into three covers for a series of Jeff Ford novels, the artist who intrigued me the most was Brianna Martray.

After I finished wandering the art show, I still had a little more spare time, so I stepped into the dealers room, where I immediately bumped into Vivian Perry and Ed Bryant by a table selling a striking nude portraits, including a dramatic one of Chip Delany. I hadn’t seen Vivian for a few Worldcons, and so caught up on her musical career. That’s her below, so that when she’s on her future concert tour someday I’ll be able to say I knew her when.

Then I found Jetse de Vries at the end of his e-publishing panel, and we took off for lunch. Jetse and I have passed like ships in the night at many conventions, and we figured that we were long overdue for a chance for a quiet conversation. Over bison burgers, we discussed his recent trip to view a total solar eclipse in Siberia, compared notes on our world travels, and traded writing techniques.

The afternoon reading of my most recently short story went well. I handed out Spongebob Squarepants marshmallow lollipops to give the crowd a sugar rush and keep them awake just in case my sonorous voice combined with a day of wandering the con knocked them out.

I’d share more, but now I’m off to breakfast with Bob Silverberg, and so a report on Thursday night’s doings will have to wait!

Thursday started off healthy, with a one-mile walk organized by Stu and Stephen Segal. This event will occur each morning of the con, with different guest writers and editors, under the umbrella title of Strollin’ with the Stars. Walking along with me today were Ellen Datlow, Frank Wu, and 30 or so other attendees who, like me, obviously hadn’t partied hard enough last night.

Here I am with some of the survivors in front of the Big Blue Bear at the completion of our hike.

As the group broke up, I bumped into Jim Kelly, Connie Willis, John Kessel and a few other writers, who helped me solve the issue of which 10:00 a.m. panel I should attend—”Short Fiction: On Its Way Out?” or “Writers Reading their Juvenilia.” Jim was on the first of those, and Connie was on the second, which meant that I had the two panels before me in microcosm. Jim said I should definitely choose Connie’s panel, because she’d be funnier than him. (Though maybe he just didn’t want me in his audience.) I decided to take his advice, since most panels on the future of short fiction should offer razor blades for the audience members to use to slit their wrists on the way out anyway.

The four writers willing to embarrass themselves in public were Edward Willett, Connie Willis, Sarah Hoyt, and Joshua Palmatier. Ed came up with some great titles for his novels as a teen, including Castra Glaz, Hypership Test Pilot (sure hope I spelled that name correctly) and The Slavers of Thok. But the true star of the panel was (as it so often is) Connie Willis, who read two different hilarious pieces.

She started with “For the Love Of Susan,” a story she wrote back in high school about a young girl with a crush on actor George Maharis from the TV show Route 66, and how they were brought together by a car accident. Then, after regaling us with the titles and plots of some of her old true confessions stories such as “Wanted: A Boyfriend for Grandma” and “Swept Away in a Torrent of Passion,” she read from “I Called for Help on My CB and Got a Rapist Instead.” The performance was much funnier than that title would have you believe.

Bottom line—if Connie’s on a panel, be there.

I was far too exhausted last night from Tuesday’s ascent of Pikes Peak to do anything more than upload the rest of Wednesday’s photos and then collapse, so I had to wait until this morning to write up my peregrinations on the first day of Denvention.

As I approached the convention center a little before 10:00 a.m., I was stopped in my tracks (and for the first time in my life, this is meant literally, as I was right at a set of trolley tracks I needed to cross) by a cry of “Edelman!” I turned to see that it was the other Edelman, the nefarious David Louis Edelman, whose existence is befuddling con committees all over, as they continue to seem unable to tell us apart. I hope the photo below will prevent future confusion. (FYI, I’m the one on the right.)

He led me to registration, where, as I related yesterday, I stood in line for exactly an hour. It was frustrating, as I could see badged friends wandering by in the distance, such as Connie Willis, Ed Bryant, and others, but I was trapped and couldn’t chat with them. But I did manage to wrangle some people over, such as Mark Rich and Roger Dutcher, and I also made new friends with others trapped in the line, such as Al and Larc Bogden, who were suffering immediately in front of me. (more…)

It’s only Wednesday, and Denvention 3 has barely begun, but I’ve already started uploading my first pictures. The way I figure it, what’s the point of having fun if I can’t make at least a few people out there kick themselves because they can’t be here with us?

I meant to only stop in my hotel room for a few minutes, but then a tornado siren went off, and people have reported sighting funnel clouds. So the real reason you’re getting these photos so quickly is that I thought it might be wiser to stay here for a little while longer instead of rushing right over to the SFWA suite. (That weather report is to make a few other people out there happy that they can’t be with us.)

Meanwhile, here I am with Robert Silverberg, in a photo taken during the hour I waited to register (from 10:17 to 11:17), which is the longest it’s ever taken me to get my badge at a Worldcon. I’m hoping that isn’t an omen.

A fuller report will follow when (and if) tonight’s partying ends.

It’s the day before Denvention begins, and I’m close, but I haven’t quite made it there yet. I’ve gotten to Colorado, but instead of heading straight to Denver, I’ve stopped in Westminster to visit an old friend. Before tomorrow’s chaos begins, we’ll be heading to the top of Pikes Peak, which should provide the opposite experience of what waits for me tomorrow.

Meanwhile, I thought I’d finally share the drawing I’d promised back at Comic-Con, the one by an artist that I felt didn’t really capture my likeness.

George Evans was a brilliant comic-book artist, who was most renowned for the WWI aviation stories he did for the EC Comics military title Aces High. In fact, he once did me a very nice sketch of an aviator in a biplane. But I think I startled him a bit at the 1972 EC Comics Convention when I asked him for a caricature, as I had done earlier the same day with Jack Davis. (As I’ve said before, I was one of those creepy kids carrying a sketchbook back then, but I eventually got over it. At least I think I got over it.) Evans quickly penciled the drawing above.

While you could look at many of the other caricatures I’ve shared with you and probably think, yep, that’s Scott, I’m not sure what you’d make of this one.

Maybe I’m being overly harsh. Not about Evans—who definitely acted like a gentleman in the face of an overbearing teenager, and was probably thinking, “How do I get rid of this scary kid?” (and believe me, I feel for him now)—but about the likeness. Maybe my spirit is really in there after all.

You tell me.

Does anyone have a copy of the 1982 Overstreet Comic Book Price Guide at hand, and if so, can you do me the favor of looking up the value of a copy of Superman #1 back then?

I just started reading The Swap, by Antony Moore, a galley of which Anne Groell was kind enough to slip me back at Comic-Con. The novel’s conceit sounded cool—a guy who regrets trading away a comic book as a kid feels that his wretched life would be made right again if only he could get it back as an adult. It was published in the UK in 2007, and the film rights have already been snapped up by Columbia Pictures.

I’ve only just started the book, which I’m enjoying so far, but I must admit that I was taken aback when I learned on the first page that the comic book in question was Superman #1. I can’t remember exactly what copies of that first issue were going for in 1982, but I would guess in the $7,500-$15,000 range. Anyone out there have the facts? (more…)

OK, James Owen—here’s one more take on the Edelman mug. Unfortunately, time has turned this particular artist into a mystery man.

My first job at Marvel Comics was to edit a line of reprint books which appeared only in the UK. After 3-6 months (I can no longer remember the exact length of time), I transferred over to act as an Assistant Editor on the U.S. line of comic books. To commemorate that move, one of the Bullpenners drew the caricature at right. The reason for the hole at the top is that I kept the sheet pinned to the wall behind my desk as long as I remained on staff.

The artist’s first name was Peter, as you can see on the drawing, and he was hired by Marvel to help make the art corrections that we proofreaders would find. But he left to go freelance after only a few months, and I never saw him again.

What’s worse, I can no longer even remember his full name, and as you can see from the illustration, the last name of his signature is unreadable, so I’ve been unable to solve the mystery. Anybody have any idea who did this?

Regardless, it’s a perfect likeness of me at the time, as you’d know if you ever saw my drivers license from those days.