Lost in Fantasy

By Gaie Sebold

Pack in distracted frenzy for weekend at Fantasycon. Wonder whether to take laptop. Should if am Serious Writer. But do not wish to lug it about for entire weekend, and judging by previous experience of conventions, will in any case entirely fail to get any writing done.

Compromise and print out current bit of novel am working on; shove in bag. Pull vast amount of clothing out of wardrobe and fling on bed. Despair. Will be in presence of Important Publishing People, and of much admired writing luminaries. Must look like Serious Writer, also interesting, intelligent, marketable, etc., etc., but also will be at fantasy convention and therefore have rare excuse for dressing up.

Decide on vaguely arty collection of clothes and favorite piratical boots. Force same into rucksack.

Am being utterly ridiculous, will only be away for two days. Take half of it out again.

Repack several more times before realizing am about to be horribly late. Rush for station, trailing stray socks. Meet con-attending friend and after some random nosing around shops, knocking things off hangers with rucksacks, eventually manage to get on train.

Arrive at Nottingham in drenching rain. Wander streets with increasingly soggy map, receive directions from friendly locals and finally arrive dripping at hostel. Greeted by disconcertingly young smiley man in towel and shaving foam, who, while apparently no more than fourteen, seems to be in charge. Young man, once dressed and defoamed, shows us to room and wanders off, still smiling.

Make way to convention hotel, register, receive traditional vast carrier bag full of paper and small name badge. Try and fail to think of something witty to put on name badge. Instantly star-struck by presence of Neil Gaiman but don't dare go up to him as will dissolve into fannish wibble immediately.

Evening disappears into timewarp, with brief interlude for curry. End up yawning way back to hostel at about 1 a.m. Unfortunately discover Nottingham more of a Party Town than might appear and most of it apparently partying outside our hostel, also bunk beds seem to have been recycled from remains of stringed instruments and twang musically at every twitch, but amid all this manage somehow to snatch a few hours sleep including strange dream about baby hedgehogs.

Emerge frowstily next morning to explore Nottingham, but is mostly shut. Presumably all knackered from partying outside our window all night. Mainline large amounts of caffeine, attend fascinating panel on Children's Fantasy, emerge starving and-- triumph!-- discover proper Old-Fashioned Caff serving egg, chips, and other healthy breakfast foods. Inhale vast mound of yummy though artery-silting lard. Waddle hastily back for panel on Scriptwriting and knocked sideways by presence of, among others, Clive Barker; all panelists brilliantly witty about scriptwriting, Hollywood, production process, and awfulness thereof. General consensus seems to be whole thing best avoided unless soul has been previously protected with six-foot layer of lead shielding.

Go round dealers' room and try not to drool too visibly over all wonderful books on display. Attend Clive Barker interview. Mr. B. has wonderfully grainy oak-smoked voice, like ancient blues singer; is also passionate, highly intelligent, and extremely rude. Develop instant crush. Attend panel on Crime in Fantasyland; all panelists again brilliant, witty, etc. Wonder how they do it. Own brain feeling distinctly crumpled and uncooperative.

Purchase Neil Gaiman's latest and stand in line to get it signed. Discover Mr. Gaiman not only wonderful writer but entirely charming and personable, and develop even bigger crush. Wander off clutching book to chest with silly grin wreathing features, and bump into door.

Go out for curry. Realize should consume vitamins at some point but remember was given grape by nice gentleman on Interzone stall. Sure that will suffice. Anyway wine was fruit, once.

Return to hotel for charity raffle and emerge several hours later with collection of strange and disturbing videos including something called Attack of the Brain Eaters, a Drive-In Classic and more books. Haul collection of loot to bar and sink into chair. Discuss, at various points, Japanese sword making, graphic novels, principles of Wicca, Nottingham's apparent dislike of opening shops on Saturday, and awfulness of hotel décor. Carpet like mad draughts board in seven shades of ugh; lighting variously interrogation white, butcher-shop blue, and denture-tablet pink. Wonder if designer in pay of Great Old Ones or merely had taste surgically removed as child, like tonsils.

Stagger off to bed at 2ish. Am wimp. Should have done more of these when was 20 and had stamina.

Feel very proud at managing to attend first panel on Sunday on Changing Face of Horror, though personally have already seen it in bathroom mirror before leaving hostel. Return to bar in search of life-sustaining caffeine and attempt self-promotion as instructed by agent. Have brief but fascinating conversation with delightful editor person about being on other side of rejection process. Left with new sympathy for editors. Attend banquet, listen to wonderful speeches; watch in awe as Mr. Barker signs book with not mere signature but entire self-portrait in ink, done with amazing facility in about a minute. Wish had brought something for him to sign.

Suddenly realize have to catch train. Collect bags full of books, and sneak out as discreetly as possible. Collapse on train and sink into semi-consciousness. Entire weekend seems to have lasted about ten minutes in real time.

Arrive home exhausted but inspired, though feeling distinctly underachieving in comparison with witty, brilliant, etc., panelists. Oh well, will just have to fall asleep gazing at Neil Gaiman's signature, and hope some of brilliance rubs off.

Gaie Sebold's short stories have appeared in, among others, Black Gate, City Slab, and Legend and she has received an Honorable Mention in Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Her first fantasy novel (first publishable novel, that is) is now with an agent and she is currently working on her second. She is a member of T Party Writers and commits occasional poetry readings. Her first poetry collection, Urban Fox (The Tall-Lighthouse, 2001) is available at Amazon.co.uk. Contact her at urbancat<at>talk21.com.

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