Free Con Op

The folks managing the 2013 Backspace Writers Conference are offering a contest to win three free conference and workshop registrations: "Scholarships cover registration fees for the 2013 Backspace Writers Conference and Lane Shefter Bishop’s evening logline workshop ($765 value). Travel, hotel, and incidental expenses are the responsibility of scholarship winners. Please do not enter unless you are in a position to attend the conference." Entry requirements: "Fill out the submission form at the bottom of this page. Entries (title, logline, and 500-word excerpt of your choice from the beginning, middle, or end of the manuscript) will be posted on this page as they are received. Your name and email address will not be posted to the website. As each entry is added, notice will also be posted to the Backspace Writers Conference Facebook page and tweeted to increase awareness of the contest. One entry per person, please." See contest page for more details. Deadline: March 1, 2013.

MegaCon Report

When I was a teenager I remember frequently mystifying my mother with the fads and fashions of my generation. Usually she'd say something negative about them, i.e. "A normal girl don't need a ring to show what mood she's in, or shoes strapped to four-inch blocks, or a skirt with a screwed-up hem that she has to wrap around her butt like a bandage."

Mom was also convinced that my love of heavy metal would result in me making the jump from wearing Love's Rain Scent to shooting heroin, the hair that was always "hanging in my eyes" would eventually cause me to go blind, and my piercings would automatically inform any decent boy that I was forever doomed to be a hussy.

Mom, you were wrong. I'm only wearing trifocals, and I've never once shot heroin.

Why it was so difficult for my mother to bridge the thirty-year generation gap between us was a mystery to me, until I went to MegaCon, and discovered that I am in imminent danger of turning into her.

I didn't realize I was so out of touch with the younger generation. The whole time I was at the con I saw maybe a dozen things I recognized; mostly guys dressed up as Batman, Superman, Captain America, the old-school superheroes. There weren't many of them. About two-thirds of the attendees were dressed up like manga and anime characters -- in what my daughter calls cosplay.

Most of the cosplayers wore wigs in unnatural hair colors (green, purple, orange, pink, blue) and styled them to look like I do in the morning after I go to sleep with damp hair. Evidently bedhead is all the rage. Their costumes were mostly homemade from the most humble of materials: plastic housecleaning gloves, rain boots, cardboard, vaccuum hoses, pvc pipe, etc. Lots of spray paint, too. The outfits reminded me of the Halloween costumes we used to make when I was a kid because we were too poor to afford the store-bought variety; I really enjoyed seeing how cleverly this generation put them together. Way better than our stuff.

Prices for tickets (which we didn't buy in advance because no one could decide which day they wanted to go until the last minute) were $25.00/day, which I thought given the size of the convention was reasonable, and while there were long lines for the ticket booths they moved quickly. Issuing armbands that once put on were almost impossible to take off was smart, too, although I did spot some kids letting other, un-armbanded attendees into the con area through some exit doors.

I associate comic books and cartoons with children, which is wrong, I know; adults are big into this stuff now. This was not a convention geared toward young children (age 13 and under) at all, however, and a few times I even had to steer my older teens away from some very explicit stuff. I saw some costumes and behavior that weren't what I'd consider appropriate for public viewing. I'd rate the convention overall as PG-13, with many R- and even a few borderline X-rated moments.

Also, every other person was carrying weapons: knives, swords, guns, rifles, you name it, they had it. I saw this guy running around with what looked like a bazooka, I swear to God. 99% of the weapons were obviously homemade, but a couple of the folks dressed in military-style uniforms were carrying what looked like the real deal. No one seemed to be checking anyone carrying the stuff that looked real, which made me a little nervous. I've seen these shooting games; I didn't want to be there if anyone went Call of Duty on the crowd.

The main activity seemed to be to either take pictures of the folks in costume, or (if you were wearing a costume) stop and pose for a picture. Every five feet someone was doing this. Occasionally it became annoying, and I thought the convention people should have an area set aside for this (and maybe they did; I didn't find it.) I found myself constantly trying not to walk into someone else's photo moment. I didn't complain, though, because the delight with which these kids showed off their costumes and assumed all these dramatic poses seemed quite genuine.

The vendors were universally great people, and most were open to bargaining or would offer great deals on multiple purchases or little extras. The gentleman at The Blonde Swan, from whom I bought a pair of steampunk goggles as a surprise for my kid, did a little something extra with the lenses for her. Everyone selling their art happily signed things for me; most offered before I asked. On average prices seemed pretty reasonable, even from the big names at the con.

I enjoyed meeting author Tracy Akers, who had a lovely setup at her table and was quite friendly. I loved Tom Fleming's and Paul Vincent's art, and they were terrific as well. Mostly I stayed in the background, though, and followed the kids around. It was more interesting to me to see what they gravitated toward, and who they spoke to, and listen to what they discussed.

The convention center suffered from some common big event problems: not enough food vendors, confusing signs, unclear check-in procedures and far too much walking distance from the parking lot. There was nowhere to stow the stuff you bought, so once I was loaded up with the kids' purchases I had to walk about two miles to put it in the car (Mom = pack mule.) A few vendors offered to hold bigger items, but I felt a drop-off/pick-up area for merchandise would have been more helpful.

The food was terrible; what I bought for me and the kids came only half-cooked, and we had to wait in line for close to an hour to pay astronomical prices for it. I was so ticked off I'm writing a letter to the parent company of the food vendor we went to so I can give them a piece of my mind about how they run their convention concessions. Since the food court area didn't have enough tables about half the customers had to sit on the floor, which is okay when you're eighteen but a bit harder on an old gray mare like me. There were also very few places to sit down anywhere at the convention, so by the time we went home my knee was singing the Ave Maria in high C.

I'd have to give one glittering gold star for the availability and condition of the restrooms. This sounds ridiculous to you youngsters, I know, but wait until you're older; this actually becomes a real issue. There had to be at least ten thousand people attending this thing, and yet every time I made a pit stop the rest rooms were tidy, fully stocked and being watched over by a convention center employee. There were also plenty of them everywhere so I never had to wait in line. Writers conferences need to take lessons in restroom management from these folks.

Everyone at the con gets a gold star for being remarkably polite. I'm a veteran of about a dozen writer conferences, and the repeated, lousy behavior I've witnessed at ours by comparison puts us to shame. Kids held doors for me, apologized for bumping into me and even steered me in the right direction the few times I got lost. Those who had to wait in line with me for something were patient, mannerly and didn't try to cut ahead. More than once someone told me to go ahead of them because I was ready to buy something and they were still deciding. Handicapped people were not treated like lepers, something you don't see often; the ones in costume were photographed as much as the abled. And these kids at the con were mostly older teens to young adults, who always have the worst reputation for being rude. Now maybe they were just being nice to me because I was so obviously a mother hen herding her chicks, but their manners and small kindnesses utterly charmed me.

A group of Lego enthusiastists occupied one corner of the convention floor, and they had on displayed some of the coolest Lego creations and landscapes I've ever seen. A few famous folks had tables in the signing area, and I'm happy to report that Gil Gerard and James Marsters are just as handsome in real life as they are on the screen. I missed Kevin Sorbo, though, damn it, and the line to meet William Shatner was just too long (I really didn't want to leave the kids unattended for more than a few minutes, either.)

The teenagers did have a very good time, which was the most important thing to me, and are already planning their costumes for next year's convention. I think my guy will definitely have to chaperon the next one -- too much walking and standing for me -- but overall I enjoyed the experience. I do have a long list of things I'm going to look up so I know what they are or what they mean, but that's good for me, too. Any generation gap can be crossed, I think, as long as the person on the older side is willing to keep an open mind and employ their sense of wonder.

MegaCon Ten

Ten Things I Brought Back from MegaCon

One large, sturdy canvas tote embroidered with the MegaCon 2011 Logo

One "Bleach" metal necklace with a portrait pendant

One artbook, Draw and Paint Fantasy Females by Tom Fleming, signed by the artist

One set of seven art note cards and blank envelopes featuring Tom Fleming's "Monarch" artwork in black and white

Two YA Fantasy novels, The Fire and the Light and The Search for the Unnamed One by Tracy A. Akers. These are books one and two in her The Souls of Aredyrath series; both are signed by the author, who also included a set of sixteen absolutely fabulous character cards.

Four utterly gorgeous art bookmarks by Paul Vincent from his original oil painting "Four Seasons"

I know, technically that adds up to more than ten, but it's all going in the tote along with some freebie promo stuff I picked up. If you'd like a chance to win the whole pile, in comments to this post name the coolest thing you've ever found or seen at a conference or convention of any kind (or if you can't think of anything, just toss your name in the hat) by midnight EST on Tuesday, March 29, 2011. I will draw one name at random from everyone who participates and send the winner the MegaCon tote packed with all the goodies. This giveaway is open to everyone on the planet, even if you've won something at PBW in the past.

To see some of the photos I took at the convention, stop by my MegaCon photo album.

Must-Have Kits

The current issue of Country Living magazine has a great article by Katy McColl about Victorian chatelaines, which can best be described as small tool kits which were designed to be worn like pendants (some were also worn at the waist, like this example from the Grant-Kohrs Ranch collection, which sports a penknife, button hook, perfume, note cards and what looks like a watch case.)

I think it's a shame this charming practice fell out of fashion; I'd love to wear some of the tools I use every day in smaller sizes on a chain. I think the vegetable chopper would be a challenge to downsize, though, and I'd probably get a lot of weird looks.

My version of the chatelaine is my must-have kit, which resides in my purse. I was just restocking the other day for the next quilt show I plan to attend. It's a long, flip-lidded tin that usually serves as my quilting kit whenever I travel, and holds whatever essentials I can't live without away from home:



When I'm being a writer, I stock it with a pen, notepad, hair pick (crowded shows get hot and stuffy, and sometimes I'll put up my hair to feel a little cooler) various paperclips and other bits. When I buy a particular fabric from a vendor I like to paperclip their business card to the piece so I can add them and a snip of the fabric to my source book, in case I want more fabric.



This year I actually have my own business cards, so I added a few of those. I'm not planning to toss them around like confetti, but I think they'll come in handy when I get that blank stare from someone who asks, "Who are you again?" or I need to give someone my phone number (which I'll jot down on the back.) I'll probably add a little bottle of hand sanitizer (I like people well enough, but it's always the sick ones who insist on touching me) and a couple sticks of gum. Having everything in one place is convenient and saves time, especially when you're in a hectic situation.

Making up your own must-have kit is easy; about the toughest part is finding the right-size container to hold all your ephemera. If you can't find one that works and you're handy with a needle or crafts, you can always make one (I've recycled old tins and made up my own kit holders from scratch.) Remember to check TSA's prohibited items list if you're planning to take your kit on a plane so you don't bring anything that will be confiscated at the airport (scissors are now a big no-no.) You can also make up must-have kits for writer friends as gifts; they make great bon-voyage presents if your pal is planning to attend a conference.

Related links:

Wikihow.com's Make a Travel-Size Craft Kit

Naomi Szeben's article How to Make Your Own Desk Drawer Emergency Kit has some great ideas on kits you can make up for life's various emergencies.

Hold the Apps, Please

Today a nice young man helped me get my daughter a new mobile phone. It's an early 16th birthday present, plus she dropped her old phone during band practice and it now displays everything only in virulent shades of green and pink.

The process of buying the new phone took almost three hours, during which the nice young man did his best to sell me more services and gadgetry. This included something that wirelessly recharges all your gadgets; evidently putting a plug into a wall socket has become too much work.

"Along with your mobile, you can charge your iPod, eReader, game controller, and your [Netbook or laptop. I can't remember which] all at the same time," he assured me.

I politely refused. "I don't own any of those things." I've been thinking about getting my daughter an iPod for Christmas but I'm not crazy about the potential damage it might cause her hearing. If I do, she can certainly plug it into the wall to recharge it.

He gave me the usual weird Huh? look but recovered quickly and moved on to the final phase of the purchasing process, when he explained the features of the new phone. When we got to the apps, of which there were apparently several million that could be downloaded, he asked which ones I happened to use on my own phone.

"None," I told him. "I don't use any."

Now he stared at me. "You don't have any apps on your phone?" In the same tone someone might ask, "You don't have any panties on?"

To show him I wasn't lying, I took out the disposable cell phone I've been lugging around for the last four years. It still has nearly all of the 1300 minutes I got for free when the disposable phone company forced me to give up the original phone I bought (seven years ago) because their equipment no longer supported the clunky old thing (they also gave me a newer, slimmer phone for free.) P.S., it also has another 1200 free minutes I've collected over the last four years when I renew my airtime.

The nice young man examined it with the awe of an Egyptologist discovering a lost king's tomb. "What does it do?"

"It sends and receives phone calls." I thought for a minute. "And it rings. That's pretty much it." Before he could launch into the "But don't you want a phone that can take pictures, check the internet, play music, access Twitter and Facebook, realign the Hubble" speech I added, "That's all I need it to do."

He wasn't giving up. "I could transfer this line over to your existing plan with us for $9.99 a month."

"Sorry," I said. "It's thirty bucks cheaper to buy a year of airtime from them in advance. Plus every time I do, they give me another 400 free minutes I'll never use."

He was speechless.

"It's okay. It's a great phone, and it does exactly what I need to it to do: it sits in my purse in case of an emergency while I'm on the road. Plus it costs me less to use for a whole year than I will pay you guys for my daughter to use her phone for a month." I smiled. "Isn't technology wonderful?"

I think he was still muttering to himself when I left the store.

When you pursue publication, you can be persuaded to invest a lot of money in a whole pile of gadgets and special software, all designed to make storytelling easier. I'm sure they even have how-to phone apps for writers now. You can also pay to attend conferences, workshops and seminars; you can join writer's organizations and guilds and subscribe to indy rags and what have you. For every bell and whistle out there, there is someone to convince you of how much you need it. This is because their priority is to get you to buy it.

I won't tell you what to do with your hard-earned cash; what writing stuff we buy is something we have to decide for ourselves. If it weren't for the Dragon, I know I couldn't write my novels, so there's one example. Another is the AlphaSmart Neo, which other writers tell me is as helpful as it is durable. It's only logical that some other products out there are equally worthwhile.

But before you whip out that credit card or write a check, just ask yourself: Do I need this, or am I being sold this?

Blame Jason

The Twenty Most Annoying People You Meet at a Writer's Conference

Agent Aloof -- the literary agent who sits only with his authors, who act like bodyguards. Doesn't actually talk to anyone but has his authors tell everyone who tries to approach that his client list is full and he isn't looking for any new authors to rep. Wears enough pricey-spicey cologne to choke a cat. Seems to spend the entire conference on his mobile phone having muttered arguments with an editor at Tor, an editor at Kensington, the buyer at Borders, or someone named Debby.

Booze Bunnies -- the giggly attendee who parks in the middle of the hotel bar, guzzles innumerable colorful fruit drinks with little umbrellas in them, and who remains completely sauced throughout the conference. Smells of whatever drink she spilled or threw up on herself. Upscale variation: holds court in the hotel bar, swills expensive wine or scotch while extolling their virtues, which everyone else is too uneducated to appreciate.

Book of Her Heart Betty -- the older, depressed but determined attendee who lugs around the same 900 page manuscript she's been working on for the last thirty years, which she pitches to anyone who stands near her for longer than three seconds. Leaves a solid wake of Estee Lauder Youth Dew. Will try to sneak in to editor/agent appointments and crash publisher cocktail parties, but justifies this because it is, after all, the book of her heart.

Business Card Boy -- this is the attendee whose sole purpose is to nail everyone with one of the ten thousand colorful homemade business cards he brought to the conference (because a business card is a portal to instant fame, naturally.) Is sweaty all the time and smells like it. His contact info, six e-mail accounts, web site and blog URLS along with ISBNs and titles for every novel he's written or has thought about writing are printed on the card in 2 pt font that is too blurry or smeared to read.

Button & Ribbon Rack -- the gal who adorns herself with every single conference pin, ribbon, and other proof-of-attendance bauble since writer cons were invented. Usually about six feet tall and weighs more than the average grizzly; easy to hear approaching because she clinks and tinkles when she walks. If you so much as smile at her, will corner you and tell you the backstory that goes with every single one of her buttons, ribbons and baubles. Has a terrible case of halitosis. Goes ballistic if registration runs out of the freebie buttons and pins before she can nab her share.

Character Dragsters -- the writer who insists on dressing up as one of his characters, usually from a historic time period or from the distant future when apparently vividly-colored and poorly tailored polyester is the clothing of choice. Carries reproduction weapons like cheap aluminum swords, non-functional muskets, blunted or wooden katanas, etc. Affects a phony accent; usually one he thinks sounds British but is closer to that of a Southie on a bender. Is so flatulent no one can sit near him for longer than sixty seconds. When in character drag, he will not wear his conference name tag or answer to his real name.

Comp Complainer -- the lightly- or newly-published writer who expected to get everything for free, and didn't. Sulks like a wet cat and smells a bit like one, too. Bitterly complains about the massive conspiracy to insult her or ignore her genius for the duration of the conference.

Disappointment Diva -- the attendee who despises the conference, doesn't get to do any of the things she came to do, and/or was publicly snubbed by someone, all of which happened during the first five minutes of the conference. Gives off fumes like milk curdling on a low-heat hot plate. Spends the next three to five days doing nothing but whining about what she missed or writing a letter of complaint to the con committee about it. Demands but doesn't get a full refund.

Disgruntled Demi-God -- an indy celeb author who generates long lines of admirers hoping for an autograph or a kind word, but doesn't show up for half of his scheduled events or sits and scowls through them. Smells of money, cocaine, 20 year old Scotch or hair gel.

Filker From Hell -- a self-styled musician/singer/composer who dresses like a RenFaire refugee and carries at least one or more handmade musical instruments on her person. Doesn't speak but when inspired breaks into improvisational song or strumming, blowing, piping, etc. (and every improvisational song is a slightly off-key variation of Greensleeves.) Smells a bit moldy due to the damp cache of herbs in her velvet neck pouch. Becomes hostile only when someone interrupts anything before the seventeenth chorus of her current tune. Is a fan of only two authors (Rowling, Tolkien) and refuses to read anyone else as they are completely inferior.

Freebie Bag Lady -- the woman whose only mission is to get all the really good free stuff before anyone else. Haunts the goody room; only talks to authors to ask if they have any free books to give her. Carries four large empty bags with her everywhere, takes at least three of everything, and talks only about the lousy amount of freebies this year. Permeates the air around her with the fragrance of Juicy Fruit gum and Aqua-Net. Will swipe as many hardcovers as possible from the tables during the guest speaker luncheon and refuse to give them back to the other attendees they were intended for. Complains loudly about having to pay for the books at any charity signing event. On the last day, she is in a state of perpetual dismay after learning how much it's going to cost to ship her 5000 pounds of free stuff home. Leaves about half of the freebies she takes in her hotel room for the maid to toss out.

Grudge Boy -- the co-panelist who doesn't sell as well as you do or has some other reason to hate you, who doesn't answer any questions but spends the entire session attacking your answers and ridiculing your methods. Stinks of Old Spice and hand lotion. After the panel, he will then try to come up to you to say how he doesn't want you to take his criticism of everything you say, do, or think personally. If you're a woman, he'll do this while staring at your breasts.

How-to Hawkers -- the busy entrepeneur who had three books in print ten or fifteen years ago, but now apparently makes a living only by selling how-to books, devices and other info ephemera to other writers at the conference. Has an answer to every writing problem; generally the wrong answer. Radiates the scent of hot toner or lamination. Some of them have so much stock to get rid of that they drag a rolling suitcase or beverage cart around with them everywhere.

Jack the Ass -- the misguided but earnest soul who believes that cracking tasteless jokes, horsing around and disrupting workshops and panels with his witty but pointless remarks is the most effective way to promote himself and his books. Smells of firecrackers and a urinal, for obvious reasons.

Non-Writer Ninny -- a person who is not a writer, does not plan to write, and thinks all writers are asses. Marvels at how useless the conference is or how bad the workshops are. Uses too much celebrity-branded perfume and not enough deodorant. Will attend at least 200 writer conferences every year.

On the Make Artist -- the married, often balding gentleman who does not have his spouse with him as he only attends writer conferences to troll for easy one-night stands. Smells of tooth plaque and Binaca. Will hit on anyone with a pulse; generally nails at least one lonely, dumpy wannabe who falls for his schlock.

Substitute Editor -- a pale, harassed and untidy-looking junior editor, usually from a major publishing house, who was forced to attend the conference at the last minute because the senior editor didn't feel like doing it. Has no authority to acquire anything but doesn't share this information with anyone. Has a perpetual cold or migraine, or contracts both during the first hour of the conference. Walks around in an envelope of Halls cough drops, Pepto-Bismol, and Burt's Bees chapstick. Spends a lot of time at the Tiki bar by the pool pretending to read partials while she really tries to work on her tan. Doesn't want to pay for anything (and after a word with a high-ranking member of the con committee, generally doesn't.) Will agree to read anything a writer pitches and will forget these agreements the minute she steps on the plane to go home.

Two-Legged Dragon -- Militant smoker who hangs with other tobacco addicts to whine about not being able to smoke in the hotel. Every ten minutes will try to light up somewhere, and then when caught by hotel staff will claim he thought that was a designated smoking area. Will sneak half a cig while locked in a stall in a hotel common area restroom. Is constantly chewing gum, breath mints, the ends of pencils, etc. but still stinks like a wet ashtray that grew legs. Within the first day these folks find each other, bond, and set about creating a large, permanent cloud of second-hand smoke directly outside every hotel entrance and exit.

Vengeful Viper -- a more intense version of Grudge Boy; says nothing to your face and will not sit within a hundred feet of you, but spends the entire conference ridiculing your books, badmouthing you, and glaring at you from a safe distance. Smells a little like burnt electrical wiring.

Witchy Woman -- the ageing, heavily-tattooed, much-pierced goth type who dresses only in black imitation satin or velvet, sports Mr. T-style silver jewelry with at least two visible pentagrams on every part of her body that can support chains, clamps or piercings. Has the nose ring in the center, not the side, and a jumbo tongue stud. Smokes and smells so much of pot that you can get a contact high standing next to her. Wears enough black eyeliner to polish a dozen shoes. Voluntarily informs you of the color of your aura, if there's a curse on your career, and the best crystals to use to dispel writer block demons from your work space.

Feel free to add to the list in comments.

(dedicated to Jason Pinter, whose last Genreality post inspired the idea.)