The Post Loncon Daze

So, Loncon, there it was: my first ever proper con.  In fact, also my first ever worldcon. Before it fades into a distant memory, before the trials of Milford take over next week, I thought I’d put some words and pictures up.

Initially the place felt hugely impersonal: a massive hangar in London’s docklands, entry queues stretching for miles (I was behind a sweaty Thor for what seemed like hours), hundreds of people milling around and a mind-boggling programme which needed some kind of Einsteinian mind to unravel.  I trotted around, chatting to a few publishers, feeling a bit lost, forever consulting my iPad to find out about another event I had just missed.  There were panels, readings, exhibits, some of which I attended.  I saw some of the SF glitterati cutting through the crowds, but kept my distance.

Then: a familiar face.  We quickly found the bar.  More familiar faces emerged - like elephants drawn to water, writers are drawn to the bar.  And this was the best part of the entire con - hanging around with my fellow Milfordians, chatting about SF writing.  And of course, drinking.  That was when Loncon came home for me.  These are my people.

I raise my glass to you lovely writing folk.  Cheers.  Let’s do it again soon!

Montage:

The Bone Chair

i honor the faceless 

i bring them beauty without skin 

i am the Chairmaker 

i find forgiveness dwelling only within 

Use of Weapons, Iain M. Banks

 Al Reynolds gives us an insight into the third book from the Poseidon's Children trilogy.

The Doctor pays a visit...

Paul J. McAuley signing my hardback first edition of Red Dust, one of the novels that properly got me into SF.

Charlie Stross waving his Hugo around.  Jeez, those things are heavy.

'The factory hadn't been specific (it rarely is), but I had the feeling that whatever it was warning me about was important, and I also suspected it would be bad, but I had been wise enough to take the hint and check my Poles, and now I knew my aim was still good, things were still with me.'  

The Wasp Factory, Iain Banks