Sunday,
September 2, 2001
MILLENNIUM PHILCON - DAY FOUR

Who WAS that brand new Campbell Award winner. . .

Having learned last night that Derek and Philip were flying back to Dallas today (Derek hadn't been aware that tomorrow was Labor Day when he booked the hotel and plane tickets months ago), I had breakfast with them at our favorite all-night diner (where once again we were in the Service Black Hole), then waved them goodbye. I now have to mull over Derek's challenge -- when we were walking back from the HarperCollins/Eos party Friday night, we started talking about the members of FutureClassics and the type of stories we tend to write, and how I've gained the reputation of being the smut writer of the group. I don't remember exactly how this came about (I think we were talking about "I Play Dead" -- Derek, can you elucidate on this?) but somehow he wound up saying that I needed to write a story with an element that would appeal to men everywhere.

And what was that, I inquired innocently.

"Hot lesbian action," he said.

Ah, hah. Derek should know by now not to hand me straight lines (ahem) like this. It now looks like my next submission to FutureClassics will be a sapphic sexfest of some sort. Hmm, wonder if ctan is still buying stories for Worlds Inside Her. . .

After saying goodbye in the Marriott lobby, it was time to run over to the convention center to attend the two-hour SFWA Business meeting, which was an education in the organization and remarkably gore-free. Afterwards, Rachel Hartman invited me up to her room to watch her DVD of "The Making of the Wicker Man," then Julia and I then met up with a SFLA friend and her husband for dinner at Passage to India -- decent food, but it took so long to get seated that we had to gulp our food and hotfoot it back to the hotel to get dressed for the Hugos.

For those of you who don't follow SF a lot, the Hugos are the big awards for specfic writing that are given at Worldcon -- the con members vote for the nominees and winners, and the award itself is usually a silver rocketship with some kind of con-specific base. I used to describe them as the Oscars of specfic, but to be honest that analogy works better with the Nebulas, which are voted on and given out by the members of SFWA (analogous to the Oscars being selected by the nominees' peers). The Hugos are more like the Golden Globes of specfic, but they hold the honor of being the first big specfic award so they mean a hell of a lot to the writers, editors, and other folk who are up for them.

This year's award ceremony itself was great (especially the MCing by the incomparable Esther Friesner, at left in her Oriental look as she prepares to surprise the audience with her MC Toast rap, as well as Connie Willis's hysterical stalling speech -- I suspected some of the waiting nominees were ready to lock and load by the third time she cheerfully drifted off topic). More importantly, though, we screamed our heads off when a visibly stunned Kristine Smith (at right in her stunning red cheongsam) won the Campbell Award for Best New Writer. All of the Campbell nominees were good, deserving writers, and I salute them for being nominated, but Kristine is our friend and had been moping around for most of the con because it was her last year of eligibility, she was absolutely convinced that there was no way in hell she could win this award, and that it was almost certainly going to Jo Walton (who, it turns out, was absolutely convinced it was going to Kristine). In addition to Julia's and my whooping, a large, loud roar went up from the audience, so I think they liked her, too.

And then it was time to scoot up to the SFWA suite to drink and watch the rest of the awards on CCTV. Lessee -- more parties, more door dragon duties, and I instituted a rule where the Door Dragon gets to kiss handsome men on the cheek. Which was lots of fun for me, heh, heh -- I don't think any of the kissees minded, either. :-)

Another late night in the lobby saluting the now-bubbly Kristine and listening to Selina sing rude songs accompanied by humorous gestures, a bit more alcohol, and then we staggered off to bed. Much as I can't believe this is coming out of my mouth, I'm almost looking forward to going home tomorrow -- I'm tired. . .