This week, we return to a classic. I will give you 20 subgenres. You will pick two from the list either using a d20 or random number generator (or use tea leaves or falcon guts or something), then you will write a short story that mashes up those two subgenres. (So you might get Kaiju Noir, or Superhero BDSM, or Parallel Universe Whodunit!)

This time, you’ll get 1500 words.

This is due by next Friday (2/12), noon EST.

Post at your online space.

Link to it in the comments below. So we can all read it!

THE SUBGENRE LIST:

1. Kaiju
2. Cli-Fi (Climate Change Fiction)
3. Southern Gothic
4. Zombie
5. Weird West
6. Mythology
7. Body Horror
8. Grimdark Fantasy
9. Whodunit?
10. Military Sci-Fi
11. Comic Fantasy
12. Technothriller
13. Superhero
14. BDSM Erotica
15. Heist / Caper
16. Magical Realism
17. Parallel Universe
18. Noir
19. Time Travel
20. Alien Horror

Impostor Syndrome is one of those topics that I think we all instinctively grok. We all feel like we’re stowaways, and success really doesn’t ameliorate that. They could give us the captain’s hat and we’d still be all HOLY SHIT I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING HERE WHAT IS A BOAT IS THAT THE OCEAN OH FUCK FUCK FUCK. Emmie Mears had a cool take on it and she wrote that take up for you all to read. Behold!

* * *

A Face pops up over the shoulder of the person I’m talking with. Beatific smile, too-thin lips, very even but too-small teeth. Hair that belongs in a barber shop quartet. Too much pomade. The Face exudes a sour smell, like a dirty sock that fell in a catbox. That smile stays plastered on the Face like it’s been rolled up there with wallpaper glue.

“You don’t belong here.” He says it in a nasal, bureaucratic tone, floating over the shoulder of my conversation partner. “Really, they’re all better than you. You really ought to just walk away. And just wait until they catch you here.”

I get this feeling like I’m about to be picked up by the scruff of the neck until I curl my feet up under me, duck my head, and T-rex my hands in front of me. I force myself to keep smiling anyway, trying not to make eye contact with the Face even though it’s right beside the person I’m talking to.

“They’ll find out,” he sing-songs.

My own smile is starting to feel plastered. I forget what I was talking about. I filter back through the actual conversation happening. Release dates? Audiobooks. Mutual friends. Right. Right! That’s what it was. I was supposed to tell one of the guests this person says hello. Not the Face that keeps popping up over his shoulders. The actual person.

“I’m sorry; I won’t take up any more of your time,” I say, ignoring the floating Face.

I get a what-are-you-talking-about sort of look that shows he’s oblivious to the presence of the spectre behind him and the way it’s making me splutter.

“No, I’m glad you stopped me! It was awesome to meet you! Tweet me your book.” The co-executive producer of my favourite show walks away, leaving me in the middle of the floor at New York Comic Con, half beaming, half about to pass out.

Right. So that happened.

As my Patronus of a TV writer disappears in the crowd, that insipid Face hovering in the air does not.

“Do you seriously think he meant that?” The Face scoffs it at me. “He’s not going to read it.”

I feel that sinking feeling that the Face immediately recognises as me acknowledging he’s right.

Who am I to think I’m anyone?

***

I’m in Artist Alley, admiring the work of an extremely talented woman. Her line work is fantastic; her shading is impeccable. She’s got style and voice in each panel I look at, and I praise her work loudly. She beams.

My brother’s an artist, and her work reminds me a bit of his. They both do exquisite shading in ink — the textures are stunning. I say so, and I pull up a couple of my brother’s pieces.

I can almost hear the Face poof into existence behind me this time.

“Oh, wow — yeah, no. I’m nothing like him! Your brother’s in another stratosphere. He’s amazing!” The woman’s voice goes up a couple pitches, and I see her head shaking as if she’s agreeing with the floating, plastered-grin head I can feel behind me. He’s not focused on me right now. It’s all her.

“But no, your work is amazing!” I tell her this with as much sincerity as I can muster, because it’s true. My cheeks feel hot.

She almost backs away from her table as if she wishes she had a smoke bomb to smash so she could vanish into the aether.

Fuckles.

I rattle off some more praises, trying to keep the I’m sorry! from flinging off my tongue.

As we walk away, I hunch, turning to my friend. “I feel awful. I totally just invoked Impostor Syndrome in that woman.”

***

Impostor Syndrome. The Fraud Police. The Men With Clipboards. Whatever you want to call the Face (you read how I picture it).

I spent the weekend in New York last October, with one day at Comic Con and the rest running to and fro between various meetings and shindigs. It was a fantastic weekend. I met heroes in the flesh. Had breakfast with the Illustrious Owner of This Here Blog. Got a couple snazzy gifts for friends. Went four hours without peeing because I was waiting for a limited signing. Saw Orlando Jones’s beautiful, beautiful self lurking between Felicia Day and Danny Glover. Saw an epic Magenta and Riff-Raff cosplay. Ate way more delicious food than I am used to encountering, and I didn’t have to make it myself!

I spent a lot of time talking with writers, artists, agents, editors, actors.

And sometime in the middle of all that, I had the strangest epiphany.

It slowly detached from me like one of those B’loonies from the 80s you inflated like a giant bubble through a straw until you were lightheaded.

The common thread in every conversation I had with someone who arts for a living?

At some point in the conversation, literally every single one of them said something like this:

“I mean, it’s fucking BIG NAME. Like….somehow I ended up with them.”

“I had to ask BIG NAME for a blurb. He even remembered me!”

“Oh, I mean, well. Thanks. I’m uh….glad you like it!” *foot scuff*

“Every project I have just went kaput. I’m starting from scratch. I don’t know what to do.”

These people I was talking with? I already mentioned one was a co-EP on a major network show. Actors with a couple million Twitter followers. People who make books happen at major publishers. Bestselling authors. Also new authors, newly agented or sold. Artists breaking in, like the one I mentioned. That last quote was one of the actors.

This shit is real.

And I sure felt it. In pretty much every one of my meetings I primped and shellacked myself and tried my damndest to look the part because I was 99.999238% sure that when I opened my mouth, the warbly yodel of a turkey would come out because I grew up in a barn and who knows, maybe while I slept on the other side of the tarp from the turkeys I inhaled turkey DNA and it lay dormant for fifteen years, waiting to manifest the moment I was face to face with People Way More Established Than I.

GOBBLE GOBBLE.

I watched the Face hovering over their shoulders all weekend, taunting me like somebody was about to turn up behind me, stuff my head into a burlap sack that smelled of rotten anchovies, and haul me off the island of Manhattan. After which I would dust off any old Real Job (™) and never write again because I wasn’t allowed in the club and they’d caught me playing dress-up in author clothes.

But.

That epiphany.

I’m not the only one who sees that awful Face.

We all see it.

When I was fangirling to peers about meeting that EP, inside my head I was thinking, “Why did he even TALK TO ME?” But looking back in that conversation, he was just as shocked that I’d stop him to tell him how much I love his art as I was that he gave me the time of day. (He didn’t actually give me the time of day, but I bet he would have if I’d asked because he was very nice.)

This isn’t a thing that goes away.

It’s now 2016. I have five books out in the wild. I’ve made deals that paid real advances. I occasionally get fan mail/tweets/one star reviews. I still see the Face. I still think about that epiphany that we all have our own Face whispering that we’re faking it.

Part of me felt really depressed after that rubber cement smelling epiphany bubble burst into a cloud of fumes. It settled over me, making my eyes burn. This Face was going to keep haunting me. And all the arty people I know.

Earlier this year, I got to go see Neil Gaiman speak. Someone asked him when he felt like he’d made it. He said when he won the Newberry Medal in 2009, thirty-some-odd years into his career. That was the day he realised the Men With Clipboards weren’t going to come take him away.

So I guess all the arty people feel this way except Neil Gaiman.

(I’m willing to bet he’s felt it again since then, though. Feelings are tricksy like that.)

After a lot of pondering on the subway, I realised something else.

If we all feel like we don’t belong — if at any and all stages of our careers we feel like we’re acting our little hearts out to keep anyone from noticing that we’re interlopers in our field — maybe the secret to beating the Face until it poofs back out of existence is to gang up on it.

Own the feelings that we have something to prove. Own our insecurities. Own our desire to throw the word “but” after someone compliments us.

And maybe the secret to fighting it is talking about it. It can be hard, especially if you know people whose careers seem a lot more established than yours. But we all are allowed to feel this way, whether we’ve just landed an agent and our friends haven’t, whether we’ve got two books out or twenty, whether we work on a successful TV show or make web videos, whether we peddle our art at Comic Con booths or have just put together our first portfolio.

Making art for a living is hard.

The Face makes it worse, because it tells us we don’t deserve the success we’ve had to wrestle from this path until our knuckles bled and our teeth were caked in mud. It tells us someone’s going to notice and that they’re going to boot us back to where we came from. It tells us we’re never going to break in, break out, break free of its awful-awful whispers.

(GOBBLE GOBBLE)

But I for one would rather sit side by side with my fellow art-makers and listen, then link arms with them and all kick the Face in its too-small teeth until even the pomade won’t hold it together anymore.

Fuck that Face.

So you — yeah, you. Whatever you’re doing to make your art, keep doing it. You belong. You can sit with us. It’s a lot easier for me to extend my hand to you than it is to offer the same to myself. I’m trying. But for you, we’re not going to police you out of here, so don’t believe the Face. Keep working. Keep trying. Someone else’s success does not diminish you or your work. We can all be awesome together.

* * *

Emmie Mears is an author, actor, and person of fannish pursuits. Born in Texas, the Lone Star state quickly spit her out after three months, and over eight states and three different countries, Emmie became a proper vagabond. She writes science fiction and fantasy and is the head of a pride of cats in Maryland. Slightly obsessed with Buffy and Supernatural, she haunts the convention circuits and joins in when she can on panels and general tomfoolery. She is the author of the Shrike series and the Ayala Storme series. Emmie is open to bribery in the form of sushi and bubble tea. Emmie may or may not secretly be a car.

Ayala Storme series: Amazon

Shrike series: Amazon

This started on Twitter because I was saying that the Sundance Screenwriting Lab was really very formative for me as a writer. Basically, prior to the Sundance Festival, you end up in the mountains for five days studying with mentors who help you pick apart your work in a variety of ways. It’s a very narrow focus, in what was for me the best way possible. You mostly work to dissect your own script, and you also get the benefit of hanging out with peers and professionals and share meals and watch movies and have roundtable talk sessions about, well, all kinds of things. Plus the pros do presentations and — well, it was really great. The isolation, the focus on the script rather than writing new material, the aversion to business with a strong leaning toward craft and story. Precious in the best way possible.

I think it would be super amazing to do something like this for novelists.

Now, this exists, to some degree, already.

Taos Toolbox, Viable Paradise, Clarion, Odyssey, etc.

I did not attend any of those, though my understanding is:

a) you pay for them?

b) they focus in part on workshopping/critiquing one another?

c) they focus a little bit on writing new material?

d) the programs run about two weeks?

My understanding of those may be incorrect, so feel free to correct me. Further, this idea of mine is in no way meant to speak ill of those programs — those who have done those programs have spoken incredibly well of them.

Here’s how my own pie-in-the-sky “novel lab” would work:

1) It has to be free to both mentors and program attendees. Sundance has an application fee, and that’s as far as it goes. Being a writer in particular is not generally a career where you ROLL AROUND IN A ROOM FULL OF MONEY, and so I think it’s vital to start off with zero cost for the lab. That definitely means room, board, food. Not sure about travel — ideally that, too, would be free. Note, I have no way to pay for this because ha ha ha I’m pretty much just winging this idea right here, right now. But I expect some combination of crowdfunding (KS + Patreon), donations, and sponsorship from publishers or writing software companies or, I dunno, whiskey distillers. SHUT UP IT MAKES SENSE. But really, taking the burden of cost away ideally helps obviate some of the privilege intrinsic any time money enters the equation.

2) Can’t be two weeks. Two weeks is a long time. I think a week or less is just right.

3) Gotta be somewhat isolated. Like, not MURDERSHACK isolated, but — an island. Or the mountains. Or a secret moonbase. Or we can all cram in my battleshed and fight for dominance.

4) No workshopping between participants. I mean, if you want to, fine, and everybody can read everyone else’s work, but this would very explicitly be about deep dissection of your completed manuscript draft with a series of chosen mentors in 1-on-1 story sessions. It is about having a completed work submitted and then that work gets broken apart in the hands of mentors, and you and those mentors (say, three to five of them per book) give you their take and you hash it out with them. Vital not to have just one mentor, but several. Creative agitation is king. (Note that I have no problem with workshops or critique groups, but personally I have never found them fruitful and I think there’s really no guarantee that just because your peer can write means they also know how to critique or edit. The mentors selected would be capable in this regard, though.)

5) No writing new material. Again, you can write new material on your own time, but the focus would very overtly be about breaking apart existing material and thinking about what you already have, not about what you want to write in the future.

6) Very minimal overall focus on the business side of things. (So minimal, might as well be zero.) Not that writers don’t need advice on publishing — they do! But if this is a shorter workshop, then focusing it on the story is key.

7) Pros would have talks or presentations.

8) Might also be worth having a book club component — one book that everyone reads and dissects during the lab. Again, just to keep everyone thinking about story as a larger thing.

9) Sundance has, I think, a limit of 12 projects and that feels like the upper end here, too. I might even say 10? So, you get ten unpublished novitiate authors and roughly the same number of mentors present — mentors being published, proven authors across a variety of genres? I’m admittedly viewing this as a genre thing. Probably SFF, though there could be an argument made for incorporating mystery or thriller novels, too. The ten novitiate authors selected would not be selected by one person but by the mentors themselves, I think, and inclusion would be a priority. Diversity in genre, too, has value, so not just ten epic fantasy novels or some such — a really interesting cross-section of SFF would be ideal, with a YA component, too.

10) I do wonder if there’s value in having presentations from editors and agents, too, at this thing — though there, that’s the business side creeping in, so maybe not? Hm.

11) Minimal down-time. Fairly intense. Creative compression.

12) Must be a safe space in all ways.

So, that’s the gist of it. A lot unconsidered and again, this is all very rosy-cheeked perfect-world nonsense that will likely never come to fruition. But if I ever did set up a “novel-writing lab,” it would look a whole lot like this Sundance model. I might call it, “Storybridge…”

*dreams*

*is eaten by a Grue*

Well, hot dang.

I have written a lot of books.

And the majority of them are on sale this month in digital format.

Why? BECAUSE IT IS ALMOST VALENTINE’S DAY AND I LOVE YOU. AND IT’S TOTALLY NOT BECAUSE SOMEONE ELSE IS IN CONTROL OF IT AND I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH IT.

*goes in for an awkward hug*

*is correctly Tasered*

*shakes it off*

So, what books are on sale, you might ask?

The first three Miriam Black books (where Miriam can solve murders before they happen because she can see how you’re going to die with but a touch) are all $2.99 at Amazon and B&N:

Blackbirds: Amazon | B&N

Mockingbird: Amazon | B&N

The Cormorant: Amazon | B&N

My YA detective novel  — think a Pennsyltucky Nancy Drew if she had a squirrel-shooter shotgun and a pocket full of Adderall — Atlanta Burns is on sale for $1.99 at Amazon:

Atlanta Burns: Amazon

The Heartland trilogy — think “Star Wars meets John Steinbeck” class warfare GMO cornpunk YA novel  — is $1.99 per book at Amazon:

Under the Empyrean Sky: Amazon

Blightborn: Amazon

The Harvest: Amazon

So, that’s quite the variety of sales going on.

You could, if you really wanted, buy seven of my books right now for — *hurries to perform the execrable task of MATH* — $16.93.

(Heck, you could slather on The Blue Blazes, where Underworld mob enforcer Mookie Pearl is the thick meaty line separating the criminal Underworld from the ACTUAL HELL under Manhattan — $3.99 at Amazon and $2.99 direct. But hey, now I think I’m getting greedy.)

Anyway, if you care to spread the word, please do.

I think these sales are all month, though don’t quote me on that. I also don’t expect that they exist outside the US because that’s just how this shit goes, sometimes.

Enjoy, folks!

That is a dead damselfly (view larger here). An ebony jewelwing, to be specific.

It was quite pretty, and I tried to take a number of shots of it in repose, but this one — this utterly broken, mutilated shot — is my favorite of that day’s bunch.

It looks like a creature in some kind of benediction or prayer. Or perhaps in mourning.

Either way: please to enjoy.

SEE WHAT I DID THERE?

PROS CONS OF PRO CONS.

I tickle myself inappropriately.

Anyway, so, last week Authorbeing Marko Kloos wrote a post about the cost of his trip to Confusion, an SFF con in Michigan. His estimation of cost: $1880, though he notes with more frugal spending that cost could’ve easily been knocked down to under a thousand bucks.

Still, a thousand bucks is no small amount of cash. With that you could pay rent, make a car payment, buy a month’s worth of groceries, or finally afford a long relaxing weekend with your own personal SEX PONY. Is that an actual pony with whom you make love? Or a person dressed like a pony who just hangs around being sexy? I have no idea! I don’t want to know your peccadillos! I’m not here to judge!

The question, particularly for genre writers, becomes:

Is it worth it?

Is it worth going to a convention or festival not just as a fan but as a professional writer or a writer seeking professional connections? Are some conventions better than others? After all, a genre convention (SFF or mystery or YA) will be different from a more general writer convention (conference) and those will be different yet from a comic-con or book festival.

Do you need to go to one?

Let’s just get the tl;dr out of the way right now:

Nope, you don’t.

THERE I DID YOUR WORK FOR YOU NOW GO HOME.

Wait! I was kidding, don’t go away. Unless you’re going away to get me some French fries. You’re not? Then fine, plunk your BOTTOM REGION down on that CHAIR-SHAPED ENTITY and listen because I’m not done talking, goddamnit. No, you don’t need to go to any convention…

But you may still find value there. You are not required to go — meaning, at no point is your professional career hinging entirely on WHO YOU SCHMOOZED AT THE BAR THAT NIGHT AT WANGLE-DANGLECON. Your writing career hinges on writing good books that an editor likes and a publisher thinks they can sell and that readers want to read and also, there’s a hefty dumpster-load of luck at play, too.

Though, let’s talk a little bit about that luck factor, shall we? If we view luck through the lens of an RPG, your Luck Stat can (by most rules) be used to boost your chances at, say, finding more treasure or managing a critical hit while attacking a VILE DISPLACER GIRAFFE. If we view life as one big ongoing RPG, then your Luck Stat is there to boost your chances in various life arenas from the romantic to the financial to the professional. Very few things rely entirely on luck — but many things can be influenced by luck. Writing and publishing included.

You can not create luck, really. But you can maximize it.

Bringing this full circle, going to a convention or conference or festival can help maximize your luck in this space. Meaning, maybe you cross paths with an agent or editor who will remember you later when your book crosses their desk. Or maybe you’ll meet another author who is likelier to take a look at your book to blurb it when the time comes because they actually remember your face. Or maybe you attend a panel where four authors say a bunch of smart and dumb stuff that combines like IDEA VOLTRON in your head to form your next book. Again, none of this is essential, but a lot of it has the chance to give you a boost in a variety of ways.

That’s the upfront tl;dr —

No, conventions/conferences/festivals are explicitly not “required.”

But they can be worth it.

Let’s now hash out the actual pros and cons, yeah?

(Disclaimer: this post is just my opinion, and does not comprise anything resembling fact.)

The Pros About Cons!

+ You will meet people. These people can become your friends. Not just resources (as in, “HUMAN CHITS YOU WILL SPEND TO BUY UPGRADES TO YOUR CAREER”) but actual human beings inside writing or publishing that you think are rad. And they think you’re rad. Friendship is good. Friendship can be a life preserver flung to you in the tumult of the storm-tossed publishing sea. The friendship can begin at a con and can continue for literally your whole life after. That’s a pretty special thing.

+ You will meet other people. They will not become friends, but they are part of the community at large, and it’s good to be aware of the community at large. Just being connected to something has value — it sounds stupid, but if you’re going to live in the woods you should probably take some time to walk in the woods. Take a look around. Learn the smells. Get a vibe, take a pulse, whatever. Most genre communities are far smaller than you think. And those various communities overlap, too. It’s good to be there. It’s good to make yourself present and mindful. Later on, your connection may have echoes. It may yield fruit.

+ You might learn really good things. A lot of panels can be amazing. Creativity is strengthened through agitation — meaning, we grab a bunch of polarizing ideas from outside sources and jam them into our head and shake our skull around like it’s a rock tumbler. It polishes what’s already in there and breaks apart other, lesser ideas. Agitation leads to revelation. The old chestnut is always write what you know, but the unspoken follow-up to that is you can always learn more stuff. Cons are a good place to learn more stuff.

+ Cons are also great teaching opportunities. Share what you know! CONTRIBUTE IDEA GOOP TO THE GIANT GLOB OF IDEA GOOP AND INCREASE CREATIVE SYMBIOSIS.

+ I have routinely left most cons feeling professionally and creatively energized. I love this.

+ Commiseration! Writing is hard! Publishing is harder! It’s good to get together with people who GROK YOUR MOJO and with whom you can speak at length about stuff you could (and should) never put on social media. This isn’t just about letting off steam, but rather, about helping to talk-through solutions and to hear about the experiences of others.

+ You will meet industry people. Said it before but it bears repeating: sometimes meeting an agent or editor or publicist or whomever can have unseen value in this gig. Just the simple fact that they might remember you later (ideally as the nice person who said something funny rather than the fucking dong-hole who said something incomprehensible while slobbery drunk) can be a really good thing. Plus, these people might share straight dope about the industry. Never underestimate the value of scuttlebutt.

+ You will meet fans. Maybe you have a new book out. Maybe you published one short story. Maybe you’re a writer with a dozen books on shelves. You probably have fans. No, really! In genre in particular, the audience is smaller than you think and better connected than you expect. Someone there may have read what you wrote. And they loved it. Go meet them!

+ You will make fans. Being on a panel or just talking to people can endear you to them. You get up there and say something smart or crack wise in the right way and someone in that audience may convert — the ideal moment is the one where they think, I need to read what this person has written. Every moment at a con is an opportunity to make new friends and new fans.

+ You can be a fan! Never fail to be a fan inside the industry. I am a fan of other writers — both writers whose work inspired me to be a writer and present peers whose work inspires me alongside my own work. It’s really good to go and just be amazed by the really rad people doing this thing that you love to do. I am incredibly happy when surrounded by talented writer-folk. I think that’s true for most of us. I mean, sure, some of them are fucking dong-holes, but if I’m being honest? They’re few and far between. Most people in this business are pretty cool and I feel lucky to be a part of it.

+ You might actually sell some books.

+ It’s tax-deductible as a professional expense!

The Cons About Cons!

– You might not actually sell some books. Every con is different — the best thing is when a con has a dedicated bookstore associated with it (like Mysterious Galaxy, for example) running the book sales. But a lot of cons (even some big ones, like Gen Con or DragonCon) do not have an easy flow between panels and book sales. See, here’s the thing: when you get on a panel and you do your sexy panel dance and then the audience is like SWEET SLIPPERY JESUS I NEED THIS AUTHOR’S BOOKS, that is a window of opportunity. But that window closes. As most people are traditionally like goldfish, they will remember your name and your book for a short time and then, after an hour unreminded will go off to get tacos or see another panel. In a perfect world there is a flow between panel and bookseller that is easy and unobstructed. (Festivals tend to be very good at this in my experience. Conventions and conferences, less so.)

– The ROI on selling books will almost never make up the expense for going. To cover $1000 cost, you would need to sell — *does quick math* — A SHITLOAD, SQUARED. And given that most bookstores will show up carrying fewer copies than that squared shitload, well. You do the math. I mean it. You do it because I don’t want to. Hey, I didn’t get into writing books for the math. THE GREATEST TRICK THE DEVIL EVER PULLED WAS MATH CLASS.

– Some cons will allow you to bring your own books and sell them on consignment. This is a good way to make money. It’s also a good way to do backbreaking labor because books are the heaviest substance known to man and if the con isn’t in driving distance now you’re hauling ten boxes of your dumb books through an airport or sending them with UPS and the cost of that probably obviates any money you’d make anyway.

– It’s weird going to cons where you don’t know people. It’s hard to connect to a community when you don’t know that community. And you run the risk of feeling weird when you just walk up to a pack of pro writers and stand there, staring at them. Never mind the fact writers can be socially awkward, anyway? I know I can be. (Here the best solution is to go to their events throughout and introduce yourself after a panel or in a signing line and then later you can pop by again and say hi.) Just know that it can be tricky!

– Cons can be stressful and may cause you to spend more spoons than you possess. Meaning, if you are a person with anxiety or depression or other social stressors, then a con can amplify them. I generally believe most cons to contain welcoming, awesome people. But that is not universal, nor is it always easy to access the welcome, awesome people.

– Mentioned already, but cons can cost real money. Hotels, travel, con fee. Not as hard if you’re in driving distance, and easier if you can bunk up with people. Still: money is money, and conferences can be seen as a luxury rather than an essential. Cons thus favor those privileged enough to afford them. (Note: many festivals are free. And free is good.)

– Not all the information at cons is good. I’ve gone to panels and heard writers talk about marketing and promotion or other topics and have literally felt like launching up with my arms flapping about to warn everyone away like I’m Charlton Heston in Soylent Green. THEIR ADVICE IS MADE OF STUPID PEOPLE, I would cry, and then in a crossover would point to the unburied beach head of the Statue of Liberty and something something damn dirty apes. Generally, I love panels at cons. Sometimes, though, you get a real weird mix, and it’s vital to take all the advice with not just a grain of salt but an entire subterranean salt mine.

– Also some cons have really weird niche panels like FURRIES VERSUS STARSHIP CAPTAINS and HOW TO SELL YOUR OCTOGENARIAN EPIC SEX FANTASY and you might start to feel like, wait, why did I pay to come here, this isn’t helping me at all.

– Some cons make it hard to get on programming. You go and you pay and then you get one panel on a subject to which you are only barely connected. (“Why am I on a panel called WRITING ABOUT SUPERNATURAL HYPERSPACE NINJA TRAINS? Because I once mentioned a train and a ninja in the same chapter? Uh, okay?”)

– Also some cons make it hard to get hotels. The name of one of the Circles of Hell is “hotel lottery.” Some cons are in cities where you can comfortably stay outside of town for less money.

The Other Things You Should Think About!

* Social media is a semi-meaningful replacement for cons and festivals. Wildly imperfect but a partly-functional facsimile thereof. Even still, sometimes the relationships you form online are really only cemented when you meet in person. (Though the reverse can be true, too.)

* Going to cons is not essential but it is useful — that said, its usefulness is of diminishing value. Some writers go to a whole lot of cons and that’s fine if it’s not on their dime. If it’s on their dime, I’d argue they’re putting in more than they’re getting out — meaning, the ROI is borked. Choose one or two cons that really represent what you care about and about which you have heard good things. Then go.

* If you cannot afford the total package, BARCON is a possibility — meaning, you can not pay to go to the con but you can hang out in the bar where the writers and publishing people will almost certainly be. Even when we don’t drink we’re like animals at a watering hole, man. And really, don’t worry if you don’t drink. One writer (cough cough Brian McClellan) goes and brings a whole fucking cake and just sits there and eats it and shares it. Which is bad-ass. I actually demand that cake be a vital part of all my con-going from here on out. Brian knows what the fuck is up. I bet Brian has ‘cake’ in his publishing contracts.

* At a certain level, publishers may offer to send you to these events. SAY YES. This is what you want: a publisher spending money on you, your career, and the promotion of your work.

* Going to cons is more about networking than about selling books. Networking may feel like a crass unpleasant affair, because mostly, it is. So don’t really do that. Go and just be with people. Be a sponge. Absorb. Contribute your own thought matter where appropriate. Go not to MAKE CONNECTIONS but go to HANG OUT WITH AWESOME WRITER-PUBLISHER PEOPLE. Again, don’t view people as what they can do for you. People are not outlets for your plug. Real connections are about something deeper than professional exploitation, mutual or otherwise. Being with other humans is a life skill. Cons are good practice for it.

* (I am just now reading a good post by Sunny Moraine about how writing is a solitary activity but also cons are useful and essential and hey go read it when you have a chance.)

What Cons Can Do Better For Writers (And Everybody!)

(Time to talk a little to the cons, now!)

• Get yourself a nice, easy-to-find, easy-to-understand, and most of all easy-to-enforce anti-harassment policy. Writers like safe spaces for ourselves and more importantly, for our fans.

• Be disability accessible. This is 2016. Acknowledge that not everyone has the privilege of being in perfect mental or physical health. I know this isn’t easy and it may cost you money but others have done it and and you need to do it, too. Get on the ball.

• If we are invited as more than just a “person attending,” and we’re anticipating being on panels or doing workshops or whatever, then bare minimum, comp us the cost of the conference. If it’s a conference we wanted to go to in the first place, that’s good. If not, then it won’t be enough. (Consider that it’d be like your workplace saying, “You can come to work today for free — we won’t even charge you for the elevator ride.”)

• Echoing what I said above, but I feel it’s important — published authors come to cons and they would really like to PUSH THEIR WORD-DRUGS ON THE UNSUSPECTING MASSES — uh, I mean, we want to sell our books. Help us do that. Book sales, ideally, will be near to where we are speaking or doing panels. There exists that aforementioned precious moment during and just after a panel where people who are unfamiliar with us may be convinced to try a book by us . That moment is not permanent. They leave the waters of Mnemosyne and we are lost to the river of Lethe. While cons are not all about selling books, we still wanna do it. And our publishers really want us to do it. (It’s kinda why they like us.)

• Don’t make us sell our own books. Some authors want to do this, and them having the option is great. I like to sell my books through bookstores because I want bookstores to be rewarded.

• COOL CENTRAL BAR OR GTFO

• I like when cons offer a green room or separate space for the attending creative people. It’s nice to get to meet a cross-section of other folks speaking and such.

• At panels, I like having water. This is usually a problem but once in a while it isn’t and it needs to be. Though I loathe the waste, bottled water is nice because I can take it with me, and sometimes the pitcher of water on the table has been sitting there since the Mesozoic Era and if you look close enough you can see skin cells and mosquito eggs just floating around in there and ew. What I’m trying to say is, clean hydration is key, goddamnit.

• Also, moderators for panels are an important consideration. Erm, not that you have them (you should, but you already know that), but that they don’t suck. Most moderators are awesome. Some moderators think they’re part of the panel rather than shepherds of the panelists, and then speak at length instead of letting the panelists have a say. YER NOT A WIZARD, ‘ARRY.

• Too many people on a panel is not so good. You get more than five people, it’s like — nobody can really say boo about shit or shit about boo. You get one answer to a question and that’s your time. You hold the mic to your mouth, and breathily answer “yes” to the one question and then it’s over. This is less of an issue if the panels are longer than 50 minutes. But many are understandably not!

• Panels at writing events only about writing drive me nuts. Like, here’s the thing: yes, we need those, and yes, the audience wants those, so yay. But I’m also a huge fan when you have panels on like, random shit that writers can use. A forensics panel at a mystery con. A panel on space travel at a SFF con. Random panels on smart stuff. And, here is the key, not all panels need to be staffed by writers. Staff them with specialists with regards to the specialty. (Admittedly, some authors are specialists, so, fine.) I mean, don’t put me on a panel where I have to be smart about stuff. I AM IDIOT DO NOT TRUST ME. The other thing about a lot of writing panels is that they’re very 101-level stuff. It’s good to offer a variety! Variety is the spice of life. Paprika is also the spice of life. And we all know that the spice must flow.

What Cons Do You Like?

I have thoughts about specific conventions, conferences and festivals — though that will have to wait for another post, I think, as this one has already gone on way too damn long. Just the same, your time to chime in is now — what, if I can ask, are your favorite conventions, conferences and festivals? Anything counts, whether explicitly genre-based SFF or mystery cons, or comic-cons or writing conferences or book festivals or that time I invited you into my basement and I tricked you into talking with me about my extensive Garbage Pail Kids card collection.

SOUND OFF IN THE COMMENTS, WORD-NERDS.

* * *

ZER0ES.

An Anonymous-style rabble rouser, an Arab spring hactivist, a black-hat hacker, an old-school cipherpunk, and an online troll are each offered a choice: go to prison or help protect the United States, putting their brains and skills to work for the government for one year.

But being a white-hat doesn’t always mean you work for the good guys. The would-be cyberspies discover that behind the scenes lurks a sinister NSA program, an artificial intelligence code-named Typhon, that has origins and an evolution both dangerous and disturbing. And if it’s not brought down, will soon be uncontrollable.

Out now from Harper Voyager.

Doylestown Bookshop| WORD| Joseph-Beth Booksellers| Murder by the Book

Powells | Indiebound | Amazon| B&N| iBooks| Google Play| Books-a-Million

(Also now out in audio! Narrated by Ray Chase.)