ou can never walk though the same river twice, or so the experts tell us. As it turns out, the same is true for attendance at science-fiction conventions. I've been to enough of them over the years to know, an average of half a dozen a year since I turned 15. Each convention is different, offering differing expectations and differing promises. I've learned that they are like snowflakes; you never know what shape one will turn out to be until you catch it on your tongue.
Not only has every convention I've attended been different for me, each convention is also itself different for each of the attendees. The 62nd World Science Fiction Convention, held in Boston the first weekend of September, was attended by 5,600 people, each of whom attended a different con. So there were actually 5,600 Worldcons this year, one for the fan who showed up for the first time and knew no one, yet another for the fan who'd made friends via the Web or at smaller cons and had someone with whom to navigate the vastness of the place, still another for the one who'd been going to these events for years and who arrived thinking he had every moment plotted out, forgetting that serendipity would intervene, and so on.
As for me, it was exactly 30 years since my first Worldcon, and so I was perhaps overly sentimental. I was conscious of the passage of time in a way that I wasn't at my 29th Worldcon and won't be at my 31st. Adding to that mood was the moment I captured in the photo above. Wandering the halls, I came upon a wall of photos taken of SF professionals over the years, and found mine, which I believe was taken back in 1994, exactly a decade ago. It had me caught up in a remembrance of all the conventions past. Anniversaries tend to make us think too much, and I was certainly guilty of doing that this time.
But let me try to shake off that nostalgic mood, so I can tell you what made this con special.
Honoring a Grand Master
Because of the vagaries of deadlines, I will always remember this as the convention at which I spent most of my time working on readying the December issue of SCI FI magazine for the printer. But not even that prevented me from getting out and about to break bread with friends and pontificate on panels.
At "This Book Sucks: How to (and How Not to) Write Reviews," I talked about the decision-making process that goes into deciding which of the thousands of science fiction and fantasy books that are published each year get reviewed, and particularly about the uncomfortable circumstances of having to give a thumbs-down to books written by authors you're likely to come face to face with at your next con. At
"Is It Fair?," we discussed whether the game is rigged against beginning writers in favor of the pros. Many writers would rather think so than admit that they were rejected just on the basis of the story alone. Back when I was editing Science Fiction Age, someone once even accused me of favoring stories from writers who lived in certain zip codes!
The panel that turned out to have the best attendance—there could have been as many as 600 people in the audience by my count—was on the subject "How Do You Know When You're Dead?" But I knew that it was not the subject alone that brought the audience there, nor had they come to marvel at my skills in moderating the panel, nor to hear what I personally had to contribute to the subject. No, what brought them there was the chance to hear Neil Gaiman (pictured above, listening politely), Larry Niven, Terry Pratchett and Connie Willis compete to see which of them could be wittier. It was perhaps the easiest panel I'd ever moderated; I only had to toss out a question and get out of the way as the quips came fast and furious.
My favorite panel was the one in which we set out to honor Jack Williamson, the award-winning Grand Master who at age 96 is still hard at work on his newest novel, due out in 2005. It was certainly the largest panel I'd ever been on, with so many participants that we occupied two rows. I was joined by the likes of Jack Chalker, Jim Frenkel, David G. Hartwell, Larry Niven, Frederik Pohl, Mike Resnick, Stanley Schmidt, Joe Siclari, Melinda Snodgrass, Michael Swanwick and Eleanor Wood. Jack was was basking in our adulation over a speaker phone from Portales, N.M. What I told him is how lucky we are that science fiction is relatively such a young field. Musicians never get the chance to speak with Mozart and painters don't get to commune to Michelangelo, but here in SF we get to learn directly from those who created SF. I spoke of his talent and humility, and the example he's given us of a life well lived. After we each had shared, we gave Jack a standing ovation.
But there was one more thing that I wish I had said that occurred to me after the panel was over. (Isn't that always the way?) And that's this—we always talk about being able to see so far because we stand on the shoulders of giants. But strangely (if this metaphor can even still work after being stretched this badly), Jack Williamson is such a giant that he is standing on his own shoulders. He's still here, and amazingly, he's still seeing farther than the rest of us.
All of this and more lets me know where I'll be next year—in Glasgow for the 63rd World Science Fiction Convention, ready to catch yet another snowflake on my tongue.
Scott Edelman started his trek to the editor-in-chief position at Science
Fiction Weekly decades ago, when he began working as an assistant editor at
Marvel Comics. Between these two positions, this four-time Hugo Award nominee in
the category of Best Editor was the founding editor of the
award-winning magazine Science Fiction Age, in addition to editing
Sci-Fi Universe, Sci-Fi Flix and Satellite Orbit. Currently, he also edits SCI
FI, the official magazine of the SCI FI Channel. His most recent short story appears in the new anthology Crossroads: Tales of the Southern Literary Fantastic.
