Can-Con, Ottawa’s annual speculative fiction convention, is only a couple of weeks away. This year it takes place from October 13 to 15 at the Sheraton Hotel in downtown Ottawa. Once again I’ll be taking part in programming, and, now that the draft schedule has been posted, I can tell you (with reasonable confidence) where and when you can see me make an ass of myself offer my profound insights about the field.
On Saturday, October 14 at 2:00 PM I’ll be appearing with Claude Lalumière, Jerome Stueart and Liz Westbrook-Trenholm on the Art of the Mosaic panel in Salon C:
A mosaic story takes a series of seemingly disparate stories or vignettes and ties them together, either through theme or setting or something more. How exactly do authors construct these complex narratives and what literary effects do they achieve with this technique? Can the same be done for a short story? Which authors are the best (or worst) examples of this very distinctive literary form?
And on Sunday, October 15 at 11:00 AM, join me, Amal El-Mohtar, Peter Halasz, Ursula Pflug and Su J. Sokol in Salon D for You Should Have Read This in 2017:
Our expert readers discuss the cutting-edge novels and short fiction in science fiction, fantasy, horror and romance that you absolutely should have read. Bring your Goodreads app or a REALLY big notebook.
The latest science fiction convention meltdown—this time, Odyssey Con, a Wisconsin convention that bungled entirely foreseeable harassment issues—is a reminder of the outsized place conventions in general have in our field. In my view they take up too much space—too much time, money and space in our heads—leaving too little room for the literature and media these events purport to be about.
I’m going to single out conventions as a major force of drag on the field. Maybe they were originally intended to accomplish something, but at this point they’re basically social events, places for field insiders to show up and hang out and talk shop with each other. Which every field needs, but most fields manage to tie those things in with a community-building purpose—coming together to talk about approaches to institutional problems, or for fundraisers, or just showing off all of the neat new things people are doing. In science fiction there’s a vast amount of money and volunteer time going to events which don’t accomplish anything lasting. A lot of that money is leaving the field entirely, going to airlines, hotels, and restaurants. From a nonprofit-runner’s perspective, science fiction conventions look a lot like a nonprofit that’s spending all its money throwing parties for its board members. That would be illegal for us, but it’s a bad idea for everybody.
Tim offers a useful perspective, because many people active in a community don’t have anything to compare that community to. And his point is worth thinking about: when we go to sf conventions, exactly what the hell are we doing?