So What's It Like To Lose A Nebula?
Whenever I saw the Oscar losers saying “It’s an honor to be nominated,” I always envisioned gritted teeth and gut-roiling fury. I mean, you just had your chance at the brass ring, and you came that close! How could you be cheerful?
Yet I was grinning like a damn fool when I lost to Geoff Ryman. As were all the other losers I talked to. We had our pins, and our certificates, and our name immortalized in history, and the experience of being catapulted onto a much larger stage.
Who the hell could be upset? There’s now one word that’s guaranteed to be in our obituary, and that word is “Nebula.” We’ve made it.
It’s cool.
And it’s a weird bond; I spent the weekend hanging with my fellow nominees Jake Kerr, Rachel Swirsky, Katherine Sparrow, and Geoff Ryman – and there wasn’t an ounce of competition in there. It felt like an odd sort of club, one that contained only six people in the whole world, a once-in-a-lifetime bond: 2012 Novelette Nebula Nominee. No one else will ever know what this is like. We did lunch, we chatted in bars, we appeared on panels, we discussed our chances, and not once was there a bit of snark or anger.
(I met other nominee Charlie Jane Anders briefly after the ceremony, who seemed absolutely wonderful, but alas we got no time to hang and chill. I hope to rectify this at a future event.)
I felt blessed to be in the company of such beautiful people. I’d have been happy for any of them to have won. And the man I was rooting the most for, my wonderful and compassionate
Clarion teacher Geoff Ryman, who had me sobbing on the airplane on the way to Clarion because his book Was is one of the most heartbreaking things I’ve ever read? Well, he won. And when he walked back to his seat, I leapt out of mine to shake his hand and grin and pump the fist for him. Because if there’s a man who possesses a cool grace and an ability to write straight to the vulnerable centers of the heart, it’s Geoff.
The weekend itself was a helter-skelter of events, and I’ll probably be posting anecdotes for the rest of the week, but here’s the ones I remember in a sleepy Monday muddle.
This Is The Panel That Never Ends…. It Just Goes On And On, My Friends….
Yes, there’s the irony of a panel on pacing going forty minutes overtime. But there was no panel following us – and when you have such a fascinating topic as “How to get the rhythm of a story right,” and such fascinating panelists as Tom Crosshill, Rachel Swirsky, and Nancy Fulda (Nebula nominees all!), moderated by the vivacious radio host and Big Damn Author Ellen Kushner, you get a ton of feedback.
This panel was so good the audience didn’t leave. It was like Writing 301, a bunch of advanced techniques we all used to figure out how to get the pacing of a story right – and our approaches were all so different, there was a lot of varying discussion as to how to nail it. So we talked, and talked, and when at 2:15 we finally called the panel to a halt, half the audience walked up and kept the ball rolling. Rachel Swirsky had to leave, but thankfully noted childrens’ author R.J. Anderson took her place, and next thing you know we had a long discussion on how to handle critiques.
It was really amazing. My friend Ruby took a video of the “official” panel on her smartphone, and I hope it’s usable. I’d love for you to see it.
Meet My Signing Buddy, Franny
The author signing was a first for me, since as an author of short stories I’ve never had anything I could expect anyone to sign. You can buy books in the dealers’ room…. but if you want me to sign your copy of Asimov’s, you need to remember to bring it with you. And frankly, I’m not that big.
But thankfully, Nancy Fulda created a Nebula Awards Weekend book with one of my stories in it, and so people could buy a book to sign. So I sat at a small table.
Next to me was someone I didn’t know, so we introduced ourselves, and it was a woman called Franny Billingsley – who was remarkably fun to talk to! She was a children’s author but it was her first sci-fi con, so I explained what this “Clarion workshop” was and she told me about what YA conventions were like, and it was a remarkably warm way of passing the time.
Even better, since I knew more people here, when they came to see me, I could go, “And do you know Franny?” and then all of us got into a discussion together. So by the time I went to wander the floor and get my book signed, I left a merry discussion of writers.
Which was oddly convivial. For now and forevermore, Franny will be my book-signing buddy, the two of us at the table as readers sporadically came up, book in hand, to ask for signatures.
And only later did I discover that Franny was so modest she didn’t even note that she was up, you know, for the National Book Award.
What a wonderful person.
The Night Before
There was a Nebula nominees reception the night before, where we were to be honored. I didn’t quite know what that meant, but hey! This would only happen once. So I went.
What they didn’t tell us (which was a shame, because several of the nominees – including Charlie Jane – had wandered off) was that the reception was where John Scalzi would present you with your official Nebula nominee certificate and your pin, and then you’d be taken off for photos.
That’s when it became real.
Up until then, a part of my mind had been going, “Oh, no, this will be a mistake, they’ll probably take it away from you.” But as I walked up to the podium and Scalzi handed me the blue folder with the silver stars, I opened it up and saw my name. This was no dream. This was my life, my blessed life.
I couldn’t stop smiling.
The Night Of
So for the Nebulas, I had to dress up. And my lovely wife Gini helped me into my monkey suit:
Note the Nebula pin – which is a lot thinner and more losable than I’d have thought – and my Star Wars tie. I kept telling people all evening that it was my TIE fighter.
Nobody laughed.
My wife, however, looked fucking stellar. She kept joking that her job at the Nebulas was to be my arm candy, and oh boy was she:
When I got there, I was happily surprised to see Neil Gaiman, who was a last-minute addition. And Neil, who’d been with me during my reformatary stages at Clarion, drew me into a warm hug that went on for longer than I thought and said, “Bubbeleh!” He’s surprisingly, endearingly, proud of me.
When he said “Bubbeleh,” it felt like I was being welcomed to the next level. That all of this hard work I’ve put into writing – the hours wandering in the garden figuring out the next scene, the endless rejections, the workshops and cons I travelled to – had finally paid off. And that was a lovely thing to see.
Some pros told me, serenely, “You’ll be back.” I don’t share their confidence. For me, I struck lightning once. But the fact that I made it once is enough, and that won’t stop me. Because you know what real writing fucking is?
Jon Walter Williams held a three-hour intensive lecture on plotting and structure. And when I looked around the room of twenty people, at least four of us had been nominated for a Nebula. Here we were, being given one of the biggest honors in the field… and all of us had said, “No, there’s so much more work to do.”
That’s how you get to a Nebula. I got here. You can, too. Because Neil told me, “You just need to write.” And that’s what I did.
Now you.
Entertain Me On My Way To The Nebulas!
So I’ll be leaving for the Nebulas today, and as such will be driving for eight hours in what is sure to be a cataclysmally boring car ride. So I’ll comment-whore and ask y’all some questions to stir discussion:
This first one’s courtesy of fellow nominee Rachel Swirsky, who asked:
What illegal thing would you do if you could get away with it? (No violent crimes, please. That’s icky.)
I like that one, because it encourages you to both get creative, and the “no violence” means that no idiot is caught making threats on the Internet. Though I suspect the answers will be a depressing “I KIN SMOKES DRUGS.” Which, you know, granted, but not exactly with the fun-making discussionwise.
Likewise, this second one’s courtesy of fellow nominee me, who asks:
If you could demand I do any one thing for myself, what would you have me do?
The reason I say “for myself” is otherwise I’ll be spammed with a zillion “You should totally read my book/plug my CD/dance for my amusement!” comments, which aren’t nearly as interesting as you think. But I’d be curious to see what, given the knowledge you have of me through my writings, what sorts of things you think I should do to make my life better. Or worse.
How To Be Friends With A Disabled Person
My Uncle Tommy’s blood didn’t clot very well, a disease known as hemophilia, so blood pooled up in his joints. It ate away his cartilage. Near the end of his life, when he moved his elbow, you could hear the bones rubbing against each other whisper-thin, like two dry crackers ground together.
So he walked slow.
So I walked slow.
To this day, Gini tells me I amble glacially – because I’m used to quietly keeping Tommy’s pace, not wanting to upset him. Oh, I could have jogged on ahead; not that Tommy would have been devastated, as I was basically his son and he would have forgiven me the world.
But he had enough reminders that he was broken and frail. He didn’t need another one from me. So I crept at his pace, which only got slower as the years went by, and we passed the time as two humans.
This is what you do when you have a friend who’s disabled.
Let’s be blatantly honest and say that having disabled friends is often an inconvenience verging on annoyance. They can’t get up stairs. They cancel at the last minute because of unpredictable sicknesses. There’s more planning to be find the right restaurant because of their diet.
If you think it’s an inconvenience to you, imagine how it feels to them.
Every day, the world wakes up and punches your pals in the fucking face, telling them “Hey, you know all those things you want to do? You can’t.”
You can choose to be one of those blows. Or you can be understanding and loving and help them to live a better life.
It’s that fucking simple.
They live in a smaller world because of something they don’t have control over. I think a good friend will take that into account, and tread that fine line between “Yes, it’s an inconvenience and you may not always be able to come along” with a lot of love and understanding and bold attempts to make room for your friend because yes, they have a condition and it deserves to be accommodated whenever possible.
Because when you are that sick, you notice the way people cancel plans with you. The way they quietly stop inviting you to parties. The way you don’t defend them when other, healthier people, complain that they shouldn’t have to deal with your issues.
They’re sick, not stupid, and they feel their excision from your life as keenly as a cut. One more cut in a life filled with them.
I’m not saying I was saccharine-sweet to Tommy. I acknowledged the difficulty of his disabledness from time to time, because we were loving humans and that means being honest. But I never made a big deal about the way we had to get to concerts half an hour early so he could get to his seat, or how we had to stay an hour late because the crowds might bump him too hard.
Instead, I used that extra time to talk to him, companionably walking at his cane-pace, as friends. He must have noticed that his hyperactive teenaged nephew was walking slow.
But for a time, he had the ability to live his life as though nothing was wrong with him. And that was the greatest gift I could give him.
Where I'll Be At The Nebulas This Weekend!
Because this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I will be attending the Nebula Awards this weekend, where I will be the happiest loser in the world. When they say it’s an honor just to be nominated… boy, they’re not kidding.
In any case, if you happen to be in Washington DC this weekend and would like to see a weasel, there are several places at which you can catch me:
I’ll be at the Mass Autograph Signing from 5:30 to 7:30 p.m., signing copies of my latest book. What’s that, Ferrett? you ask. You don’t have a book yet, you exclaim. Oh, but I do, thanks to fellow nominee Nancy Fulda, who has created the Awards Weekend Collector’s Edition, which features works by eleven authors who will be at the Nebula weekend. I’ll have it, I can sign it, and if you’re quite lucky you can get a full run and have all eleven authors put their name on it.
(My story in there is “As Below, So Above,” my generational tale told from the perspective of the monsters in a mad scientist’s moat. Read it in advance, and I’ll even draw a squid for you.)
(And while you’re at it, read Nancy’s Nebula- and Hugo-nominated story “Movement,” a tale of future autism that is a fascinating exercise in tone. I nominated it, and am glad to see my tastes vindicated.)
(And while you’re extra at-it, note that I am currently in search of an agent for my book, so if you’re interested… call me!)
At 1:00 on Saturday, I’ll be on the “Watch That Step!” panel with Tom Crosshill, Nancy Fulda, Ellen Kushner, and Rachel Swirsky, where I’ll be discussing pacing in stories. This oughtta be interesting, because my pacing is usually pretty reflexive – you kind of develop a sense of fast and slow after writing blog entries for, I dunno, a decade. So discussions will be had.
And if you feel like hanging out and you’re a press type, I’ll be available for interviews at 3:00 on Friday. I suspect strongly I’ll be hanging out in an empty room twiddling my thumbs, but should a reporter show up I will perk up nicely and answer all available questions on squids and space stations that I can.
Also, if we’ve met before, feel free to text me – or email me at theferrett@theferrett.com to get my phone number so we can coordinate drinks. We shall see what happens.
The Actors Who Win In Game Of Thrones
I have a weekly date with Kara, which is a little weird, because we’ve never met. Or even talked. Yet every Sunday, we watch Game of Thrones together and text snarky observations to each other, and this time is inviolable as my weekly date with Bec. (It helps that I’m curled up on Gini’s lap, sharing the greatest hits.)
The weird thing about Game of Thrones is how some people stand out because of the actors. Honestly, I never paid attention to Littlefinger in the book – which is a trick, because we see all of his plots and discussions, know who he talks to, and yet somehow I keep forgetting that he’s pulling most of the strings in Westeros.
Yet in the series, Baelish is such a screen force that they give him extra time to masturbate on-camera. Thus are the delights of HBO.
That said, Jon Snow was one of the big guns in the book series, yet on screen he comes off as petulant and ignorant. Part of that’s the age shift, where Jon Snow’s four years older and as such he’s having an on-schedule adolescent rebellion during his sophomore year in college. But part of it is that the actor who plays him has a confused face and this unfortunate pube mustache, and so much of the inner dialogue that highlight’s Jon Snow’s maturity is lost.
Baelish: Win. Jon Snow: Loss.
Likewise, Tywin Lannister is a strangely likeable figure in the series, not quite fatherly but rewarding intelligence and cunning… Which few do. I could just watch “The Tywin and Arya show” all week, because I love the subtle interplay between the two of them. And so what if Tywin should have recognized Arya by now? Who’s to say he hasn’t, and is just playing it far better than his idiot grandson?
Whereas I barely remembered Theon Greyjoy from the book aside from him as a plot device, but the actor who’s portrayed him has made him wonderfully craven and snivelling. Which is a wonderful talent, because you’d think Joffrey would have sewn up that particular avenue, but there’s something about Theon’s insecurity that just trumps Joffrey’s boiling arrogance.
Daenarys, however, is dropping for me. She used to be strong, and now she’s just sort of whiny. “Give me what I want, or I’ll…. pout! And be poutier. Say, did I mention I’m the Mother of Dragons?” She had a nice moment of dry realization with whats-his-butt, but then was back to “Give me because I said!”
(This is a rare case of the books and the TV series intersecting, because I got fed up with her antics around [book X] and decided, dragons or no, I’d be happy if she got axed.)
It’s kind of fascinating. I mean, Tyrion’s always been the star, but I suspect the fan base is different among the books-only fans and the series-only fans just because of the magnetic pull of the actors. Some do better in translation, others do worse.
Meanwhile, I’m rooting for Stannis. He’s a dry, humorless fuck, but he’s at least vaguely competent. He might not fuck up the kingdom too badly if he wins.