World Fantasy con report: Day 1 by Alan DeNiro

So. The novel that I’m working on now, the “new” one, has had in the past a working title of World Fantasy.  I go back and forth on its ability to provide any kind of “shelf context,” and I’ll likely change some parameters with the novel itself (its structure, characters, etc., etc.). But what drew me to that potential title in the first place, in a novel of near-future virtual realities, is whether (and if so, how) the world we see around us is constructed by certain phantasias. How we pretend that the world isn’t, in fact, interconnected to a large degree and that we let ourselves dwell on localisms at the expense of the underlying realities (political, social, whatever) that shape our interactions with each other and even our thoughts.

Anyway, that’s a roundabout way to say that those very types of questions come up a fair amount for me at any type of gathering such as this. Note: these cons, especially ones with a more professional bent like World Fantasy, are expensive. They involve time, travel, and money. So breaking it down into its essence, why do events like this occur/get off the ground in the first place?

First, there is obviously a built-in, sustained network from a community that is bolstered through previous real-life and online interactions. The latter are becoming increasingly important from blogs, discussion boards, tweets, and the like. This network finds its real-life (albeit occasional) expression in real-life loci such as this.

Secondly, let’s talk about the content itself:  literature of the fantastic, as expressed in its broadest terms. The content bleeds into the network of friends and peers through the physical (or virtual) artifacts of text: books, magazines, etc., etc. These are the units of currency that bring people together and spark conversations about said content. At my first few cons, even the absence of having anything published functioned as a sort of presence, and provided its own (sometimes terrifying!) context with interactions. Even now, I sometimes have trouble talking about upcoming projects or publications with any type of specificity or regularity. (Yes, I have a novel coming out–see? I had to insert this in at the last minute.)

Lastly, a con like this has “official” functions; namely, awards to give out, which is, at its root, a chance for the community to tell a shared story of what they valued throughout the previous year. Obviously that can be very idiosyncratic and subject to taste (and illuminating to examine that taste), but the awards provide their own bonds, and allow people to feel the shared accomplishment of the field. One of the finest, more localized examples of this was the Last Drink Bird Head awards presented by Jeff and Ann Vandermeer. Very poignant–and very fun. (Hopefully there will be some pictures of this tomorrow to upload.)

Anyway, I know I’m reeeeeally breaking this down into some elemental units, which may or may not be useful. We fly in, we fly out, we hang out in over-expensive hotel bars and then go to boisterous receptions and parties. We read to others and have others read to us. We buy books and are given books. We talk. We gather in (large) groups to find dinner somewhere. All of these same things could be done, say, at a tech convention, a scrapbooking convention, whatever. As writers and editors getting together, though, there is a chance to find a communal energy, and find what draws us together, build upon it–and make sure all the while that we don’t get walled away from the outside world. This is crucial, and can be very difficult. The trick is to find new ideas from people outside one’s comfort zone, from new cultures, and allow those people to participate in the shared experiences listed above. Without that, there is an increasing chance of moribund decay.

Thankfully, I think the sf/f field has gone about and made those changes, has broken down those walls, and felt less tension and threat from imaginary enemies from people in other fields, who are presumably going to other cons (though they don’t call them cons, of course). I thought the discussions here at SF Signal about “mainstream acceptance” were for the most part insightful, and even the ones I disagreed with I could see where they were coming from. One passage, however…well…let’s quote part of it here:

I get the feeling that what you’re asking is “does literary sf/f have literary respect?” The answer to that, of course, is no. We don’t win those awards, we don’t appear in those magazines, we don’t get filed on those shelves. And that’s okay, because we have our own awards and shelves and magazines. There are a lot of voices calling for sf/f to get the recognition it deserves, but I think that’s wasted breath. We’re trying harder and harder to get recognized and admitted to a club that just keeps getting smaller and duller and less important. What we need to understand is that sf/f is the seat of innovation, modern creativity and true cultural relevance. Of course the literary establishment is borrowing from our toolbox. It’s the best toolbox there is, and they’re welcome to borrow it. It’s kind of amusing to watch them treat time travel, or the apocalypse, or whatever else as a shiny new plot device. They probably won’t hurt themselves.

Well. Aside from the pure factual inaccuracies (we do appear in those magazines, and on those shelves–honest! One would be surprised if one bothers to look), what really struck me as demonstrably corrosive is the assumption that people who write differently than oneself have the worst intentions at heart–as if those who don’t dwell in the genre, saddled with inferiority complexes they hardly know exist, are all, in their totality and by definition, unimaginative scavengers trawling the genre for Shiny Bits, because they know we’re the bestest. We have everything; they have nothing. Having these assumptions is no way to let the field live, breathe, and grow. This is pretty much the definition of that wall I talked about earlier, and it’s the very definition of the insecure stagnation (especially the railing against an imaginary “literary establishment”) that would mean the death of any field of artistic endeavour.

The generosity and the communal spirit of most of the genre, however, belies any walls that might be thrown up, and does a good job at breaking them down. It’s not always easy, or linear, but it does happen, and the field is stronger for it. So that’s what I’m reminded of the most here at the beginning of World Fantasy–it’s not the whole kit and kaboodle. It’s part of an exciting continuum. And now, once, more, I really, really need to get to bed.

About Alan DeNiro

Author of Skinny Dipping in the Lake of the Dead and Total Oblivion, More or Less.