Don't Look Down
Apr. 13th, 2004 05:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
devi"Your life changed today," I was told on Sunday. Maybe it did. Certainly now that I'm back here everything looks different.
You learn to expect anticlimax, no feedback, things vanishing without trace and not showing any results, snubs and rejection, throwing things into the void. Then when something else happens you flail about, unsure how to deal with it.
There I was in the Blackpool Winter Gardens, in a bizarre conference room which I think is supposed to look like an Egyptian temple, my brain in overdrive so that I was noticing lots of little things. For example, the ceiling was painted like a smudgy night sky, but there was an irregular oval-ish hole in the plaster, and I thought it looked like one of the moons of Mars. After walking up and down the Golden Mile after dark the previous night, bemused by the neon and the flocks of wobbly hens and singing stags, and the fact that there didn't seem to be any real town where people used actual money or ate food that wasn't fish and chips, I felt (appropriately enough, for a sci-fi convention) as if I was on another planet.
I'd seen lots of these award ceremonies before. I'd re-run my very short speech in my head a dozen times. It shouldn't have been a big deal. Oh, but it was. Christopher Priest talked about my story, and you could say it felt like basking in a warm glow, but it was more like being pummelled by a solar wind that threatened to knock me backwards off my chair. And after *that* they expected me to go up under the lights and be coherent. Yeah, right.
Up on stage everything was a red haze and the mike was huge in my face and I did it all on autopilot, no real control - smiled into the flashes, held up the award for everyone to look at, thanked lots of people and waved the flag for NaNo. I think. I only have the dimmest memories of the actual speech. And then I sat down and felt the air hissing out of me and clutched![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
verlaine's hand through the BSFA awards (Geoff Ryman was robbed, and Neil Gaiman, though I love him dearly, surely has enough awards by now), and thought, it's all over. The adrenalin charging round my bloodstream can go away now, thank you. The next bit is up to me. Back to normal convention behaviour now.
That was when the agent bounced up to me, flourishing his email address the way Mulder shows his FBI card. And I was still gibbering at that when Chris Priest dragged me and Matt off to the bar and bought us a round, and among much other conversation said: your life has changed today.
*
Yesterday, before the interminable bus journey, we walked along the seafront and the Central Pier. With daylight and distance, looking back at the land, Blackpool seems more like a real place, even a pretty one. Out on the pier everything was blue and white and warm and hazy, a cliche of happiness, and I kept smiling moonily and didn't even grind my teeth at the dance remix of 'Fall At Your Feet' that was playing in the arcade.
Today went a bit like this: at lunch, dash up to school computer room to mail agent guy, stressing over the wording. Find that he has somehow found my email address - nay, both my recent email addresses - to remind me to send him the story. Wonder how the flipping heck he managed that. Mail back, with story attached. Skim-read story again. Hate it. Panic.
On impulse decide to check the attachment. Find it's garbled beyond recognition. Scream. Get concerned looks from students. Send it again, with apologetic mail. Kick self in shins repeatedly.
Rest of day: hit Refresh on email box, wait 5 minutes, fidget, repeat.
You learn to expect anticlimax, no feedback, things vanishing without trace and not showing any results, snubs and rejection, throwing things into the void. Then when something else happens you flail about, unsure how to deal with it.
There I was in the Blackpool Winter Gardens, in a bizarre conference room which I think is supposed to look like an Egyptian temple, my brain in overdrive so that I was noticing lots of little things. For example, the ceiling was painted like a smudgy night sky, but there was an irregular oval-ish hole in the plaster, and I thought it looked like one of the moons of Mars. After walking up and down the Golden Mile after dark the previous night, bemused by the neon and the flocks of wobbly hens and singing stags, and the fact that there didn't seem to be any real town where people used actual money or ate food that wasn't fish and chips, I felt (appropriately enough, for a sci-fi convention) as if I was on another planet.
I'd seen lots of these award ceremonies before. I'd re-run my very short speech in my head a dozen times. It shouldn't have been a big deal. Oh, but it was. Christopher Priest talked about my story, and you could say it felt like basking in a warm glow, but it was more like being pummelled by a solar wind that threatened to knock me backwards off my chair. And after *that* they expected me to go up under the lights and be coherent. Yeah, right.
Up on stage everything was a red haze and the mike was huge in my face and I did it all on autopilot, no real control - smiled into the flashes, held up the award for everyone to look at, thanked lots of people and waved the flag for NaNo. I think. I only have the dimmest memories of the actual speech. And then I sat down and felt the air hissing out of me and clutched
verlaine's hand through the BSFA awards (Geoff Ryman was robbed, and Neil Gaiman, though I love him dearly, surely has enough awards by now), and thought, it's all over. The adrenalin charging round my bloodstream can go away now, thank you. The next bit is up to me. Back to normal convention behaviour now. That was when the agent bounced up to me, flourishing his email address the way Mulder shows his FBI card. And I was still gibbering at that when Chris Priest dragged me and Matt off to the bar and bought us a round, and among much other conversation said: your life has changed today.
*
Yesterday, before the interminable bus journey, we walked along the seafront and the Central Pier. With daylight and distance, looking back at the land, Blackpool seems more like a real place, even a pretty one. Out on the pier everything was blue and white and warm and hazy, a cliche of happiness, and I kept smiling moonily and didn't even grind my teeth at the dance remix of 'Fall At Your Feet' that was playing in the arcade.
Today went a bit like this: at lunch, dash up to school computer room to mail agent guy, stressing over the wording. Find that he has somehow found my email address - nay, both my recent email addresses - to remind me to send him the story. Wonder how the flipping heck he managed that. Mail back, with story attached. Skim-read story again. Hate it. Panic.
On impulse decide to check the attachment. Find it's garbled beyond recognition. Scream. Get concerned looks from students. Send it again, with apologetic mail. Kick self in shins repeatedly.
Rest of day: hit Refresh on email box, wait 5 minutes, fidget, repeat.
