I survived. I lived to tell the tale with merely a flesh-wound or two; a little beat up around the edges but mostly intact.
Yes, Edge-Lit has happened. And it was great. Huge thanks to the organisers and volunteers who helped make it a magnificent day, and to the writers and attendees who were relentlessly good-natured and happy to talk and share their wisdom.
This was my first ever con as a participant and so my reflections are of a different order to that at Sledge-Lit in the winter: I was actually doing things, pretending to be the expert and in the know when in fact I know extraordinarily little.
My workshop (‘The Art of Description’) went okay; not perfectly as I still fluffed some lines and sometimes struggled to give full explanations for the things I was trying to say. But the group helped by turning it into a discussion and pulled me through. In the end I’d say it was not a triumph but a win. And so a little of the terror slipped away.
The panel (‘Beyond the Darkness: Where does fantasy fiction go after Grimdark?’) was where the terror regrouped. There I was, sat between Adrian Tchaikovsky and Zen Cho, with Anna Stephens moderating – there was no Jen Williams as she was ill – trembling in the presence of their huge brains. Oh, and in the presence of an auditorium full of people.
It went… okay? I’d resolved not to say too much, just to contribute on each question and not be too garrulous. And that worked, for the most part. I soon found myself out of my depth, however, when the conversation veered to far from the pre-set questions, and especially on the audience questions that followed. I am now fully aware that my reading is wholly inadequate.
I was much more confident on the discussion of Terry Pratchett that broke out in the middle of the session: unexpected in a discussion on Grimdark, but that just highlights the influence PTerry has had.
So, I survived with only minor injuries – I confess to being somewhat intimidated by Adrian in particular – and had only my reading to go before I could properly relax, and drink – and eat, because I’d had only snacks all day, my nerves preventing my eating a solid meal.
Except I had not to read, for no-one turned up. This is not a huge surprise: I am not a big name draw, it was the fag-end of the day and the room was rather tucked away out of the main flow. A disappointment? Yes, but also something of a relief: after all the day’s terror, at last I could unwind properly, eat some sweet potato fries, and have a beer.
And thus we enter the most important part of the con: the serious business of talking with other people. Not schmoozing or networking, though elements of both are involved, but just meeting and talking with like-minded people; catching up with old friends and making new.
I had a lovely chat with Anna Stephens and shared words with Aliette de Bodard, to drop a name or two, but most of the time was spent with unfamous people – people like me, in fact, who were striving to be in the big chairs in a year or two’s time. I mean, I say this but I was in at least one big chair at Edge-Lit but I put that down to my publisher’s publicity department rather than my own achievements.
As a friend told me on the day: everyone feels like an imposter. No-one feels like they truly deserve to be in the position they find themselves in. I did okay at Edge-Lit.
So on to drinking and the sad reflection that I had to wimp out early due to being up at 04:00 to get to the damn thing: this caught up with me just after we’d decamped to the pub. Thus I missed a proper catch-up with many of the friends I’d made at Sledge-Lit and the chance to make new.
But that’s okay. Self-care is part of the equation at cons; push yourself too hard and you’ll be no good to anyone, least of all yourself. Trying to do it all is a sure way to achieve nothing. I still had a great time. I worked through my terror. I made a decent enough impression.
That’ll do, pig. That’ll do