The Bright Day is Done

Convention centres should have beanbags, a pile of extra seat cushions, or comfortable chairs. And footrests.

Now I’m through with complaining, onwards to Continuum 8: Craftonomicon!

My brain was twitching slightly after the first day, because the influx of information was gigantic. Sadly, I haven’t gone to every panel, partly because this is the first time I’ve been away in ten years, and faffing about reading my book(s) and generally wandering about Melbourne had a really strong pull.

The first panel I attended was “Gender and Sexuality in Speculative YA”. The panellists were Kate Eltham, Alison Goodman and Margo Lanagan.

To catch anyone up who is confused by that title, YA is young adult fiction, and if you roam about the teen/young adult fiction section in your local bookshop*, you’ll notice that a great deal of it is considered “speculative fiction” (specfic): either fantasy or science fiction or a mix of the two. Titles don’t really matter in specfic, unless you’re working in the genre. If you’re a reader, big whoop if the story is good**.

Of course, being aimed at teens and young adults, the content and themes of YA will eventually, if they’re doing their job, raise gender, sexuality and transgender issues.

The publishing industry is very conservative in YA, and the argument could be made that it is at it should be: children do not (should not?) have sex or be considering sexuality in concrete terms until they come of age. That’s an interesting viewpoint and one I think is ridiculous on its most superficial level. It’s called YA: young adults are of age.

Teen readers emerging shortly into young adulthood, or discovering questions about themselves cannot be expected to land squarely in their gender identity or sexual orientation simply by reaching young adulthood. Straightforward story, allegory and/or fable can tell us how to live (or rather, how we tell ourselves to), and provide insight on conditions that we may never encounter amongst family and friends.

Without meaning to teach my granny how to suck eggs, that’s where I was up to before I walked into the panel. The ladies of the panel have said it better, but I’m steaming ahead anyway.

The issues facing writers working in YA and trying to get published is being mindful of the conservative: while romance is romance (paranormal or not), “less common sexualities” are considered rare. While not wanting to make a really big point about it. That raises the question of “alternatives” having a value. Personally I question the inherent value judgement of the “alternative” as other, when gender and sexuality come down to essentially human. (That last is Alison Goodman’s point in describing her character in Eon, but one I agree with).

The point was also made that discussing sexuality and gender not your own (separate to it being “other”), is that there is a cultural propriety issue. Inserting yourself into a culture that you are not part of can be cheeky to say the least and can go horribly wrong. Apologies to Margo Lanagan, because I think I’ve quoted her directly without realising it.

There is also the consideration that YA is almost exclusively read by girls. Check out Hannah Moskowitz on the dearth of real male characters and boys bypassing YA and going straight to adult fiction.

Hannah Moskowitz makes a good point about the empowerment of girls, three-dimensional and often violent. That we need to empower girls so they can believe they can do anything, yes, good, but it comes down to (and here I am back in the panel) creating a false reality for young women as they go out into the world. Having read their way through awesome-girl YA, most will assume that they really can do whatever they want.

In terms of getting a job or biffing people (if that’s your style), it really comes down to skill set, and your development and dedication. Being a girl doesn’t award you with the ability to do anything, any more than it does for boys (I think this might be my rant now). While that might read like a whack against feminism, that’s not where I’m going. I deplore the view that saying men and women are equal is sometimes taken that way.

The whole point of equality is equality, not sameness. It is the availability of opportunity regardless of gender. I can do many of the same things my male counterparts can do, sometimes better, sometimes worse. I have a skill set that pays no attention to my chromosomes or my parts – it has been an accretion of skills and experience. I prefer the idea of humanity approaching equality and therefore real choice without limits other than ability, and not as a result of gender, and I’ll throw in all of the other societal limits: money, culture (where it does affect opportunity), feel free to add to the list.

That’s outside the panel, though still part of the argument; YA (most of it) is about the gaining of personal power. Not in the sense of ruling the world, but in the sense of allegory: the reader is coming of age.

The false reality of a lot of YA (and Kate Eltham described it as “Buffy-sized” heroines) is partly due to the fact that the story provides snapshots of time in a character’s life. A montage or a paragraph detailing the years of training is not the same thing as living through all of those boring bits.

*If you can find a local bookshop. Mine just closed down.

**In my opinion. Purists differ.

The next panel was “Daikaiju Go Heavenly!” and the panellists were Dirk Flinthart, David McDonald (can’t seem to find a link for him, oops) and Cat Sparks.

I’ll confess at the outset that I had no idea what Daikaiju meant or rather, are, but the blurb sounded fascinating.

“What if the gods were daikaiju? Could Buddha beat Jesus, could Loki outwit Allah? Is anyone strong enough to defeat Thor and his mighty Hammer? Jade Emperor, Kali, Ganesh. Which deity will reign supreme, or will king of the daikaiju Godzilla crush them all?”

Well after deciding that the gods on Earth would probably manifest from their giant statues, there was discussion about the giant super-Jesus statue in Brazil coming to life. Seeing as how the statue is on the cross already, he is aerodynamically fit for flying and could harry Godzilla quite a bit.

Then there is the giant Buddha in Phuket – but would Buddha fight? Well, this panel thought probably not, being against the ethos of the Buddha. I would have thought the same thing about Jesus, but by the by.

Since Australia is known for the Big everything, perhaps they qualify as daikaiju, and could gang up on super-Jesus.

Once the possibilities include statues, how about the Sphinx? One problem: Godzilla is shit at riddles. Oh well.

But for something interesting, check out the Bloop. There are many things unexplained out there. (Although I do like the idea of ice-calving).

The next panel was “Turning the Gears: Steampunk Craft”. The panellists were Nicole Canal, Paul Poulton (who has awesome facial hair), Michael Pryor (who has some awesome fashion) and Jo Spurrier.

I don’t have a lot to say about this one, although the steampunk aesthetic appeals to me in many ways, but Jo Spurrier mentioned the wood-burning USB charger. The stove really exists, and if you don’t believe that, here’s a short video. So the zombie apocalypse is looking less scary – at least I’ll be able to use my iPad.

I disappeared for a little while then so myself, small lad and husbandly could Skype. We’ve never used it before and it was lovely to see the boys’ faces.

The next panel was “You Say You Want a Revolution”, examining social networking tools in the context of protest, to wit, is it twitter or is it people causing revolutions? The panellists were Dave Cake, m1k3y , Rjurik Davidson, also of Overland magazine, Roman Orszanski and Sarah Stokely.

The springboard for this was the quote from V for Vendetta: “People should not be afraid of their governments, governments should be afraid of their people” (Alan Moore), and the meltdowns in the Middle East.

Given the tremendous power of social networking tools to provide instantaneous communications, the use of twitter and facebook in Egypt and with the Occupy movement raises some questions. If social media platforms were integral, were they the cause of revolution, or simply a tool?

Rjurik Davidson pointed out that posters can have the same effect, and that the advantages of social media are the speed of their messages.

The disadvantages of tools which rely on either corporations or licensed technology are that the corporation may (or may have to) bow to external pressures to shut down these tools, and whoever holds the licence or polices regulation of the internet can attempt to disrupt free speech by simply closing down the network. In addition, the use of monitored technology has several consequence for free speech.

The most obvious of this is surveillance and the erosion of privacy, in particular the potential for government bodies (the FBI was mentioned here) to monitor and profile groups and individuals in their exercise of free speech.

It was pointed out that the majority of usage was for trivial things (my use is often about what I’ve cooked for dinner, so I cringe slightly here), and that both facebook and twitter were primarily designed as distractions: speech and immediate response without deep thought. And how. Even working within email a great deal, the responses can come back where it is clear the recipient hasn’t read what you’ve written, and has replied to what they think you’ve said.

I’m inclined to think that that will change the longer these platforms are used. The majority of my email traffic has been professional, and subject to use by people that are twenty to thirty years older than me, or if they are in my age group, with less familiarity with both the written word (as communication) and the use of email, other than sending around the latest funny picture, youtube link or tiresome joke I’m sure I read first three years ago.

Back to the point and the panel, are these technologies liberational? Since they allow free speech (at least until you hear the jackboots or get a visit from some clean cut young persons), does the platform mean that we can speak freely? Well yes, and more of us can (and do). It has to be said that the vast majority of people use these platforms for simply staying in touch with their friends rather than making political points, and occasionally sharing the thought-provoking moment. (Apologies to a lot of my facebook friends here, who often post thought-provoking material – political or otherwise). (Twitter it goes without saying, since I follow a lot of journalists).

The argument in defence of the “trivial” post was this: the greatest defense of freedom (and free speech) is its exercise. Keep saying what you want to say, regardless of the content.

The most troubling part of this argument for me was the mention of anonymity. That anonymity is integral to free speech in oppressive society, but even in places like Australia. While the police aren’t about to kick open my door because of something I’ve said online, anonymity can have its uses. The troubling part of this for me is old-fashioned: if you have something to say, stand up and say it, as yourself.

There are vast numbers of voices on the net. Could it be possible that your voice is ignored, since it only has an internet profile and no other identity? As a younger woman I would have gotten out my soapbox and made speeches on exactly this thing and urged everyone to be brave. Now I have a child, I worry. I want my son to question everything he is presented with, not to challenge it for the sake of the challenge, but to make informed decisions about how to live. But am I willing to risk my freedom and his? There’s a thorny question. If we lived somewhere where arrest was the only result of protest, you bet I would be anonymous. But we don’t, and the question remains.

If I ever have an answer, I’ll be sure to post.

Check out: Tactical Technology, a website packed with tips and tools for using the internet anonymously and a great one for tracking your digital shadow (I looked at mine, and I’m very scared now, *snort*). Also check out Overland Literary Journal for your provocation.

The next panel was a Joss Whedon fest which involved a lot of back and forth about he and all his works. Enough said.

That was the end of day one, and what a day it was. Since I’m way past my usual word limit, I’m tying off here and coming back to it later.

Apologies to any of the panellists at Craftonomicon if I’ve missed them out (or gotten any wrong). On the off chance any of you have read this, email me and I’ll correct any mistakes.

Thanks for slogging through so far. Laters.

Finish, Good Lady.

I’m sitting in a hotel room in Melbourne. It has been my temporary home for the last three days while I and a couple-hundred other people attend Continuum 8: Craftonomicon, the 51^st national science fiction convention. This is the first convention I’ve ever been to and it has been a hoot so far.

I also haven’t been away from home, on my own, in about ten years, since before small lad was born. I haven’t flown since 2005, either, so this has been an adventure on many levels thus far.

I haven’t posted very often this year, despite a New Year’s resolution to post more regularly, because first I ran out of things to blather about, then I didn’t particularly want to post my thoughts on the foibles of friends and ex-friends that were driving me nuts. It seemed rude. But I think I can sum it all up by saying: nothing. It isn’t worth the brain space. But the threnody lingers on.

Last Thursday, having purchased new luggage (it’s red!), I betook myself off to the train station, having dropped small lad at school with many promises to ring him that evening. After raising my eyebrows at the cost of my train ticket (to the airport is a little less than four times the cost of a ticket to the city), up and down I go with my nifty case on wheels (wheeeee!) to catch my train.

At the station I got to listen to a girl who was flying overseas for the first time and calling herself an idiot for packing too much stuff. Her Mum was with her, but she was having this conversation very loudly on her phone. (Her luggage weighed thirty-six kilos. Which was over her weight limit. Why didn’t she just pack differently?). Her plan was to weigh in and hand over anything she didn’t think she would need to her mum to be taken home again. (Why didn’t she just pack differently?)

That mystery of life got me through the waiting for the train, so I was glad. I had my book to read, a cliché I think, travelling to a speculative fiction convention reading the Fellowship of the Ring, but I fancied it, so there. I read my book. I looked out of the window. I talked to a gang of little old ladies about the weather. They were jaunting into town for something and discussing somebody’s grandkid, who was the grandkid the somebody liked.

I was starting to think by this stage I really don’t get out enough, because this was both hugely entertaining and somewhat bizarre.

At Sydney Airport I had a blonde moment and try to check-in after checking in online the day before. Why not, I say. There were some very tense people, some very relaxed people and some very confused people at check-in and bag drop-off, but little or no real worry about people pushing in, or being let in ahead of others – people at fun parks take note.

The security checkpoint was pretty blah, although I did have to go back and take off my shoes. Glad it wasn’t the underwire in my bra – taking it off under my shirt is no drama, but putting it back on (under the shirt) has a technical difficulty of 9.5. I've only ever achieved an 8.3.

There is so much food at Sydney Airport. And wine. They have wine-tasting booths in the terminals, which I didn’t partake of, despite the temptation. I wonder if it’s a type of flight insurance – the plane may crash, but you’ll be relaxed and not hurt yourself too badly.

On the plane I had another blonde moment and sat in someone else’s seat (I don’t know if all six of you who read this blog know this, but I can neither read nor count). The plane banked right just after takeoff and I goggled down the wing at the ocean below. Great view. Then I went back to reading my book. Then I’d look out the window again.

On descent, when my eardrums tried to burst themselves (the ascent didn't bother me that much, for which I was profoundly grateful), a bub at the end of the plane started crying miserably. Obviously her ears hurt too. I felt sorry for mum, who started shushing bub with ever more increasing 'be quiet!' tones than 'it's okay honey, I know it hurts" ones.

Normally I plan my travel better than this, but for some reason decided that I’d just wing it from Avalon airport. I was scared. But there was a transfer service, and the coach was very fancy – there were seatbelts – to Southern Cross station (Spencer Street for oldies like me, or at least I feel I’m an oldie). It was a pleasant ride; more looking out of the window and reading and looking and reading. Since I’d been sitting in a train, plane and bus, I decided to walk to my hotel. Plus, I couldn’t seem to catch a cab. It was only a thirty minute walk (and I’m thinking of repeating the performance on the return trip), but possibly ill-advised. I arrived at the hotel wind-blown and a bit breathy, which did nothing for the man on reception. Which was a pity, because I bought a new bra before the trip and the girls have never looked so awesome. Someone else came up to the reception counter just after me, asking a question and ReceptionMan said, “I’ll just book this person in.” Sadly, not my emphasis, and, well, rude. Meh, maybe he was having a bad day. Everyone else has been utterly nice and professional (occasionally two mutually-exclusive states).

It did underline the journey for me, though, that I’d had a physical embodiment of it being the journey that matters and not the arrival.

I went for a wander around, having looked at the mini-bar (not a thrilling collection of nibbles) and deciding I needed more fortifying fare. I discovered a second-hand bookshop just across the road, so my day was pretty much made right then and there. Then I got some olives, cheese and mineral water (and wine for the next day). The slightly mortified looks of other guests in the lobby when I returned was amusing – that look, gak!, look away!, sequence always cracks me up. I always expect it to be followed by the raising of a lady’s fan and fanning the face rapidly. But then my associative thinking is a bit weird.

Then I talked to husbandly and small lad, who for some reason asked if the nibbles and the hotel room and the second-hand bookshop taken all together was heaven. Sure, if he says so.

I sat up in my hotel bed with nibbles and watched mindless television. All in all, small lad was right.

However, I discovered our beautiful bathroom with the entirely pool-like bath has spoiled me for all other bathtubs, particularly those that only hold a small bucket’s-worth of water. The view out of my window is a dark brown brick wall*, some beige window boxes with scraggly plants and next to them, air conditioning fans. Ew. And why is the linen in my room white? I keep checking it repeatedly to see if I’ve spoiled it.

I do need to get out more.

*I've been very careful to close the curtains when I'm getting ready to have a shower, because I don't wnat anyone to see me naked through the window. Oh wait...

I woke up early the next morning to a lovely greasy breakfast (bacon and eggs!), then went back to bed for a few hours. Then I went walking, on my way to shopping. Strangely in my head there’s some guilt-reversal happening there: rather than walking off the breakfast, I was walking off the shopping.

It was a burgundy leather coat. Mmmmm, graaaarrr, leather. And shiny things. For hair.

Then the convention started, and more of that anon, anon, Sir!