We were going to stay in Burlington until this morning, but, instead, waited until sunset and came home last night. Kathryn and I both wanted to wake up in our own beds.
LiveJournal truly has died, hasn't it? Those of us who remain are crypt keepers, I think. Ah, well. That's a better profession than writing.
I'll try to post some sort of summation of the experience, thoughts on Readercon 23, but it'll likely be tomorrow before I do. Maybe I can even find a handful of photographs I don't loathe. Which is going to be a challenge. But, as I have said repeatedly, I don't do "con reports."
Friday night, I did a podcast with Peter, Gary Wolfe, and Jonathan Strahan (Jonathan was in Perth, Australia, and so was there via Skype; Skype still freaks me out, by the way). You can hear the podcast here. I haven't listened to it yet; I might later.
I was good and bought not one single book. Then again, I only made it into the dealer's room once, and that was about fifteen minutes before my signing on Saturday.
I have decided I hate the tattoo. Well, not the tattoo itself. The design is perfect, as is the placement, and the sentiment. But as it heals it's turning that hideous blue-green that always makes me think of drunken marines on shore leave. Obviously, this poses problems, likely of the sort that cannot ever be resolved*. I was very fucking specific about wanting black/grey work.
Oh, and I came back to the news that a brilliant friend has cancer. And there was also Neil Clarke's heart attack** during the con, which rather makes all my kvetching here rather petty.
Okay, gonna go lie down or something. Er...after the email.
* Note that I did NOT get the tattoo on a whim nor impulsively. I took years deciding if it was right to do this. Too bad I didn't take at least a month to be certain I had the proper artist.
** He is out of ICU and recovering.