World Fantasy Convention
Earlier this month I attended my first ever World FantasyConvention (WFC). I traveled all the way to Washington DC, all by my lonesome, and checked into one of those giant corporate hotels that are mostly comfortable but also vaguely unsettling. (Why, oh why do they insist on carpeting their endless hallways with vertigo-inducing patterns?) I knew a few familiar ladies would be attending, most of whom I met at Sirens (see this post , or this one) or through the ever-sweet Gili Bar-Hillel on twitter. Otherwise I was expecting a whole lot of strangers and strangeness. It is, after all, a convention for fantasy writers, readers, industry professionals, and fans. I felt sure there would be horns. Maybe wings.* The other group at the hotel that weekend turned out to be RollingThunder (bikers in support of POW/MIA veterans). In a few short hours, I was lost in a sea of black leather jackets, Technicolor hairdos, prosthetic limbs, and intricate Celtic jewelry. I felt quite small