Not this year(1) – Wiscon

A series of posts about things I thought or hoped or feared I would do in 2008.

This year, I am not going to Wiscon.

Wiscon is a thing that some people still scratch their heads over — a feminist science fiction convention. Why this still puzzles folks is a bit beyond me, but there you go. Maybe it’s because so many people’s notions of sf are formed these days primarily through movies, and Hollywood has some distance yet to go on the “feminist” side of the equation in pretty much every way. (I have tried to make my movie as feminist as possible, and at least it stands up to The Rule, but I do feel a bit like a lone voice in the wilderness…)

Nicola and I first went to Wiscon in 1995, when she was a Guest of Honor. I’ve been once on my own in the late 90’s. And we’ve attended the last two years.

I see a lot of difference between the 90’s and the now. The convention is bigger (attendance cap of 1,000 as opposed to the olden days of about 750 or so, I think). In other words, about a third bigger, and it’s interesting how much bigger that feels to me, and how much less better. I think it’s great for all the folks who otherwise wouldn’t get in the door, but it’s starting to feel a little too big to me. Fragmented. Like every other large con, it’s become many different cons in the same building, and the divisions between people are more apparent. There are the people (like us) who can afford to stay on the Governor’s Level of the hotel, which includes a free bar for GL guests only, and where those on the GL congregate constantly, thereby becoming much less available to the people who can’t afford much beyond sharing a room and eating in the Con Suite every night. There are the more-established writers (like us) who hang with other writers whom they haven’t seen in ages, or with editors and critics, and thereby become much less available to the readers at the heart of the convention. There are the less-established writers who attend in groups and support each other by organizing midnight readings of their work. There are the East Coast writers who organize private parties, and the West Coast writers who organize private dinners. There are the academics. And so on.

Wiscon is based on feminist and humanist principles in every way that the organizers can imagine, and they do an excellent job. Wiscon has flat-out the best access policies and practices of any event of any kind I have ever attended. And they work hard to give everyone a chance to participate in programming. I think this is great — and it’s exactly the kind of event I find less personally welcoming, because there are too many choices. I’d rather have a choice of two panels with hundreds of people in the room for each, than fifteen panels with fifteen audience members. More fragmentation.

And I hate the fact that readings are now group events where everyone gets maybe 10 minutes to read from their work. Two years ago, Nicola and I shared an hour-plus reading slot with the fabulous Pat Cadigan, which was Very Cool. Last year, Nicola and I shared a 50-minute reading slot with Nisi Shawl and Eleanor Arnason, both terrific women whom I was honored to be with — but it was rushed, stressy, and seemed like a whiplash experience for the audience. Again, this is designed to make opportunities available to everyone who wants to read, and I think that is All Good for the principles of the con — but it’s not good for me. I’m a fucking snob, I guess, but I remember reading And Salome Danced — the entire story — to a packed room of attentive people, with time left over for an interesting and extended conversation. And I think that’s better — for writers and readers — than getting 10 minutes in an assembly-line situation just because there are jillions of people who want to read at Wiscon.

Change is. I’m fine with that. I’m not disrespecting Wiscon — it’s one of the most exciting, enduring and important events in speculative fiction. But I think that Wiscon and I may be changing in different directions. It doesn’t mean I’ll never go again — I especially love the chance to meet readers and reconnect with writers, and some of the best people in the world are there. It’s a rocking convention, smart and fun and full of opportunity.

But it doesn’t feel like my place anymore. And maybe it never really was. I’ve always been mostly an outsider, and it’s easy for me to feel that a space is too small. That’s my problem, not theirs. But I do find it ironic that this space feels too small for me because it is trying so hard to be big enough for everyone.