Time to move forward, now, from the San Francisco Bay area of the 1950s to San
Francisco of the 1990s and a vignette from ConFrancisco, the 1993 Worldcon. From
first-hand experience, we can tell you that San Francisco is a marvelous city for
dinner expeditions. The convention itself presented us the opportunity to meet,
for the first time, lots of people we had previously run across only in print,
including the writer of the following article.
I am an inexperienced fan. A novice.
In fact, my first convention was MagiCon, the 50th Worldcon, and I attended that one
not so much as a professional or a fan, but someone flirting with both. (I was
there when Mimosa lost then won the Hugo. What a show!)
I made friends with a few writers at
MagiCon. I met Mike Resnick for the first time (who had bought a bunch of my short
stories for his original anthologies), and he was kind enough to take me under his
rather large wing and introduce me around. Mike loves the fans and conventions --
he's been attending worldcons regularly for thirty years. But what the hell did I
know? I'd never seen a hucksters room. I'd never heard of filking (Fan awards?
Do they really give those?) Fan terminology was like a foreign language to me.
(What exactly is fanac, anyway?)
One year later, my short story "The
Winterberry" was nominated for a Hugo Award and I was on the John W. Campbell ballot
for Best New Writer. The flirting stage had passed, and I was about to plunge into
the fan/convention scene with both feet. I don't mind telling you that I was
terrified. Panels and readings and an awards ceremony -- I'd never been nominated
for anything before. And I was going to have to stand up in front of real people
and pretend I was in control. (It's much easier when you're sitting in front of a
computer, and you actually are in control.)
Anyway, just when I was feeling like
I was breathing water, and I was positive I would burst from the tension, a San
Francisco cab driver came to the rescue.
"Hey, are you in town for that
science fiction convention?" he asked me, launching into traffic,
zero-to-seventy-five in no more time than it takes to snap a neck.
"Yeah, as a matter of fact I am."
"I was thinking about checking that
out."
He cut over two lanes without looking
and stomped harder on the gas, apparently to make a turn. I clutched the window
crank to keep from sliding across the seat. I was barely able to read a passing
sign: SAN FRANCISCO, THE INDUSTRIAL CITY. I never knew that about San Fran.
"Oh, are you a fan?" I asked him.
"I love Connie Willis. I heard she's
up for some kind of award. I hope she wins."
I decided not to take this personally.
(I was up against Connie in the short story category, but there was no way he could
have known that, and besides, I was positive he was talking about the novel. Who
wasn't?)
"What was the name of that book she
wrote?" he said.
"Doomsday Book."
"Right, right. Intense piece of
work. You know I'm a big fan of historicals and I thought she did a great job with
the plague. I gotta tell you, though, I thought the futuristic scenes were slow as
hell."
Slow, yes, I could see where such a
concept would be difficult for this gentleman. He weaved in and out of traffic as
if he had radar; and I quietly prayed that he did. I have to ride a cable
car, I mumbled to myself. And I have to eat at the North Beach
Restaurant. These were my two secret wishes for San Francisco. I came all the
way from Rochester, New York, and I refused to leave San Fran without riding at
least one cable car. (I'd grown up with Michael Douglas and Karl Malden on The
Streets of San Francisco, after all.) A friend of mine had told me about the
North Beach Restaurant, and said I'd find the finest Italian cuisine in the city
there. So before I had stepped into the 747 at Rochester International Airport, I
said to myself, Cable car and North Beach Restaurant -- These two things I must
do! They seemed somehow more obtainable than the Hugo and the Campbell (and
as it turned out, they were). Why these personal Grails came to me at this moment
in the cab, I do not know, except that maybe I was afraid I might not make it to
the hotel alive, and I was reminding myself that if I did I'd better fulfill the
promises I'd made.
We cruised up and down the city's
hilly, narrow lanes, and whizzed past Chinatown, moving away from Fisherman's Wharf.
I should probably tell you that I've never been much of a traveler. My first Big
Trip away from home was my excursion to Orlando, Florida, for MagiCon, so I was not
only new to conventions and fandom, but I was a bug-eyed traveler, too. I was
beginning to wonder what the hell I was getting myself into. Is this really the
life for me? -- Hopping on a plane and shooting across the country? It was much
easier when (as my family still likes to say from time to time) writing was my
hobby.
And then it struck me that I was
three thousand miles away from home, talking to this complete stranger about a
science fiction novel we had both read. I may be a convention novice, but suddenly
I realized what a worldcon was all about, or was supposed to be all about, and what
fandom stood for, too: People from all over the globe getting together who may have
absolutely nothing in common...except science fiction.
Oh, I realize I'm bordering on
melodrama here -- a writer's worst nightmare! -- but sentimentality aside, it was
true, I could feel it, and I began to relax right there in the cab, with this
maniac behind the wheel. I remembered something Mike Resnick had told me a year
ago. "A con is like a family reunion." For the first time, I understood what he
meant. We all had common ancestors. I carried that thought with me during
ConFrancisco, as if it were a tangible thing, a talisman I could take out of my
pocket and squeeze whenever I felt like I was breathing water. As it turned out,
I met dozens of wonderful fans, people who shook my hand and congratulated me and
told me how much they enjoyed my story. Wow, you have no idea how warm that made
me feel, and I thank you all!
I met Rich and Nicki Lynch in the
Conadian Suite after the Hugo ceremony. That's how this article came about. I
remembered what Rich had said during his acceptance speech, inviting anyone who was
unfamiliar with fanzines to check them out, and I told Rich and Nicki that I would
love to contribute something to Mimosa. We cut a deal right then and
there.
Anyway, my conversation with the
cabby carried on all the way to the Marriott. I told him I was up for a couple of
awards, and he he wished me luck. (I didn't tell him I was up against Connie.)
He dropped me off in one piece, said he'd probably not make the convention, and
asked me to tell "Miss Willis" -- if I got the chance -- how much he liked her
book, and not mention anything about the slow, futuristic stuff.
If you're out there, Mr. Cab Driver,
I did get the chance to tell Connie how much you enjoyed her novel and she was
actually quite touched. And I did not mention the slow futuristic stuff.
Although the Hugo and Campbell
Awards eluded me, I rode a cable car (hung off the side of one, in fact) and I made
it to the North Beach Restaurant where I enjoyed one of the finest pieces of
grilled swordfish I've ever tasted. And, of course, best of all, I met more
fans.
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Title illustration by Peggy Ranson
Dire Wolf cartoon by Sharon Farber
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