It’s a weird blend of wonderful and exasperating. It’s a very snooty convention, modelled after professional conventions where most attendees are sent by large rich corporations and paid for, even though writers are not large rich corporations and have trouble affording it. It frowns on hall costumes and a lot of other harmless fannish fun. It’s usually held in expensive hotels surrounded by expensive restaurants.

However, huge numbers of writers, agents, editors, artists, and publishers generally turn up, and the sparks coming off all those encounters are difficult to reproduce elsewhere. The bulk of the attendees are not snooty, but very welcoming, if you can find them — some committees don’t really bother to provide any kind of gathering space, assuming everyone will be in the bar buying overpriced drinks.

The programming can be splendid or very lackluster indeed; it depends on the individual committee. The degree of hospitality offered to attendees also depends on the committee. The convention is run for profit, and I’ve been to several where all the money simply seemed to vanish into the committees’ pockets (well, either that or they got a really lousy deal with the hotel), while others provide many cool and interesting events and food for the actual attendees.

For me, it’s really my fellow writers and fans, and some of the editors, that make the convention. However, I haven’t attended one since the last one in Minneapolis, which was in 2002, I think, maybe 2003. Minneapolis did it up right and proper by using the Minicon hotel, which is nice enough but not a luxury venue, and providing three full meals for all attendees in the con suite, so that if you couldn’t afford the local restaurants or a taxi and didn’t have a car, you wouldn’t starve.

Anyway, that’s enough maundering on my part.

Pamela