Why would anybody fly halfway across the country to attend a convention when for no effort at all he or she could shelter in place and write a couple more pages of the next story or novel, you ask?
Ouch! Touche! You have unquestionably drawn blood. But I have a parry and riposte worth any number of your thrusts. Look up above. There we are, caught in a quiet moment at ConQuest, the Four Horsemen of the Literary Apocalypse: Howard Waldrop, Melinda Snodgrass, George R. R. Martin, and Your Very Humble Correspondent, posing for whichever mountains happen to be in need of our stony portraits.
Ordinarily and as you know, I am the humblest of men. But when I'm in the company of my literary equals, it's hard to tamp down the quite justifiable arrogance. We are the people who write your literature. We are the ones who create your culture. Should you have the good fortune to live to be a thousand (and I hope you do), you will brag to your descendants that you lived in the age of Waldrop, Snodgrass, Martin and Swanwick.
Is Everest still unclaimed?
And I'm on the road again . . .
More when I know it.
Above: Photo by Terry England. Thanks, Terry!