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How can it be winter already? Some years, the transition from one season to the next proceeds in a gentle, almost meditative fashion. The year graciously allows us plenty of time to change out our wardrobe, prepare our favorite holiday comfort foods, and adjust our circadian rhythms. (The less said about flipping on and off Daylight Savings Time, the better.) This year, however, we seemed to leapfrog all that gradual change, catapulting from sweaty summer into where's-my-sweater weather without so much as a fare-thee-well. In the whirlwind of a big convention, finishing up the manuscript and query materials for Many Teeth, and digging out warm clothing, I am aware of what an amazing community you all are for me. As Thanksgiving will soon be upon us, I want to express my appreciation for each and every one of you!

What's in this newsletter? World Fantasy Convention report Life and writing: Don't hurry up Cute cat pic 2026 World Fantasy Convention report It’s been a number of years since I attended a large convention. Pre-pandemic, I went to a number of such gatherings on the West Coast. This year, 2026, both World Fantasy (WFC) and World Science Fiction (WorldCon) conventions were held in California, my home state. As they occurred only a few months apart and it was clear I had the energy to attend only one of them, I chose WFC. Historically, it’s oriented more toward books—writers, publishers, booksellers, and of course—readers. WorldCon abounds with costumes and media tie-ins. Different fandoms, different energy. As in previous years, I was an author guest and was scheduled for a number of events. And, as in previous WFCs, I found the conversations as nourishing, inspiring, and in general worthwhile as any formal event. I should preface my idiosyncratic personal remarks by saying that the time leading up to the convention was highly stressful and I was often so exhausted that I found myself in tears. Nevertheless, I got myself organized, practiced my part of a group reading session, and made my way to Oakland. The drive (over 3 hours, most of it in congested traffic), followed by parking so impossible, I gave up and paid for valet parking, did not lend itself to a calm entrance. Once I’d checked in, hugged my roommates (with whom I’ve shared quarters at many other conventions), and decamped with them to a Chinese noodle house, I felt up to my first event: The Mass Autographing. Authors arrive early, grab a tent card and a place at a table, and wait for the hordes of fans who may or may not materialize. I found myself between two congenial colleagues: Elisabeth Waters, with whom I’ve worked for many years as editor/co-editor; and Brenda Cooper, whom I hadn’t yet met in person. Every once in a while, I’d spot someone in dire need of greetings and a hug. Beginning-of-convention gladness, especially in light of how many friends and fellow writers were not local. A fan came by with a stack of labels for Lisa and me to autograph for the many Darkover and Sword and Sorceress anthologies in his collection. I also discovered the need for a CliffsNotes answer to “How are you?” and settled on, “Writing away!” In the past, conventions have included room parties, many of them hosted by publishers or fan clubs. In recent years and especially since the pandemic, these have been few and far between. I didn’t see any signs for parties, nor was I invited personally, so I concluded there weren’t any. Since I can no longer stay up late and I was mindful of the risks of viral transmission in close gatherings, this was fine with me. The next morning began with breakfast with two dear friends, which in itself would have been worth the drive to Oakland, and my panel: Typing Uphill Both Ways… What’s the Trick? Veteran writers discuss navigating the opportunity and pitfalls inherent in traditional publishing, newer formats and platforms, social media, the loss of mass market paperbacks, and a dwindling midlist. They’ve seen it all through the years, but they’ve kept publishing despite these. With  Michael Kurland, Bruce McAllister, Sharon Shinn, and moderator Tim Melody Pratt.   To say we’ve seen it all is an understatement. With panelists having over 5 or 6 decades in the field, I (with my mere 45 years as a pro) felt like the baby on the panel. We talked about the changes we’ve seen over the years, from when you could earn a living by churning out a short story for the pulp markets every week, to the implosion of book distributors, the dwindling midlist, the rise of POD (Print on Demand) and ebooks, publishers gobbled up by multinational conglomerates, and the rising threat of AI. Hopeful trends include the ability to self-publish (as an “indie” author) and the emergence of small press publishers that put out some of the best, most innovative genre fiction. We all had stories to tell of disasters and disappointments, friends and colleagues that kept us going, and strategies like editing, teaching, or moving sideways into another genre (mystery, romance, screenplays). In one way or another, we had all “re-invented” our careers over the years. A recurring theme was the vital importance of community. Collectively, we exchange news and ideas, we imagine new forms of storytelling or re-invigorate old ones, and we laugh and cry and carry one another through difficult times.   The afternoon was akin to a water-slide, swooshing from one adventure to the next. On my way to (yet another Chinese) lunch with another long-time fellow author (and fellow martial artist), we got waylaid into sitting for portraits for a photography project, documenting today’s luminaries of the field. I returned in time for a tour of the Dealer’s Room and Art Show. The wares offered for sale have changed over time. Once, I could find T-shirts with dragons and cats, hand-made knives (also perfumes, stuffed mythical-animal toys, handmade lace, and many amazing artifacts, some of which involved real skulls). Also sellers of new and used books and jewelry. The jewelry was still there, along with a few booksellers, but most of the dealers were indie authors selling only their own books. Two excellent small press publishers, Tachyon and Fairwood attended the convention. Until it was time for:   READING: Treehouse Writers Group, with Chaz Brenchley, Nancy Jane Moore, Pat Murphy, and Madeleine Robins. Treehouse Writers formed at the beginning of the pandemic, when we were looking for virus-free ways to hang out together. Chaz and Pat became honorary members for the purpose of the reading, offering two different but equally delightful riffs on Sherlock Holmes. I got to sit back and listen to some truly awesome stories, a combination of works in progress and published work. I went last and, as everyone – participants and audience – looked tired, I kept mine to one short scene from the beginning of Collaborators, my Lambda Award Finalist novel. And betook myself to a solitary not-Chinese dinner. And fell into bed.   Because the next morning, I had an early check-out and gathering of a zoom-group of writers that has been a vital part of my community support system. The weekend left my heart full and my head buzzing with Ideas! Words! Images! My weekend concluded in grand style with lunch with fellow Treehouse denizen, after which we encountered a gaggle of friends (and a friendly hotelperson, who snapped this pic of us). L to R front: Kate Johnston, me, Sumiko Saulson; back: Karen and Chaz Brenchley, Nancy Jane Moore.   Don't Hurry Up   From the time we’re small children, it seems that someone is always urging us to hurry up, to not dawdle, to stop procrastinating, to keep “on target,” and to do things faster. We are supposed to race through our lives without paying attention to the wonders around us (except, of course, when we’re supposed to be observant and appreciative). Of course, what is wonderful to a child is all too often invisible to the harried parent or teacher who herself has deadlines and schedules to keep. Homework assignments are Important; watching snails is not.   When I began to write professionally, I found myself juggling motherhood, a day job career, and the inner-driven need to set down the stories in my head. Writing time was precious and all too scant, and I had much to learn about the craft. My initial style involved “pantsing” (writing “by the seat of your pants”) or, as I put it, “taking a flying leap off the edge of reality, ” and then revising, revising, revising. As a consequence of this and the limited, fractured time periods available to me, my stories progressed slowly. I remember meeting a certain published author at one of my first convention, who breezily talked about how he never revised, he sold his first draft novels, and he produced three or four of them every year. I cringed to think of my one or two short stories and maybe one novel draft in that same time period (keeping in mind that I needed three or four – or more! – revision drafts). Was this what professional writers did? I wondered. And how was I ever going to produce that much, that fast, and of that professional quality?   (As a slightly smirky footnote, I have no idea what happened to that writer. I haven’t seen the byline in decades, so maybe that strategy wasn’t so successful after all. Or the name might have been changed, as so often happens.)   To my great good fortune, I also encountered writers who had learned to listen to their own creative rhythms and understood that getting the story right was more important than getting it fast. These were not writers who use “I listen to my inner muse” as an excuse for not writing, or who polish endlessly and never submit their work. These were professional, published authors. Some of them sold many books and others only a few. Not all were genre writers, but all prized their craft. I met writers who considered a day successful if they got a single paragraph exactly the way they wanted it; others measured their daily productivity by hours spent or pages finished. They opened my eyes to many possibilities for measuring progress besides how fast I could turn out a manuscript.   I found that different stages of a story call for different speeds. I work best when I draft quickly from outline and then revise slowly. I give myself permission at all stages to take a break and think about a “stuck place” (whether that is a block in the sense of “I have no idea what comes next” or just a niggling feeling that something isn’t right). I go for a walk, I clean house, or I pick up the phone and chat with a friend about something utterly unrelated to writing. When I’m willing to do this, I end up in fewer dead ends, I need fewer subsequent drafts, and I’m more in touch with the internal fabric of the story. So much of the joy of writing is discovering new experiences, new points of view, stories told by characters who are not like us and who live in worlds not like our own.    All this has a great deal to do with observing and accepting my own creative rhythms, but also with patience. Patience loops the topic back to my opening, which is how we find our way back being fully present with what is unfolding at the present moment and at a pace too often at odds with the regimented, overcommitted, multi-tasking, hurried expectations around us (not to mention the financial pressures for a working writer to produce so many books a year). It’s all very well to recite slogans like, “Stop And Smell The Roses,” and quite another to shield ourselves from those expectations.  Adagio, not Presto.   Sweet Sonja, lost in dreams.