It’s Monday morning and I am an astoundingly tired little creature, having survived and thrived through another Penguicon. This year I had a partner in crime; the marvelous Patty Templeton, with whom I shared a selling table and was proud to show off some of my favorite bits of Detroit for. Delightful random chatter, book sales, and a visit to City Club conspired to make this one of the most pleasant con weekends ever. Without getting too autobiographical, we had a fantastical combined table setup, survived on snacks and on the last day of the con we threw a reading right there in the hallway, joined by Rosemary van Deuren from around the corner. (By the by, I loved both Patty and Rosemary’s books so much that I’ve been selling them on consignment whenever I have table space and permission).
When you read in the hall, you have to shout. Also, I’m holding the laptop awkwardly because I was reading from first-draft copy from Holly’s book. (Penguicon is an all-ages event and I had to find a scene without Swan in it, so I wasn’t shouting F-bombs down the hall.)
In spare moments, I just wrote, as I often do at cons. Selling stuff is social enough–I’m usually so drained by a hundred little interactions that I’d rather retreat when there’s extra time rather than cramming more activities in. Emmy is really not that good at networking, it turns out.
And now, as stated previously, it is Monday and I am thoroughly worn out, but still doing day-job things on a sort of shellshocked autopilot. Everyone is home safe, and…eh, that’s about all I have.