The World in Worldcon: A Chengdu Report

Science Fiction World, the magazine that has published and translated four of my stories into Chinese, has invited me to WorldCon in Chengdu, China. They paid for my flight, my accommodation, my expenses. I am ecstatic to be here, to be their guest.

I step through the massive glass doors of a deluxe museum. It is massive. Colossal. With its gleaming silver walls and subtle blue lights and minimalist chrome design, it feels like I’m in the belly of a hi-tech spaceship. Which is exactly the intention. I’m in the Science Fiction Museum of Chengdu, a building assembled and designed to host the World Science-Fiction convention in Chengdu, China. Its very existence pays tribute to the works and trappings of science-fiction.
I am an invited guest of Science Fiction World, the magazine that has published and translated four of my stories into Chinese. They paid for my flight, my accommodation, my expenses. I am ecstatic to be here, to be their guest.

I’m led through a whirlwind of events, ceremonies, meetings, interviews and conversations. I’m thrust in front of cameras, wired up with microphones, offered seats and stools. I greet friends, both new and familiar to me. My editors and handlers keep close correspondence with me, telling me where I need to be, and at what time, and how I should be dressed. I’ve done WorldCons before. I know this gig. But something here feels different. There’s a buzz, a feverishness, in the air.

I know one reason why this is different. This Worldcon is diverse. Internationally diverse. I am signing books and t-shirts next to Korean writers, sharing beers with Japanese authors and mangakas, talking to Chinese artists, Colombian editors, Iranian booksellers, Egyptian producers. At my lunch table at the Sheraton, I’m eating with Mexican con organisers, Singaporean editors, fans from Saudi Arabia and New Zealand, Marvel studio animators from America, and literary legends from Scotland and Nigeria. I am rubbing shoulders with continents and dining with entire ecosystems.

And it’s nice. Never before have I felt so welcome. Never before have I truly felt at home, as a member of the science-fiction community. Diversity here isn’t spoken off. It’s acted upon. Where other conventions may attempt to gesture at diversity, as an abstract, here it is exacted. It’s presented, on an international scale. And it’s wonderful. We don’t all speak the same language. Because we share something else, something grander: a love of science-fiction and fandom.

But that’s not all.

Here, I am not simply just another writer who is attending the convention. I am a guest. I am driven from hotel to hotel, from site to site. I am recognized. Convention staff are waiting on me, to guide me to my designated seat, or usher me into a certain room. Things are expected off me. I am told where I need to be, and when, and for how long. This isn’t daunting. This confirms for me what I now know: I am a writer. I know my worth. I know my talent. And I know I am welcome here.
Am I a little egoistical for thinking all this? Perhaps. But as someone who has been crippled by self-doubt, plagued by insecurities, and troubled by my own lack of relevance, if someone tells me that I am worth their invitation to their city, and that I am a good enough writer to be given a spot at their table, who the hell am I to tell them that they’re wrong?

But that’s not all.
This WorldCon isn’t constrained only to books and literature. No. The entire plethora of fandom and science-fiction is on display here. Video-games. Films. TV series. Comics. Manga. Anime. Enthusiasts of robots and holographics and spaceships are present. This WorldCon has branched out, both in terms of funding and genre, extending its wings to encompass as many genres and subcultures of fandom as possible. All are welcome here, and all have a significant contribution to make to the world of science-fiction.

But that’s not all.
Before too long, I notice the types of attendees here at WorldCon. School-children, on excursion, swarm the hallways and atriums. College-aged teenagers and young adults jostle excitedly when they meet new authors. Film-makers in their late twenties and early thirties buzz around, desperate to share their passions with their peers.
And I realis how young everyone here is. How many children and teenagers are present, hungry for books, hungry for sci-fi. This doesn’t happen. In WorldCons I’ve attended, the populace seems to gravitate towards the older fans. Largely American, and almost exclusively English-speaking, these fans have been attending WorldCons for decades. They’ve helped to build Worldcon to what it is, and they’ll always have their place here. But sometimes, when they make up the majority of attendees, the genre in fandom can feel sterile and dry and classical. It’s a blast of fresh air to see so many young, fresh faces at this convention. And it is heart-warming to welcome so many of these young Chinese fans into the family of fandom, to tell them that they have their place here.

But that’s not all.

See, SF is revered in China. It’s not like in the West or the Anglosphere, where SF is seen as something either to make money at Comic Cons and through Marvel films, or a hobby for children. In China, it is something to be held on a podium. It’s seen as a vehicle for grand pursuits and as a discourse for various subjects. Engineering, science, architecture, languages. Aliens, spaceships, colonies on other planets, interstellar travel, gravity, and the impact these things will have on society and human behavior. It’s important. And in China, the convention organisers have secured enough funding to put their money where their mouth is. Science-fiction isn’t a just a hobby in China. It’s firmly within the public consciousness, respected and admired as a means of earning a career and furthering one’s education.
And as I walk through this museum, this monument to the genre I love, the genre I want to devote my career and time to, the awe and emotion I feel is inexpressible. I feel like I’ve come home.

But that’s not all.

As a writer, it’s a struggle to even get noticed. At times it feels like you’re shouting into a void. An indifferent, uncaring void. In China, it’s the opposite.
On numerous occasions, I am asked to sign something for someone. A magazine, a notebook, a copy of the Three Body Problem or a Cyberpunk 2077 comic (yes, really). I sign it. More fans come along. Some even recognize my name and get me to sign an issue of SF-World where one of my stories is published. Delighted by this, I sign that too.
Between one blink and the next, I’m being swarmed. Fans are coming at me from all angles, books thrust out, desperate for me to sign it. Most of them ask to get their picture taken with me. Some even ask for me to sign my signature for their friends. I do, because the look of joy on their faces is so precious. They’re so excited, so overcome with emotion, to have met a real life sci-fi writer, that they’re practically glowing. They’re desperate to talk to me. About my work. About the genre. About anything. They’re practically shoving other people out of the way to get to me. They’re weary desert travelers, and I’m the fountain from which crystal clear water gushes out.
It’s a very surreal, very nice feeling.
More signings. Someone gets me to sign his t-shirt. Then someone else does. A young boy wants me to sign his copy of the Three Body Problem, which has already been signed by Cixin Liu. A mother pushes her young boy towards me, she’s so desperate for him to get a photo with me. It’s starting to be overwhelming. But when will I get this experience again? These people came to see me. I want to make their day. I want them to remember this moment fondly. I’m lucky compared to Cixin, who can barely even step foot outside the elevator before getting pounced.
An hour or two later, I tell my handler I’ve had enough. She bellows for everyone to clear the way. She and two others escort me back to the Green Room. As they do, a young man runs up with his book, having missed my signing. I say that this’ll be the last one. And I sign his book as “Last one”. He’s grinning from ear to ear.
At the end of the day, I must have signed five-hundred, perhaps six-hundred pages. Maybe more. Probably more. I’m tired. My wrist aches. My jaw is numb. But I’ve got to get back to my hotel room and be up in seven hours to do it all again. But I regret nothing. Because, for a moment, I got to make some people happy.

It’s the night of the Hugos ceremony. Usually, this would not bother me much. But tonight, I’m accepting for Adrian Tchaikovsky. He’s up for Best Series and Best Novella. Should he win, it’ll be me who has to go up on stage in front of god-knows-how-many thousands of people, accept the trophy for him, and not try and screw it up.
No pressure.
There are some great wins at the Hugo awards. Some as predicted, some not. I have too many horses in this race to pass judgements, at least publicly. But I will say that I am delighted to see a Polish comic writer pick up the award for Cyberpunk in the Best Graphic novel category. I’m also happy to see The Expanse and Everything Everywhere All At Once nab awards (although Andor would have also been a fantastic pick). It’s marvellous to hear the Chinese audience reacting to their favourite titles on screen. With a record number of attendees, and a record number of non-English attendees, it feels like we’re having a little more World in Worldcon tonight.
Then comes Adrian’s category. My heart’s in my throat as the books unfurl across the screen. My legs are numb. And then comes the moment of truth.
He wins for the Best Series. Everything’s a blur as I walk down the aisle and up the steps to accept the award for Adrian. Is this happening? This can’t be happening. It’s all so surreal. I take the award in my hands, shake the presenter’s hand, pose for the photos. I look out at the audience, but the lights are blinding. Before I read out Adrian’s speech, I tell a little joke about Adrian owing me a beer, because I bet that he’d win. The audience ripples with laughter.
Feeling microscopically more confident, I read Adrian’s speech. I’m surprisingly steady. The worst has passed. Then it’s over and I sit back down.
The rest of the night passes in a blur. There’s photos. Lots of photos. Then I’m dragged away to the Hugos After Party. It’s fabulous. I’ll let the photos speak for themselves.

It was a fantastic night, and I loved every moment of it. But, of course, all credit and accolades here should go to Adrian for his fantastic Children of Time series, and you should all go read them if you have not already.

China has hosted the greatest WorldCon of all time. This did not feel like a fan-run con. This was a maniac, primal mix of the BAFTAs, Comic-con lite, and WorldCon, all rolled into one, shot through with a unique flavour that makes it stand tall and proud on its own.
By securing funding that allowed them to invite and cover the expenses of so many guests, Chengdu has shown us what WorldCon is capable of. How far we could reach, how incredible we could make our genre. It is no exaggeration when I say that WorldCon China has set the bar for what Worldcons can and should be. They have kicked down the door and ushered in an international, diverse fandom, the likes of which I’ve never seen before. It’s my sincere belief that future cons will need to take some serious, serious notes on how to run a convention.
Was it all perfect? No. Communication, while inevitable, given the language barrier, made things tricky at times. And the fact that the convention organisers at SF-World were not allowed to attend the Hugo ceremony or the Hugo after party is an absolute disgrace, and I’m furious on their behalf that this happened. But these are small blemishes on what proved to be a fantastic, phenomenal convention.
I’d like to thank the entire team at Science-Fiction World, including Sara Chen, Lily, Yunxin, Xiangxi Kong, Jane, and Myra, for carrying mountains on their shoulders. Also in the view for thanks are Since, my handler, and her friends Yuhao and Yucheng, along with all the drivers, handlers, managers and staff members I came into contact with. Thank you. Thank you for everything.
There may not be another convention like the 81st Worldcon held in Chengdu, China. Perhaps we’ll see more cons like it, in and out of China. Perhaps not. But I know that I’m going to look back in three, five, ten years time with fondness. I was there, I’m going to think. I was a small part of that incredible convention. I did WorldCon Chengdu.

October 27, 2023 0

“Oh, you’re THAT Jeremy.” WorldCon75 and Realising You’re a Writer

There’s little moments in every writer’s life, when he or she realises something’s changed. You’ve upgraded. When I sell a story to a good market, when I’ve nailed a third act in a novel, or even I signed with my agent. I recognized that I’d leveled up; hit a new milestone.

But there was nothing little about my experience at WorldCon 75, where it occurred to me, perhaps for the first time, that I am a writer.

See, having never gone to a con of any sorts before, and being in the almost non-existent literary scene in Australia, I’ve only ever met authors briefly at rare book signings. And that’s assuming you have more than twenty seconds to blurt something out before you’re moved along and they’re seeing to the next person standing in line behind you.

So I don’t think I was ready to make my con debut WorldCon, and see everyone. My literary heroes, people I’ve been reading since I was ten years old, creators who’ve inspired me, annoyed me, entertained me, gave me food for thought: all in one place at once. In panels, in the cafes, in the bar, everywhere.

And thing I was especially not ready for: being among them. After seeing my name on the program, alongside the best and brightest of the genre, I knew I wasn’t here as a passive observer. I was here as a writer among other writers.

I hadn’t just leveled up: I’d reached a whole new level of its own.

Five minutes in: I’d ran into the wonderful Aliette de Bodard, who gave me a hug and said how cool it was to meet me. I didn’t have time to tell her the exact thing before she mentioned how much she liked my story in the anthology she blurbed: Where The Stars Rise. It’s one thing to write a story you love. It’s another to have someone you very much admire tell you to your face it provided them with reading pleasure.

Commence me wandering the corridors, picking out writers. Ken Liu. Ted Chiang, Daryl Gregory, Thomas Olde Hevult sipping coffee in the cafe. Robert Silverberg in the exhibit halls, Gay and Joe Haldeman in the auditorium. George R. R. Martin, casually rocking up in the main foyer (and yes, I got a photo). Ian McDonald, Ian Whates, Michael Swamnick knocking back G&T at the bar. People I’ve only interacted with over social media, people I’ve been reading for years. Now I get to see and meet them in person.

Except I’m not just meeting them. They’re meeting me.

Again: at book signings, you’re not an individual. You’re just another person in a line who presents the lofty author with a paper for them to scribble on. Then that’s it: they’re seeing the next person and you’re already forgotten.

Here, I got to sit down with Ian McDonald and talk to the man, level to level. Not as a slack-jawed idolatric fanboy to whom the concept of sex is frightening, but as another nerd who also writes about robots, far-future gang wars and exuberant cultures. I got to catch the train with Ken Liu and hear him tell me he enjoyed my essay in PoC Destroy SF. I got to tell George R. R. Martin I was from StarShipSofa (“Oh, the podcast, right?” I remember him saying. He also mispronounced my surname as “Sazzle, but that’s another story) and see him nod as he realised I was the guy who reprinted his undiscovered story The Men of Greywater Station and put it online for the first time. It was a down to earth, man-to-man experience where I was a fellow writer/editor who knew a thing or two about the craft. And all these Very Prestigious Writers actually listened to me. I wasn’t just another twenty-two year-old bloke from Down Under: I’d had work published that was noteworthy. I could sit down at the table with the best and brightest and contribute to the conversation.

I remember walking into the foyer and meeting Ted Chiang, the Ted Chiang. Admist our conversation about “smarter” SF cinema, I never got the impression I was speaking with the genius who birthed Arrival, but a quiet, intelligent man who was genuinely interested in what I had to say. Hell, having drinks with Ian McDonald for about seven hours (he bought us all 81 Euro wine) and having him introduce me to Ian Watson and Pat Cadigan as “The Lord of StarShipSofa” put the stupidest grin on my face. I was no longer an unknown outsider: I was welcomed into this circle of mad geniuses as not only a writer, but as a person. After years of struggling to get noticed and while watching these same authors get book and film deals, talking to them as other human beings and finding that they care is probably the biggest career boost I’ve had in a long time.

But perhaps the biggest surprise was: everyone, and I do mean everyone, I spoke to was aware of StarShipSofa in some capacity. All I had to do was mention the show and the connection was made: they knew who I was. I’d talked to Mary Robinette Kowal for ten minutes straight before she saw my badge and exclaimed “oh, you’re that Jeremy.” Even outside of meeting authors and narrators I’d reprinted and worked with, I had people who recognized my name and said how much they loved the podcast. I think more people were surprised that I didn’t know how popular the show was. I knew people tuned in, but I couldn’t imagine this many people, or how highly they regarded it. To have people express what my weekly efforts of producing good stories means to them is incredibly humbling.

This is doubly true for my own writing. Unless people email in, you don’t know if anyone’s reading your stuff, let alone enjoying it. Here, I’d have people casually bring up my work in conversations. Stop me in the corridor to say they loved a piece I’d written. That they found the certain story to really hit home. They’d name the stories I’d written, tell me their favourite characters, their favourite moments. They compared themes they’d found across my stories (some more valid than others). I was told they loved my “icky flavour if sci-fi body horror”, which is apparently now my sub-genre. I was congratulated on acquiring an agent, and was told by many, many people that I’d landed a solid one. That my novel sounded “super cool” and they couldn’t wait to get their hands on it.

And I’m still reeling from the fact that people even read my stuff.

My work has left an impact on people. My long hours creating worlds and characters I love actually matters to people. The stories I struggled with, thinking no one is going to read this shit has people I admire approaching me to dole out praise. As a writer, you want for nothing more. It puts a certain responsibility on your shoulders to continue doing good work, because there are people out there paying attention to me as a creator.

Somewhere in the midst of all this: it told me that I am an author. People read, love, respect my work. And there’s no dialing down from that. Even if I were to never write another story, I will still be an author who is read and recognized. I won’t ever be able to go a con or hang out in a writer’s group be a nobody: there will be someone who knows me or has heard of me.

Which is equal parts inspiring as it is unnerving.

Cons can be exhausting. Being in fandom can be exhausting. Being a writer in fandom can be very exhausting.

Meeting your readers and admirers is welcoming. But if you hear it so many times in such a short period, it loses its charm. Recognizing people in every corridor, meeting someone you know almost every fifteen minutes, running back and forth to attend a lunch or meeting or panel or whatever for 16 hours a day? It wears you out.

I was scheduled to appear on two panels at WorldCon 75. Having never done panels before, I had no clue what to expect from talking to a room full of strangers about my so-called expert opinion about writing. Both panels went very well; the second one especially, where our room (see photo) was fully packed out. The discussion was fantastic, the questions were great, and people cared more about and our approach to our work. Hell, a Swedish blogger took notes on everything we’d said. I only wished I was on more of these panels.

I’d made plans with my fellow panellists after the event. But when we were done, I got swarmed. People wanted to talk more. That story of mine: where did that get published? That market I mentioned: how did I get published there? When could they find my work? What was my website, again? How could they submit to StarShipSofa? How did I get my agent? Could I perhaps mention them to my agent? What was my book about? How long did it take to write my book? Did I have any advice?

I’m trying to answer the best I can, while still looking for my friends who are disappearing down the narrow corridor, while answering my phone, while fighting against the surge of crowds, while still thinking that I haven’t eaten in seven hours.

For about ten minutes, I think I got a glimpse of what being “famous” is like. It’s not pretty.

Coupled with the built up strain of Being an Author in Fandom for 16 hours a day, everything crashed on top of me and I needed a quiet corner to hide in. I just couldn’t do people anymore. I loved mingling with my fellow writers. But I couldn’t take it anymore.

Now, anxiety ain’t ever going to be a problem I’ll have to deal with. I’m outgoing, I’m unserved, I’m an intense individual. Ask anyone who knows me. I’ve got skin thicker than a dragon. I’m probably in the top 5% tier of “can tolerable any bullshit” people.

And day three floored me.

Now that I’ve been on the other side of the signing table as it were, I’ve got a newfound respect for famous authors, actors, celebrities. I simply don’t know how they deal with the attention. How do you compartmentalize having someone want something from you at every corner? I’m nobody, just a guy who gets a few minutes of attention at a sci-fi gathering. Anytime, I could walk out the doors and no one would bother me. No one would demand a photo from me. No one would stalk me down the hallways, hoping to get a few minutes of my time. George R. R. Martin? Neil Gaiman? Not so much.

How do these guys manage to go on book tour without blowing their brains out?

So yeah. Being in the spotlight, even briefly, has a dark side. As humbling and amazing and ego-boosting it is to have people want to hear your advice or gush about your work, everyone has their limits. And trudging back to my hotel at 2pm with a pulsing headache, I know I reached mine.

I’m back in at work in Australia now. Back to being another average guy on a beach suburb. I take my laptop to the cafes to write, because that’s the majority of what being a writer means: writing. The cons, the panels, meeting the people who gush about your work: that’s all a bonus.

But after attending WorldCon, I know that there’s people out there who are taking notice of my work. People who remember me. People who are waiting for my next story, and are hoping they get to read my novel. I’m a recognized name in the field, and my literary heroes are aware of me as both a writer and editor. I sat on the same programme with George R. R. Martin, Robert Silverberg and Cixin Liu. I’m still getting fanmail for my panels and having photos of me get tagged on social media.

And I’m sitting here, still trying to figure out how it all happened.

WorldCon changed my outlook as a writer, and made me feel like a real, genuine writer for the first time. It’s made my long hours doing something I love so much more rewarding. It was the family reunion I never knew I had. A really messed up, half-mad family, but a family nonetheless. And I’m already counting down the days until the next one.

So long, and thanks for all the lutefisk.

September 26, 2017 1