We are deep in the winter holidays, and by now most of you will have finished your shopping, such as it is; after all, unless you're planning to go to the mall (don't go to the mall), things will not likely reach your house before the timer runs out and the presents are being plunked beneath the tree, grievance pole, decorative pig, or other symbol of your holiday. But!

There are other reasons to need gifts. Birthdays, special events, or just the need to have something nice. I frequently lay in presents against the rest of the year, sacrificing storage space for the sake of savings. Or maybe I get myself a nice thing, because it's nice to have nice things. I try not to practice too much retail therapy. That doesn't mean I don't occasionally treat myself.

May I present the Unicorn Empire holiday sales?

Unicorn Empire Designs is an artist-owned shirt and print design shop belonging to the fabulous Amber Whitney, who has designed some of my favorite shirts (I'm wearing my Steven Universe shirt right now, and seriously considering ordering myself a second "We Are Not Things" tank, because I wear it so damn much that why not?). If you're one of the lucky ones who got a Sparrow Hill Road shirt, she did that design.

It's too late to order from her for holiday delivery, especially if you're not in the US, but her holiday sales are still ongoing. You can get some incredible fannish gift sets, and better yet, free shipping on any orders of $75 or more. Check out her stuff, and see if some of it needs to come home with you.

More seriously: Amber is an independent artist who does incredible things. So incredible that the art theft has, naturally, gotten more and more common as other people went "oh, it's just fan art" and tried to profit off it without compensating her. So if you've been considering a shirt, consider it now, and help give her the happy holiday that assholes attempted to steal away.

Yay, shirts!

All right: here's the skinny.

The Hugo Awards are given annually at the World Science Fiction Convention, which moves around the world (although statistically, it mostly moves around North America, and it's always exciting when it actually goes somewhere else) according to the votes of the membership. These awards represent the best of the science fiction and fantasy world, or at least the best things that a) attract the right kind of attention ("Hugo bait"), b) get enough votes to be nominated, and c) get enough votes to win. (Sometimes I wish we called the award "So You Think You Can SF/F," said "most popular," and let Cat Deeley host the award show.) Items b) and c) are not always the same thing, because of the migratory nature of Worldcon; a book that is vastly popular with the residents of San Francisco, California, may not win when it's voted on in Volgograd, Russia, even though it made the ballot.

The Hugos are both nominated for and voted on by the members of the World Science Fiction Convention, attending or supporting (this is an important distinction, and we'll be coming back to it). This means that if, say, you can't fly to Russia, but you really want to have a say in the Hugos, you can buy a Supporting Membership for a reduced rate, and still cast your ballot into the uncaring wind. Historically over the last ten years, Supporting Memberships have generally been between $40 and $60, and this revenue is important to the operation of the Worldcon. But it's still a lot of money. I know there were years when I did not pay for voting rights, because I couldn't afford it. There have been some suggestions in recent years that we institute a "Voting Membership" tier, where you pay less, don't get any of the physical perks (like the program book), but do get voting rights.

There are some people who really don't like that idea. Follow the link to see Cheryl Morgan's beautiful deconstruction of the proposal to forbid Voting Memberships from ever becoming a thing, but here is the bit that spoke most honestly to me:

"Without cheaper supporting memberships, it might seem that Hugo voting cannot get any cheaper, but that’s not the case. There is nothing in the WSFS Constitution that would prevent a Worldcon from adopting a new class of membership: a Voting Membership. It would carry with it no rights other than voting in the Hugos, and would therefore be pure profit for the Worldcon. If it was priced suitably, it could result in a significant additional source of income, as well as increasing participation in Hugo voting.

The purpose of this new motion is to prevent Worldcons from ever creating this sort of membership.

"That is, its purpose is to prevent the 'Wrong Sort of Fan' from participating in the Hugos: young people, poor people, people from countries where $60 is a huge amount of money, and so on.

"The commentary on the motion is a piece of ridiculous sophistry. A membership is a membership. There is no reason why creating a new type of membership would be a 'distortion,' unless you have the sort of mindset that holds that allowing people who are poorer than you to vote is a 'distortion.'

This motion is an attempt by people who already have voting privileges to prevent those privileges from being extended to others."

But that's not all the fun that's happening right now. There is also a motion to do away with the Best Fanzine, Best Fan Writer, and Best Fan Artist categories. John Scalzi has beaten this suggestion with a stick to see what would fall out; what fell out was a bunch of wasps. Because look.

I started organizing conventions when I was fourteen. I have worked every level, from grunt to chairperson. I have stayed awake for three days solid to help people have a good time. I have elevated masochism to an art form, and I enjoyed it, because I am a fan. Fans are the lifeblood of this community, and one of the things I have always loved and respected about the Hugos is the way that they recognize people for their fannish accomplishments. Yes, they're all creative fannish accomplishments, because the Hugos are a creative award, but they are still being held up with the greats of our genre, as greats of our genre, for being fans. If that is not one of the most devastatingly inspiring notions ever, I don't know what is.

Jim Hines winning Best Fan Writer last year did not in any way reduce the honor of Betsy Wolheim winning for Best Editor (Long Form). If anything, it elevated them both, because here is our industry saying "we need you both to survive." Mark Oshiro's nomination for Best Fan Writer this year did not in any way reduce the honor of my being nominated in several professional writing categories—and whether we win or lose, we will always have shared a ballot, we will always have this in common. We are of the same community. We elevate each other.

Please, if you are attending this year's Worldcon in San Antonio, Texas, join me and others at the WSFS Business Meeting to help us vote these measures down. The first will be Friday morning at 10am.

We have the power to keep this from happening. It's not the power of Grayskull, but I still think it's pretty damn neat.

Let's keep these awards for everybody.

ETA: Here's a great historical perspective on the "Fan Hugo" argument, from Chuq Von Rospach.

To celebrate the release of "San Diego 2014: The Last Stand of the California Browncoats," here. Have an open thread to discuss the novella. It's been out for a week, I figure you've had time.

THERE WILL BE SPOILERS.

Seriously. If anyone comments here at all, THERE WILL BE SPOILERS. So please don't read and then yell at me because you encountered spoilers. You were warned. (I will not reply to every comment; I call partial comment amnesty. But I may well join some of the discussion, or answer questions or whatnot.)

You can also start a discussion at my website forums, with less need to be concerned that I will see everything you say! In case you wanted, you know, discussion free of authorial influence, since I always wind up getting involved in these things.

Have fun, and you can't stop the signal.

The John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer is currently open for voting! This award uses the same nomination and voting mechanism as the Hugos, even though the Campbell Award is not a Hugo, and will be presented this year in Chicago, during the Hugo Awards Ceremony. Having been on the Campbell ballot in 2010, I can testify that it is a huge, huge honor to be nominated, and that it gets your name in front of a lot of eyes that might not otherwise have heard of you.

(I can also testify that winning is amazeballs best thing oh my sweet Great Pumpkin corn maze paradise wonderful. But that's probably true of winning most awards that you really, really want.)

If you are currently a member, either Attending or Supporting, of Chicon 7, you are eligible to vote for the Campbell Award, along with the Hugo Awards. If you're not a member, either Attending or Supporting, you can view the membership rates by clicking right here. A Supporting Membership comes with voting rights and the complete Hugo packet, and is only $50.

Because writers who are eligible for the Campbell are, by their very nature, relatively new writers, it's possible that you don't know anything about this year's candidates. Jim Hines has sensibly decided to help you with this little problem, and has conducted interviews with all five of this year's nominees. Go, read, and be enlightened!

We have a truly awesome class of Campbell nominees this year; any one of them is worthy of the tiara. Because remember, the Campbell is one of only two major genre awards that comes with a tiara (the other is the Tiptree).

In closing, I present the comic strip I drew to commemorate my own eligibility:



TESTIFY!

My planned Newsflesh novella for 2012 is a little piece entitled "San Diego 2014: The Last Stand and Final Fall of the California Browncoats." It's the story of what really happened when the Rising came to the San Diego International Comic Convention. Blood will spill, heads will roll, and a wonderful time will be had by all. The story will be set largely in 2014, with some modern-day narration and stitch-together from Mahir Gowda and Lorelei Tutt.

Where do you come in? Well...

The California Browncoats are auctioning off two Tuckerizations in this story, to benefit Equality Now. You can find details, and a link to the auction, in their original post. The first Tuckerization auction is live now; the second will be going live on November 20th.

What do you get if you win? Well:

1. I will write you into the story.
2. You will die horribly.
3. It will be awesome.

Also, if there is ever a printed edition of "San Diego 2014," I will supply two copies to the California Browncoats, signed, to be delivered to the winners of these auctions. This is one of the biggest tragedies in the history of the Newsflesh universe, and you have a chance to be a part of it. Literally. I mean, you can die.

Questions? Ask 'em here! And consider wanting a little zombie mayhem for your holiday season.

First, go and read this post from Wil Wheaton. It's okay. I can wait.

You're back? Cool. Okay, so...

The San Diego International Comic Convention (and really, any of the large media conventions, but SDCC more than most) is simply crawling with famous people, ranging from your stealth famous (most directors, producers, and writers) and formerly famous (the obscure character actors and aging child stars selling autographs near the rear of the dealer's hall) to your currently huge famous (the cast of True Blood) and your geek darlings (the cast of Eureka). Where someone falls on this scale during the convention may have absolutely no relation to where they'd be on the scale out in the non-convention world, although it mostly works as an enhancement of fame, not a reduction. Britney Spears would be mobbed at SDCC, no matter how few fans admit to liking her music, but I doubt Felicia Day is going to get stalked by paparazzi if she tries to go out for a burger.

If you attend SDCC, the odds are good that you will see famous people. Buying breakfast at the deli! Crossing the street! Trying in vain to get some shopping done in the exhibitor's hall! Walking really, really fast toward the nearest bathroom! Standing on the sidewalk with a stranger's arm around their shoulders, smiling graciously for a camera! This is going to happen. It is unavoidable. And I, from the bottom of my heart, make this request of you:

Don't go batshit because you're breathing the same air as a famous person.

Nathan Fillion is awesome. He's a funny guy, he's nice, he's considerate, and he worked on one of my favorite horror movies. He does not, however, give off a chemical signal in his sweat that causes my ladyparts to explode and my brain to stop functioning above a third-grade level. Stephen King is one of my personal heroes, and wrote three of my five favorite books. That does not mean that he intended Annie Wilkes from Misery to be taken as an ideal of fan behavior.

I am, by the standards of any media convention, a fourth-string celebrity at best. I'm a writer, which makes me invisible; I don't wear miniskirts or preach controversial opinions or have a TV show based off my work; I'm relatively new on the scene. I'm a very small fish, and I appreciate that, because even at my current, erm, fish size index, I've been stopped while walking someone, interrupted while very clearly doing something, and, my personal favorite, grabbed—physically grabbed, by people I do not know, and did not consent to being grabbed by—on my way into the bathroom.

Now, I don't know about you and your strange Earth ways, but on my planet, when someone is walking briskly toward a bathroom, they probably intend to do something involving bodily wastes and a toilet. Consider that I drink roughly four liters of Diet Dr Pepper a day during the average con. Now consider the danger of grabbing me while I'm on my way to make some room for more soda.

And there are people who say "well, you signed up for this" when a famous person, regardless of fish size index, has issues with being grabbed or interrupted or otherwise poked at in public. But at the end of the day, no one, no matter how famous, no matter how big of a fish, signed a contract saying "anyone who wants to can now grab you at any time, have a nice day."

These are the circumstances under which it is acceptable to touch a stranger:

1. If they have a hornet or something on their shoulder and you're brushing it off.
2. If you're shoving them out of the way of a Martian ray gun blast.
3. If they're standing on your foot and you need to tap them in the shoulder to get them off you.
4. If they just dropped, like, their wallet or something, and shouts of "Sir? Sir!" or "Ma'am? Ma'am!" aren't getting their attention.

There may be others for this list, but you get the idea. These are the circumstances under which it is NOT acceptable to touch a stranger, regardless of whether they're famous:

1. Because you want to.
2. Because they're there.
3. Because you feel like you have a personal connection to them, even though you've never met.
4. Because then you can tell your friends about that person you touched.

...again, there may (will) be others on this list, but you get the idea. Saying "Excuse me? Mr. Whedon? I love your work, could I get your autograph?" when you see him in the hall is cool. Following him into the men's room is not. Camping out in front of his hotel, also not. And the coolest thing of all is taking "no" as a legitimate, and understandable, answer.

Please, treat everyone with the same respect you want applied to you, whether they're famous or not. Do not separate people from their friends and family, or grab them, or stop them from getting to the bathroom. If you wouldn't let someone do it to you/your significant other/your kids, don't do it to someone else.

Don't let proximity to fame make you batshit, and these conventions will be a lot more fun, for everyone.

The first time I remember seeing The Rocky Horror Picture Show, I was twelve years old. We had successfully managed to beg, whine, cajole, and generally be annoying little brats, and Lucy's mom had agreed to rent it for us—a movie that had already taken on truly cult status in the hearts and minds of middle school girls everywhere. We'd heard older teens talk about it, and now, at long last, we were going to see it.

If you ever want to make absolutely sure a movie lives up to the hype, make sure you show it to a group of twelve-year-olds after they've spent the entire afternoon gorging themselves on pizza and sugar. Seriously. Every line was poetry, every song was the music of the spheres, and every fishnet-covered body part was a revelation (I hadn't even known you could put fishnets on some of those body parts). I walked away obsessed with all things Rocky. I acquired the photo "novelization" of the movie, a book on the history of Rocky Horror, and a copy of the score. I begged until my grandmother bought me the soundtrack from the stage show. I developed a real fondness for fishnets.

As the years stacked up and I plummeted into my teens, I began going to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show almost every Saturday night at the UC Theater in Berkeley, where Indecent Exposure was the standing cast. I dutifully learned all the call-backs and dance routines. I bought cast T-shirts and learned to put on pancake makeup. I even started making my own sequined applique patterns, and designed my own Transylvanian costume* from scratch. I pan-handled for quarters to pay my admission. I dragged my friends. I sat up all night in IHOP, talking about this movie which was a shared experience and a shared community for all of us.

If you've never been a Rocky fan, it was sort of like being a Browncoat, only sluttier and with more sing-alongs.

I'm older now than I was then; I no longer have the time to devote three nights a week to being part of a specific fandom. But I miss it. I really do. I miss the feeling of community, the in-jokes that we were happy to explain to anyone who said they wanted to join, the ticket stubs and the smell of damp velvet and the after-movie donuts at the cheapo donut stand down the block. I miss sewing canvas backing into my lingerie and calling it "outerwear." But most of all, I miss the moment when the whole theater would be chanting "LIPS! LIPS! LIPS! LIPS!" and the lights would go down, and for two sweet hours, the world would start making sense.

Madness takes its toll. Please have exact change ready. This moment of nostalgia brought to you by tonight's Rocky-themed episode of Glee, which will be watched by twelve-year-olds, and which brings my world full-circle.

Let's do the Time Warp again.

(*My hand-sequined tuxedo coat was one of the things I lost when we lost our entire storage unit the year I turned seventeen. I scoured yard sales and flea markets for years, hoping it would show up. It had a sequined applique of a teddy bear dressed as a Transylvanian on one sleeve, and one of a doll whose hair matched the way I always styled mine on the other, and it was battered and odd and I loved it. I still miss that jacket, even if I don't do Rocky anymore.)

Everyone needs a biggest fan; hopefully, your biggest fan will not be Annie Wilkes, as hobbling is absolutely no fun for anyone but the person doing the hobbling, but still, everyone needs one. This goes for you whether you're an author, an artist, an accountant, or the guy who counts sea urchins for the Australian government. Your biggest fan will pretty much decide that everything you ever do is wonderful, even when they lack the critical capacity to really understand what the hell you're talking about. Your biggest fan will applaud your failures, because they're yours. And your biggest fan will cheerfully agree when you announce that you have the ugliest toes in North America.

Your biggest fan is also going to be the first one waiting to puncture your ego if it starts getting too big, the one who says 'I don't understand this' without saying 'so it sucks,' and the one who tells you to wipe your nose, zip your pants, and go deal with your own messes, because your biggest fan understands that sometimes, you just need smacked upside the head and told to get over yourself. Everyone needs a biggest fan. But I don't.

The position has been filled.

Last night, I spent about two hours shopping with my mother. We shopped for shoes (which I hate doing) and came away with two pairs that manage to be super-cute without a) being super-high, b) revealing my tan line (I walk so much, in such similar shoes, that I have two-tone feet), or c) showcasing my terrifying 'I am a marathon walker who used to take dance classes, has broken each toe at least twice, and has never had a pedicure' toes. We shopped for supplies for my trip. We shopped for picture frames, because she needed to frame one of my comic strips and wanted to be ready to start framing my book covers. We shopped for Tootsie Pops (and were nearly defeated by the candy aisle). We shopped, in general, like an enormously tightly-wound neurotic blonde girl and her deeply placid mother. (Raising me pretty much killed her capacity for panic. 'Look, Mommy, this snake makes a noise!' had ceased to be a distressing statement by the time I was nine. This was largely a matter of self-defense.)

My biggest fan: my mother. And I'm pretty much okay with that.