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Three Weeks in 2024: Reflections

I’m back at home, and after three+ weeks of experiencing, absorbing, and processing, I want to share some of that with you. The main reason is that I think a lot about our craft, our industry, and our communities. We’re often hesitant to talk about our work, yet even more so to talk about our work together. I think these conversations are essential to change. So here’s my little contribution to that – both the discussions and the encouragement to have them.

What Did I Do?

For context to the rest: Ava Kelly came to Ferndale Michigan from Bergen Norway on 25 July. We did a book event with Matthew Spencer in Detroit Michigan, then saw some of the city, then took a short trip to Windsor Ontario. Next we went to Indianapolis Indiana for Gen Con Writers’ Symposium (GCWS), after which Chris and I went to Glasgow Scotland for Worldcon, and then down to London England for a live D&D event, and now, 20 August, we are home. Phew!

In this time, I interacted in some fashion with many people in person including: Alex Pierce, Amal El-Mohtar, Ava Kelly, Brad Beaulieu, Brandon Crilly, Brandon O’Brien, the By the Dice Roll team, Carlos Hernandez, Cat Rambo, Celia Neri, Cheryl Morgan, Chris McCartney, Claire Cooney, Clara Ward, Dedren Snead, Ed Greenwood, Erin Evans, Greg Wilson, Karen Menzel, Kat Kourbeti, Kwame Mbalia, Jen Crispin, Jordan Kurella, LaShawn Wanak, Linda Addison, Marie Bilodeau, Maurice Broaddus, Matt Spencer, Mikki Kendall, Mikko Rauhala, Minerva Cerridwen, Muna Khogali, Neil Clarke, James Farner, Jason Ray Carney, Jesse Holland, P.L. Stuart, Paul Weimer, Rhonda (R.S.A.) Garcia, Richard Lee Byers, Seth Lindberg, Stephen Embleton, Tanya DePass, Tari Toons, Toiya Kristen Finley, Tony Eichenlaub, Victor Raymond, Wole Talabi, Wolf (Joyce) Chng, plus insightful friends like Aaron, Christofer, Core, Didi, Josh, and Rita and Joe – plus co-panelists, fan societies, volunteers, booksellers, readers, event attendees – I see you all.

Is this to name drop? No, not even. Memories, friendships, and interactions are dear and personal to me, never points. But. I do want to make clear that these reflections are not simply one writer/editor with words to say, but a thoughtful person who cares deeply about the craft spending weeks around some seriously talented and insightful people absorbing, asking, and observing (and sometimes getting the advice that doesn’t go out in public or in writing, including here) to figure out in what ways I should and should not go.

Community

So over these last few years, I’ve heard a lot of: “Are you sure you want to be so open on main? Is that good for your image? Good for the image of your press? Its authors?” Same thing I heard with my writing for so long: If you’re the real you, people won’t like you. If you’re the real you, people will leave you.

No. Done with it. Leave, then.

My people stay.

Our people stay. We stand up for each other. We steady each other. We lift each other.

Sure, I’m going to keep working on how I present myself. But openness? That’s part of the deal. First, I am community. Embracing this has saved me. Also, I don’t have enough years left in my life to untangle appropriate cautions from the stigmas, silences, and shames of the system in private, so I’ll keep untangling them in public.

Living on a Planet

I do need to shout-out to the people who shared all these little treats with me over the past weeks. Just in case you don’t know what a little squirrel I am, no they are absolutely not done. Even the chocolates from Chris’ birthday celebration were just finished today. So, I have hidden in my metaphorical tree treats gifted directly from Canada, Romania, Trinidad, Norway, Belgium, England, Scotland, Germany, and a huge fruit and nut platter that just (literally, as I was typing this) showed up from the United States, and just know what a happy little squirrel I am.

But seriously, living on a planet is cool. If you haven’t thought about that lately, I encourage you to. Like, what a story to end up in. People of all different views and customs and meanings for “lemonade” spinning around a cloudy little planet together, and offering comfort when things are hard.

There was one thing I did notice at Worldcon that I hadn’t seen in my localish travels, which was Americans prominently discussing how intolerable America is. I’m used to the “Canada is so much better” version (a romanticism the Canadians I know find dangerous) but it jarred me more in this context. I get it. Rejecting exceptionalism, recognizing the harm of conservatism, colonialism, capitalism. But then – do that. Popping out on how bad America is feels like another form of centering, especially from a wealthy country, especially in an industry where being in America comes with quite a bit of privilege, and especially as the global fight against fascism continues. Be for art. Be for health care and basic income. Be for human rights. But I think we’re better off in this together.

Anyway, I’m back in my office, remembering that my little space here is also on this very cool planet, and loving the rush and feelings of it. I do owe many people many things, and I know that. I feel a bit like a broken in-ground sprinkler right now, sending out so many “I know I need to do this” / “When do you actually need this” notes – but please know, I’m doing my best and I’ll get there.

I Feel the Wind

At first, some things felt the same. Sitting alone. Being the one person at a table somehow not invited to the next thing. People not caring.

But then I felt little changes. People wanted hugs. People tried to find me because they suspected I was off crying. People smiled because I was there. People reached out. Held me. Said – I understand. People who hadn’t yet met me had really stunning compliments. There was a line waiting to get into my GCWS Micro Fiction Party. The Atthis Arts books were among the first to disappear from the Worldcon freebie area. Industry drama talked about us for a couple full days (sure, the drama piece, not the work, but still). A Worldcon Special Guest called out my name, knew who I was, offering to hang. And I’m returning home with two non-fiction commissions from highly reputable venues.

And I feel … shored up. Stable. Still in the wind, but with techniques to hold on, to smile into its face.

Thoughts on Surety

I got a lot of advice this trip. Some asked for, a lot not, but all welcome – and all very insightful and valuable, and well… Consistent. Some of it, on issues of publishing and conventions, gives me new angles to take, or helps me move forward with confidence – knowing I can hold my ground because enough people who are global experts on these topics (and/or v affected by them irl) are reassuring me.

I have “mused on the internet” about many things, but not very often on something I’ve thought about more and more this year – why, lately, have people offered me forgiveness when I don’t offer them forgiveness? Of course I forgive. I’ve forgiven more than my share, I think. But I love and forgive as my heart and soul tell me; it’s not a thing I need to be asked for? I’ll leave all the layers of that as an ellipsis here, except to say that several people said the same thing to me these weeks. Almost never in response, but like, pulling me aside – I need to tell you something. Know who you are / Know what you mean / You are killing yourself every day for people / People need to cut you slack / People need to give you grace …

“You apologize all the time.”

I admit when I’m wrong, and when I’ve hurt someone, I will surely apologize. But the rest of this has to stop. Thank you, every person who told me some version of this. I’ve heard you.

I left with determination.

I returned with surety.

I will take that surety – along with, always, joy and grace – to the next section of this.

What We Talk About

I am asking people to think more about what we discuss. Sure, jokes can be good. Viral jokes can be good. Nonsense can be good. Snark can be good. Doge lived. Doge died. We remember.

But overall – where are your efforts going? What are you amplifying? To what are you responding? When you talk about a person, a place, an organization – what is your focus? Are you choosing that focus, or are you flowing with the discourse? If you are not choosing it, who is? No, not the person you saw discussing it. Where did it originate? What cultural elements is it promoting?

Are we being vigilant against generative manipulation in all its forms? It’s not just our words on page. It’s our words online. Our actions. Our focus.

Maybe you’re too tired to come up with something today. I get that. Then – What will you amplify?

I think we’re quite too easy to influence and a full-up community shake and blink would do a lot. My friend’s mother used to wake us up in the morning singing “Rawhide”. Maybe not quite that energy, but whatever works.

A few examples, for now:

Mind your Pokes. If you have enough energy to poke at SFWA over the grant, then you have enough energy to (additionally or instead):

Support writers
Support small presses
Support literary coverage like Chytomo

Beep the Couch. I used this example a few times at Gen Con, and with the uncomfortable faces I got, I’m going to say it again until people are listening. Again, jokes and release are necessary. But where is the JDV beeped the couch energy for supporting the work? From now on, every time someone tells me some version of I’m asking too much, #SupportBoldIndies is too much, the community is too tired, the forces of power are too strong, we can’t do it…

Hi, we can do it. Beeping the couch was a full-up thing. The energy. The creativity. The interaction. The joy. Find things to support and get down into those cushions.

Watch the Watchers. I’d like to ask you to watch something. The voices discussing our industry, our genre. Do they cover issues equally? What causes one issue to be covered but not another? Is it tied to their own potential gain? Which bridges might be needed? Consider focusing your support accordingly.

I’ve been saying this a while, but the SFWA example makes it even easier to explain without getting into some touchy things. Meaning, that’s my point. People are comfortable going at SFWA, as they have been with other groups that they feel can’t / won’t come at them, or big corporations that they don’t think will see them.

But who covered the disinvitation of Atthis Arts from Origins Game Fair? (Can you name anyone?) Who is covering Publisher’s Marketplace selective gatekeeping of small presses? Who is asking tough questions of … well, see that’s it. There are things that I, still in the middle of, am not the right person to air. But other people know.

Why is our shredding of a check that would have covered 15% of the book’s expenses even after loads of donated time and material the most coverage Atthis Arts has had?

We are not powerless.

Deflating Capitalism

I’ve finally realized what I’ve been trying to say for a while:

I believe we must stop framing things in gold.

Of course, money / currency / resource is essential in this system. Cash money love over exposure, right? The bills don’t care. So I’m not saying don’t discuss it – that discussion remains vital. I’m saying that framing everything with money is causing a lot of harm. I don’t have the energy to go through all the iterations this has gone through in my mind (and examples!), but let me offer a few notes for your consideration.

Yes, I’ve seen the talk of “the publisher who shredded the check” this past week. On the fora, the chat, the blog. Yes, that was my little family here. But even as I’ve tried to steer the understanding toward sharing Ukrainian stories, even when the focus shifts to the war zone, the focus is the check. To the writers, the editors in Ukraine, it was clear to me the sharing the stories – the empathy, the connection, their hearts and souls, and as they said, what kept them going as bombs landed outside their windows – was more important than money. It wasn’t as much that SFWA didn’t at least note they weren’t paying authors in the war zone, it was that they weren’t helping share their stories (and also paying them). I am really starting to see how essential that shift in framing is.

Consider two headlines:

Check Issued to Charity Antho; Then SFWA Told Antho to Destroy Check
Ukrainian Authors told their Stories would be Translated; Then SFWA Rescinded the Grant

Only one is real. Both are true.

Along those lines. We speak so often in tax status, in business terms, in profits. Please, I urge you to prioritize impact. Is it not so much whether an organization is legally “not for profit” or “for profit” but is it “driven by profit” or “driven by impact”? That really needs to be the measure, especially given that in the current system, NFPs are less independent.

We do have to talk about resources. Urgently. But I think, when it’s the framing, we lose.

Let’s stop doing the capitalism’s work for it. My rough solution, as I continue to consider this: Frame the goals. Frame the impact. Then clarify how to support them.

Most urgently: Speak plainly.

What’s Next?

Now. We move forward. With love, joy, and a shank if we need it.

I’m out of energy for the moment to go through all of what’s ahead, but here are the upcoming releases. Don’t worry; I’ll power up soon and we’ll celebrate these and more through the atmosphere.

October: Storm Tree by E.D.E. Bell (third Alyssia novel)
November: Songs for the Shadows by Cheryl S. Ntumy (a Sauútiverse story)
November: The Factory by Ihor Mysiak, translated by Hanna Leliv and Zhenia Dubrova
March: Wolf’s Path by Joyce Chng
April: Wishing Well, Wishing Well by Jubilee Cho
October: Citadel by Brandon Crilly (second Aspects of Aelda novel)
(Audiobooks… much more ahead)

I hope to have many more years with Atthis Arts. With our community. With stories to share.

Thank you, thank you, for being here, for being part of all these overlapping communities. Together is how we do this.

Coping

There are things I want and do not have. I cope by closing my eyes and thinking of those who love me. I let gratitude fill me.

Gratitude

Thanks to each of you who have touched me, in life, or these past few weeks.

We often speak of love, and soul, as things they cannot take from us.

But gratitude – it also cannot be taken.

My very best to you all. With Love – Emily.

Postscript: AMA

None of us have the answers. But our communities are thoughtful and strong.

As for me, ask away. What do I think of something? What resources do I know? Hard mode. Go for it. Here, or on Bluesky. I welcome the discussion.

A Stone of Luck

Written collaboratively at Gen Con 2024 in 40 minutes by Aubrey Dee Sweeney, Mary Emma Heaps, I like birds, Orchid Lily, Amanda Lynne, Kathy L. Brown, Jim Knipp, Zak Federer, and RJ McGuire. Edited by E.D.E. Bell.

Cicada sat on the old castle wall, staring down at the moat below. His parents, who had left the world of science to open a traveler’s pub in this old, abandoned castle, had told him he could never go in the moat, not even listening when he’d tried to tell them of his stone.

They had bought him more paints, delicate brushes, to decorate others rocks. He wanted his rock.

“You must not go in the moat,” they’d repeated.

But they had never told him why.

Aunt Plural, she had told him. It sounded unreal, like a story told to little children. Cicada was eight now, too old for magical tales. Yet Aunt Plural had always been someone he could trust. So. He wondered.

“They don’t want you disturbing the sea folk,” she’d said. “Tiny, tiny, merfolk, that crawl on the skin. Bad luck to disturb them.”

But Aunt Plural didn’t understand. The last time they’d crossed the moat after a trip to the village, Cicada had been so entranced by the waves, wondering if there really was a King’s treasure beneath them, that his grip on his lucky stone – the one he’d painted with a happy, smiling, seal, had slipped into the water with a soft plunk, immediately lost into the murky green.

His lucky stone was his luck. He only wanted it back.

It began to rain. Perhaps it was a sign. The adults were inside, the tavern busy, they hadn’t seen him slip out. If he waited too long, they would notice. The rain somehow, emboldened him.

He walked to the edge, wondering if somewhere in the moat, tiny, tiny hands played with his painted stone. Did they play? Did they appreciate it? Or did it sink into the muck at the bottom, soon to disappear.

Cicada knew about children’s stories. In fact, now he was wondering if they were stories at all, if Aunt Plural believed in them. Yet in the stories, one always offered trade. Treasure for treasure.

He reached into his pocket. No lucky stone. He did have a piece of candy that Aunt Plural had given him. Perhaps it would do.

It was very good candy.

Feeling a bit silly, not entirely convinced he wasn’t following a child’s tale but wanting to believe, he called out toward the moat. “Hello. I’d like to trade for my lucky rock. I have here a piece of very good candy that I can offer you.”

He thought that was how you did it.

Nothing happened. A chill from the rain set on his skin. Just as hope began to leave him, he saw a ripple in the water. The same type of ripple that had caught his eye when he’d dropped the stone.

“Don’t be silly,” a tiny voice said. “That’ll dissolve in the water! But if your rock is precious we can help you find it. Perhaps another rock to trade? A nice round one, rolled by the sands, to play with.”

“We would like the candy,” another voice said, it seemed in disagreement. “If there’s a way to offer it.” He knew the tone of that voice. A voice that loved candy, loved it, like he did. Perhaps, like him, that merperson was not supposed to cross the boundary of air and water, not even to eat the candy.

“I can do both!” he said, feeling sure that he would try in his excitement. He searched, finding a smooth tumbled, rock. And in a moment of inspiration he pulled his paints, and painted the candy on the rock as well, waving it to dry.

He set them both – the rock-shaped candy and the candy-painted rock, just again the edge of the moat. He stepped back. “I will not come closer,” he called. “Here, you can eat the candy now, still at the edge, and also have the rock to enjoy how pretty it is, and think of the memory forever!” He smiled, feeling very proud of this solution.

Surely with a trade like this, the tiny merfolk would return his lucky rock.

Something tickled at his ankles! What was it?

A movement, on his legs, then against his side. Before he could understand, a tiny being had crawled to his face, and pressed a tiny mouth against his. Instantly, a bubble formed. A bubble of breathing! Like in the stories!

And the candy, surrounded by a trio of merfolk, was nearly eaten, and the painted rock being carried into the moat.

“Come in,” they called. “It’s safe to breathe!”

As he lowered himself into the murky water, he heard clearly, “Welcome to our forest.”

A kelp forest! Huge waving stalks of seaweed, tiny merfolk sleeping in its nooks, or climbing between. How could he ever find his lucky rock in all of this?

“This way,” the one who’d made the bubble said. He followed, his body surprisingly light and easy to move in the direction he was pointed. They wound around the bend.

What he saw, was…the treasure. The treasure of the King. A pile of coins of all values, from copper to tin. But around it, wilted kelp, and a few discarded trinkets, that here felt like trash untended.

“The landfolk toss them through the well,” his new friend lamented. “But the copper poisons the life. The fingerprints bring disease. Both create rot. It seeps from here, and what is left livable of our only home grows crowded and more crowded. And we fear for where it may end.”

“Or not end,” a sullen voice called from behind.

The wishing well, he realized. Travelers tossed coins and trinkets, in ratio to their means, for the luck of the moat. The luck, he realized, then, they must believe – of the seafolk.

If he took the treasure, it would help the seafolk. And he would be rich, like the Kings of old! And so, he began stuffing his pockets, every last one, every mended tear, with all the coins he could find. He grew heavy, no longer able to move. His breathing grew difficult, and the bubble around his lips started to shrink.

“We can’t lift you,” they called. He wanted to remove the coins from his pockets, but he was growing dizzy.

This, maybe this, was why his parents warned him away from the moat.

A soft, sleek body pressed against his, and what he knew to be a selkie carried him to land, setting him so, so gently onto the boards of the walk.

“You saved me,” Cicada gasped out, the bubble now entirely gone. “What could I possibly trade for this?”

“All I want,” the selkie said, “is for the landfolk who returned to this castle, where we’d finally been living in peace, to respect our home alongside theirs.” Then, she chuckled. “And perhaps, I’d love a cooked meal for once! I remember the days where every meal did not have to match the temperature of the water. And with the spices of land.” The selkie licked her lips. “But I cannot ask. We will not risk contact. And you, you will keep this secret?” The selkie looked at him with a recognizable face of when a teacher said a thing like it was a thing of fact, but then, repeated to make sure the class understood. Not really a question, but the answer as important.

“Of course, of course.” He sprang to stand. “I will return!”

He realized he should thank the selkie, but he was already running, his feet slipping on the wet ground. He knew the person he needed to find, and he ran toward the castle, barreling forward until he saw his Aunt, pulling on her boots. As if she’d already known he was looking for her.

“Cicada!” She sighed in relief. “I saw you were gone, and I worried that what I’d said… That your parents were right. That you were too…”

“What do I do?” he said, waving his hands and starting right in on the story until it was done.

She tapped her chin. “Making a friend of a selkie is a special thing indeed. You will return to her, and make her this offer. If you agree,” she added, sounding thoughtful. “With her help, we will bring up all the coins. We will keep them secret. With some, we will build a new well, on land, and with the others, we will buy food from the pub, wonderful cooked dishes that the selkie would love. The new wishing well will not travel to the moat, it will land in a bucket we can use to bring the selkie more cooked food, and also to preserve the moat. To help keep it clean. To add nice baubles inside, for shelter and play.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“How long did it take to get back your rock?” his nibling asked, bouncing with excitement.

Cicada laughed. “I think they found it right away. But they waited, and gave it to me as a gift, when the last of the metals had been removed.” He turned the painted rock in his hands, the little seal smiling back at him. He had painted many rocks since then, but this, this one was his luck.

“I’m as old as you were, then, Uncle Cicada,” they said. “Do you think I could meet the seafolk? I would help keep the moat clean! And help bring the cooked food, with all the best spices! Could I?”

Cicada smiled.

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