The whole reason people go to conventions like MarsCon is for the reassurance that they are not alone in their love of a special subject, in this case, science fiction and fantasy. As you might expect, there are subclans within the larger sci-fi family: Trekkies and Trekkers (they're different, you know), Star Wars fans, Dr. Who nuts, fantasy gamers, sword-and-sorcery fans — and writers. People who want to create fantastic stories of their own. Writers are an especially rabid breed of fan, and an especially lonesome one as well. For while Trekkies get together to discuss favorite episodes and gamers gather to play games, writers skulk off alone to their garrets to write.
I discovered that there was a sizeable group of writers, both published and unpublished, at MarsCon. So sizeable, in fact, and so regular in their con attendance that they practically made up a subcon of their own. One whole suite on the infamous 11th floor was devoted to the written word, hosting panel discussions on what constitutes literary science fiction, how to form a writers' group for mutual critiquing, current trends in the short-story magazines, and of course How to Get Published. It was a big ol' support group for word nerds like me.
I only went to a couple of the writers' sessions, but all seemed well attended or even crowded. Talk was thick as people who normally live entirely inside their own heads found a place to voice their thoughts, feelings, questions and answers. And voice them, and voice them, and voice them. In the cramped hotel suite, tightly sealed to keep fresh air outside where it belongs, the atmosphere quickly became tinged with the smell of breath. The breath of people who had drunk deeply of bloodwine the night before, slept little and breakfasted on Cheez Balls and Mountain Dew.
I didn't know quite what to do about this. I never heard anyone else complain, and I didn't notice the problem anywhere other than in the writers' room. Writers can be a windy lot, after all. I found that sitting on the floor, out of the direct path of breath-storms, helped somewhat. One doesn't want to stifle writers' voices, but at the same time, what do you do when your support group stinks? Perhaps next time I'll volunteer to pass out mints at the door.