So apparently sci-fi/fantasy book fan convention Readercon is advertising next year's con with the tagline, "This IS your father's Readercon."

The problem is that my dad doesn't read sci-fi. He reads westerns, sports biographies, historical fiction, and conspiracy thrillers.

He used to read The Phantom, and he might have seen Star Wars once.

I, on the other hand, have been consciously seeking out fantasy titles since I was nine years old and read The Lord of The Rings. Because I saw Eowyn, who laughed in the face of death that no living man might hinder and, and said, "But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Eowyn I am, Eomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless!"

I watched Sarah tell the Goblin King that her will was as strong as his and her kingdom as great and that he had no power over her. I was with Laura Chant, rebirthing herself in the beginning place, as the bones of her skull shifted under her lover's hands. I smiled when Cordelia Vorkosigan ended a civil war by shopping in the capital. I grinned when Lioe wrote a new Game. I gasped when even death could not prevent the Sailor Senshi coming to the aid of their Moon Princess. I laughed when Molly Grue told Schmendrick the magician that he didn't know much about unicorns. I punched the air when Misty Knight declared there was about to be all kinds of kung fu up in here. I clenched my fists as Valerie Russell fought back addiction to do battle with the glass sword. I cried when Gemma Doyle stood at the ship's railing, for it was morning, and there was so much to see.

I was there. Not my father. Me.

And then I took all that I had seen and read and loved (and sometimes the things I didn't like about the things I loved) and wrote a book about a young woman coming to terms with the magic of her multicultural nation and walking through pain and death to find a way to make the slaughter stop. Not my father! Me!

But if this was my father's day of science fiction, Guardian of the Dead might not have my name on it. It might be by K. E. Healey, or Kevin Healey, or a name chosen from a marmalade jar. Or it might not exist at all, because I went to a con and did a workshop and that's how I approached my agent. If it was my father's day, I would not have been made welcome.

Those were bad days for women like me, and I'm a straight, white, able-bodied chick. They were even worse for women who weren't. And it's still bad! Hugo awards are notoriously gendered. Readercon attendees, this year, were reportedly 98% white (I don't know how many were female) and accessibility standards were extremely poor. That is, how we say, indicative.

I love books. I love reading books and talking about books and writing about the books I have read and talked about! And I've (obviously) got nothing against nostalgia. But I strenuously object to nostalgia that renders people invisible and unwelcome. I have my father's last name, and his ears, and his big toes, and his love and support. I don't want to go to his Readercon.

- - - - -

Janni Lee Simmer on the active anti-teen policy at Readercon.

Veejane on the experience and gender segregation in panels.

Readercon speaketh, having made some changes.