seanan_mcguire | Australia! The Hugos occur. Seanan does not die.

When last we left our intrepid heroes, Jeanne and I were heading to the auditorium where the Hugo Ceremony was being held, so that we could acquire a sufficient number of seats for our (admittedly large) group of people. We had, by that point, myself, Jeanne, Cat, Gretchen, Jay, Shannon, Daniel, and Keli, all of whom were basically "required human to prevent destruction of mankind." This is quite a lot of seats, so really, it makes sense that we took off the way we did.

Even with our early arrival, we wound up two seats short. Cat and I took the seats in the main row (where we would have a clear shot at the stage, should it be needed), while Jeanne and Gretchen sat right behind us, allowing for hand-holding and hysteria, despite the technical separation. Hyperventilation commenced.

Eventually, everyone was present and in their seats, and the lights were dimmed for the Hugo Ceremony to begin. Garth Nix, the MC, came out and told a funny story about how he was chosen to be the MC. At least, I think it was funny. I was mostly focused on hyperventilating without passing out. It's fun! Then came the video presentation of the year's "highlights in science fiction." This included, among other things, the book covers and author pictures of all the year's nominees.

They showed my book. And my face. On the big big big screen at the Hugos. This would be the point in the ceremony where I started to cry for the first time.

After the video came the First Fandom Big Heart Award, which, while not a Hugo, is given out during the Hugos. Please note that the Campbell Award is given before any of the actual Hugos (but after the Big Heart Award), and this little additional delay was enough to make me more of a nervous wreck than I already was. Now consider that Cat's category, Best Novel, was the last of the night, and she was still together enough to make soothing noises and pat my hand. Woman is a rock when she's gotta be, that's all I'm saying here.

The Big Heart was given. John Scalzi and Jay Lake took the stage, along with Kathryn Daugherty, the year's administrator (and someone who's known me since I was fourteen), who was holding the actual Campbell, turned against her chest to hide the writing. Jay and John explained the award, along with fun facts like "where the Campbell pin came from" (thank you, Jay and Spring), and "who thought up the tiara" (thank you, Elizabeth Bear). The names of the nominees were read out. I discovered the heretofore unknown ability to taste sounds and pray in sign language (hint: I can finger-spell "please, Great Pumpkin" faster than I can spell my own name).

(Also, wow, the screaming when they said my name was amazing. I mean, everyone got cheers and applause, but if you listen to the ceremony on playback, I think people actually blew the levels screaming when they said my name. Cue second tears of the evening.)

"And the winner of the 2010 Campbell Award for Best New Writer is..."

I clutched Cat's hand so hard my fingers hurt.

"...Seanan McGuire."

I kept clutching Cat's hand, because let's face it, when you can taste sounds, you're going to be like Cordelia in that episode where she was in the running to be Homecoming Queen: you'll think they said your name even if they've just announced "No Award" as the winner. Cat pushed me to your feet. "That's you."

The processional music for the Campbell was the theme from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Kathryn, Jay, and John were all beaming like they'd been the ones to win. I was mostly chanting "Oh my God" over and over again, that being roughly the limits of my mental acuity at that particular moment in time. They put the tiara on my head, and I was rightly crowned the Princess of the Kingdom of Poison and Flame.

All hailed.

My acceptance speech was a bit disjointed, at least in part because I was so focused on clinging, lamprey-like, to the Campbell. I did say that John and Jay were mistaken when they said that people wearing the (star-shaped) Campbell pin weren't the sheriff: "I just think y'all should know, I actually am the sheriff." So congratulations, my six-year-old self: you got to wear a pretty dress, become a princess, and be sheriff, all in one night. Next up, the planet of eternal Halloween, and maybe a pony.

I explained how, when I was seven, I said I wanted to grow up to be a Timelord, and everyone was okay with that, because no one knew what that was, and how everyone was a lot less okay a few years later, when I said I wanted to be a science fiction writer, because "girls don't do that" (and also I would wind up living in a cardboard box). I thanked the Great Pumpkin, which may well be a Hugo first. I thanked some other people. I lost the ability to form coherent words, and fled the stage as quickly as three-inch heels and a floor-length skirt would allow.

I admit, I spent the rest of the ceremony watching my award as much as I watched the stage (and also, getting the tiara caught in Cat's hair, at one point during the proceedings). People won things; we cheered. I cheered especially loudly when Will McIntosh won Best Short Story, since I'd had dinner with him the night before, and he was an absolute doll, and when Phil and Kaja Foglio won Best Graphic Story, because c'mon, it's Phil and Kaja. Favoritism? On occasion, yes. But at least my biases are public knowledge.

Cat didn't win Best Novel. But she did clutch my hand just as hard as I'd clutched hers, and thus was symmetry maintained.

After the ceremony, the winners and presenters had to stick around for a lengthy photo session on the stage (some of the pictures appear in this month's issue of Locus, which I need to buy multiple copies of, since otherwise, my mother will end me). Meanwhile, the other nominees, and their plus-ones, decamped for the Hugo After-Party. After all the pictures were finished, Jeanne and I joined them, dragging John Grace (my audiobook publisher) in our wake.

At the party: booze! Yay! Also prizes from next year's WorldCon, in Reno, and trays of actual food, which I finally felt competent enough to consume. Ellen Kushner came over and admired my Campbell. I squealed a lot, and wound up at a big table full of people I adored, sipping champagne, wearing my tiara, and loving the night.

Every time someone asked me if I was ecstatic, I replied, "I'll be ecstatic tomorrow, when I wake up and it's Monday." Ah, the joys of feeling vaguely like you're living in a dreamworld. Nothing is every quite as real as it seems, until it's over.

When we were all champagne-ed out, we went back to the Hilton Bar for more serious drinks (which were serious). On the way, I stopped to use the bathroom, and was then waylaid by a lookout for the filkers. "Are you going to come up?" he asked. "Kate's waiting for you to sign her book."

I said I could, but only for a few minutes, as Jeanne had my shoes, and up we went. The circle was singing "Hope Eyrie" when we entered the room. Half of them stopped singing to applaud, making me turn beet red and flap my hands in negation. (Thankfully, no one was mad at me for interrupting the song, since I clearly hadn't meant to.) I signed Kate's book. I was asked to sing before leaving, and, since Kathleen was there, sang "Burn It Down" with more fervency than I had ever managed before. My fear was on the fire, baby, and it was going down.

Fleeing, I rejoined the others at the Hilton, and had another round of hugs and joy with the folks who hadn't been able to attend the after-party. Then it was up to Cat's room to put our real clothes back on (and pluck the pins from my hair) before Jeanne and I walked back to our own hotel, to sleep.

Jennifer woke up long enough to say "Congratulations, lady," and went back to sleep.

For the first time in days, so did I.

Current Mood: ecstatic
Current Music: Vixy & Tony, "Burn It Down."