The days are blurring already, dear reader. I hardly mentioned to you that I am attending World Fantasy Convention in Toronto next weekend, but I am. I have a fairly busy schedule, where “schedule” means wining and dining with friends interspersed with one or two business meetings, also with friends. It’s a hard life.

Where am I now? Somewhere over the North Atlantic, about 15 minutes West of the United Kingdom, as the A380 flies. A lightning stop in Dubai, accompanied by Twelfth Planet Press publisher Alisa Krasnostein is already far behind us. We failed Dubai Tourism 101 in our 21 hours on the ground, though we did see the Burj Kalihfa through the hazy desert sky piercing the sky like Stephen King’s Dark Tower (it’s quintessentially SF close up, but mythic from a distance), and a dock full of dhows. We also tried the worst Irish pub in the world. It was a great stopover.

The flights have been terrific so far, and Emirates have impressed. The plane was 25% full out of Perth, and we have an empty seat between us here, so the long flights have been comfy. I’ve watched some movies, mostly stupid ones, and tried to do some work. Ahead lies Toronto, WFC, then home to job application hell. The end of the year is going to be insanely busy, so I intend to enjoy this.

Oh, and if you ever wondered if we live in the future, we do. Tucked Miss 11 into bed from 38,000 feet two weeks after a man dove to Earth from space like one of Heinlein’s space marines. Strange times!
Is Toronto.