BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I’m a big fan of Twinkies. I actually consider them comfort food, even though I’m not entirely certain that they qualify as actual food. Odds are they are more along the lines of chemicals bonded together by other chemicals filled with more chemicals, none of which are actually compounds that we were meant to put into our bodies…But they taste so good. Truth is, I don’t get to have Twinkies very often, which is a good thing. If I had them on a regular basis I’d be even fatter than I am right now, and let’s face it, I’m a fat guy.

But, as usual, this blog really isn’t about Twinkies, nor is it about raccoons. It’s actually about walnuts and coffee. However, there really is a Twinkie – Raccoon connection, believe it or not.

I don’t actually watch that much TV (Got subject whiplash yet? Good… Just put on this neck brace and sit back…)

Like I said, I don’t watch much TV, but I do turn on the idiot box from time to time in order to catch the news, and a couple of programs that we regularly watch. Of course, whenever positioned in front of the glowing toob you will be bombarded by radiation, but that is beside the point. You will also be bombarded by commercials. Some of them funny, some of them not, some of them that just plain resonate with certain individuals. Case in point, the Twinkie commercial with the raccoon that sees a snack cake falling out of the sky toward him – in the end it’s actually a snowboard, and that leads us into the line “where’s the cream filling?”

But back to the walnuts…

There I was at Meeman-Shelby State Park in Tennessee. I was a guest speaker at FoS (Festival of Souls). I had showered (so that I wouldn’t stink) and made myself relatively pretty (so that I wouldn’t scare children and small animals) and then made my way up to the dining hall for a cup of coffee. Breakfast proper was still an hour or so off yet, so I sat out on the back “patio area” with the other early risers. We drank our coffee, grunted at one another, told stories that none of us can remember now (it was early), and just generally did the morning thing. All around us, Autumn was happening – and when I say happening, I mean it was in full swing. Now, one would think I mean leaves turning, leaves falling, chill in the air, all that sort of stuff, and actually, I do. However, there was more. You see, that area is populated by a large number of Oak and Walnut trees, therefore we were surrounded by the constant – and I do mean constant – clatter, rattle, thud, and thump of falling acorns and walnuts. So much so, that it went on all day and all night. Around the clock. And, it made walking the paths to the cabins an exercise in dodging nature’s attempt at carpet bombing the invaders (the invaders being us).

As we sat swilling caffeinated brew, a distant thunk, clatter, tink, clomp, ping, thud sort of noise met our ears. This was followed by a skitter that grew louder with each passing millisecond. Now, something I should probably mention is that the dining hall has a vaulted ceiling, which means that the roof is EXTREMELY high. Moreover, this expanse of asphalt shingles is sloped at a pitch resembling an Alpine Ski Jump ramp. No, I am not exaggerating (this time).

At any rate, I was downing some coffee as the skittery noise echoed louder and louder. Suddenly, it ended with a sort of “tick, thunk, swoosh” all mashed together. The bizarre noise was followed by a voice next to me that calmly stated, “Incoming…”

I looked up in time to see a walnut. At first it was sort of walnut sized, maybe even a little smaller, however the problem with it seemed to be that it was growing in size at an alarming rate. Initially I had one of those Sheriff Carter (Eureka) moments, wondering what manner of Global Dynamics experiment had gone awry and was causing this walnut to grow – or perhaps the rest of us to shrink. Fortunately, my first cup of coffee for the morning elected to kick in at right about that very moment. I ducked as much as a fat guy straddling the bench of a picnic table can duck in the split second I had left. The walnut, that at this point had blotted out the sun, parted my hair.

Yes… It grazed right across my scalp with plastic comb-like precision. In less time than it took for me to blink, it hit the bench immediately to my rear with a loud crack-thump! But it wasn’t finished yet. Ricocheting at warp speed, the new trajectory launched nature’s smart bomb back into the air. A sonic boom exploded behind us as it broke the sound barrier, and that was followed by the clang, clatter, and crash of a #10 can –  that had heretofore been used as an ashtray – being picked off the back picnic table.

And, much like the raccoon from the commercial, I didn’t even get a Twinkie for breakfast.

More to come…

Murv

Those of you who actually know me are keenly aware of how I am at an event. By that, I mean – I’m working.

When I go to a Sci-Fi Con, Alternative Spirituality Festival, Book Festival, or whatever manner of convention/fest/what-have-you that is on my tour schedule, I expect to be bouncing from panel to panel, or workshop to workshop. Stick a book signing or two in there, and I’m all good. That is what I EXPECT to be doing. After all, I am there as an author. This is my job…

Something else that folks who attend the Pagan Unity Festival (PUF) in Tennessee know is that come Friday night dinner, they will find me in the chow line. Not ahead of, or behind them, getting a plate filled. Nope. I’ll be on the other side of the line, slopping grub onto their plates, picking at them, asking them questions, telling jokes, singing, and yes, sometimes even dancing.

Why?

Because that way I am guaranteed to meet almost every single person who is on-site. I’m more than willing to admit that I have an ulterior motive for this: I’m selling myself. Not in the lipstick and fishnets next to the lamp post on the corner fashion. Trust me, nobody in their right mind would pay for that. What I am doing, however, is putting a face to a name, and letting folks see that I’m just another warm body wandering the planet, just like them. It is my hope that doing such endears me to folks and makes them feel a little more at ease with buying a book and having me sign it for them.

So far it has seemed to work out well. I have been described by many as “approachable,” whereas I have heard about many other authors being described as exactly the opposite. Of course, I’m not on the NYT Best Seller List, but hey, there’s still time…in theory.

So… What does this have to do with the title of this blog entry? Well, there’s actually a correlation. Thin, but the thread really is there, trust me.

You see, just this past weekend I attended Bouchercon 2011, The World Mystery Convention. This was the 42nd Bouchercon, and the first held in Saint Louis (They are held in a different city each year.) So, with it being so close and my schedule being free, I really didn’t have an excuse not to attend. (First link is to the 2011 convention site. The second will take you to the actual Bouchercon site with all the history…)

But here’s the rub… Hundreds of authors come to Bouchercon. So do several hundreds of fans. However, with hundreds of authors it is really – and I mean REALLY –  hard to get a panel assignment. Any author knows that panels and/or workshops at conventions are your life’s blood. They are what put you in front of the crowd, identify you, identify your book(s), and generate new fans, which is what going to these events is really all about.

As it happens, I was damned lucky – I ended up with a panel assignment. Just one, but hey, given that there were several great authors in attendance who didn’t get a panel at all, I was ecstatic.

Night Chills panel at Bouchercon 2011, Photo Courtesy Gwen Mayo and Sarah Glenn. Back Row (L-R) Jason Starr, Rae Morgan (Monette Draper, our Moderator). Front Row (L-R) M. R. Sellars, Sarah Glenn, Angie Fox, Dakota Banks (Shirley Kennett)

Our group drew a hard slot, that being 8:30 A.M. on the first day of the convention, but neither the hour nor the day deterred us. We met online, got to know one another – and one another’s works and senses of humor. Before long we were the Big Damn Authors and nothing could stop us. We arrived early, handed out swag, including a load of free books, and then proceeded to entertain the pants right off a room full of folks. As it turned out, people were STILL talking about our panel three days later.

But what of the chow line, Murv?

Well, there wasn’t one. But, as we all know, leaving me idle in the middle of a large, swanky, downtown hotel is just asking for trouble. And when I say ALL, I mean me too. I know it in spades, because I’m the one E K punishes for the trouble I cause. Therefore, being painfully aware of this bit of trivia, I volunteered – and when I say volunteered, I mean I volunteered. Not only did I monitor a couple of panels, I did the next best thing to working a chow line. I worked registration for two days straight.

In that time I “meeted and greeted” several hundred folks, and just like the food line at PUF, I joked, sang, and picked at all of them. I even danced a few times. I had people coming to the registration area to chat and get books signed during the lulls. I had people coming back and thanking me for helping them find the location of a particular panel, something to drink, or even more importantly – the restrooms.

And you know what? I had a blast.

So… Will I attend a Bouchercon again? Honestly, probably not. Unless it comes to Saint Louis again. Or maybe Kansas City or Chicago, but even as close as those two cities are it would be very iffy. You see, even though I had a great time, the luck of the draw is against me pulling a panel again, so it really wouldn’t be worth the registration fee, hotel, food, travel, etc.

Of course, the grand plan is that some day I’ll be important enough that they’ll ask me to be there as a guest of the convention, and not just a struggling author who has to buy his way in. But, you know what? When that happens, I’m going to do something that none of the big names did, at least this year…

I’m going to insist that they let me work the registration desk for at least one day so that I can be sure to meet folks.

Unless, of course, there’s a chow line. I wield a pretty mean set of tongs…

More to come…

Murv

PS. I guess you are still wondering about the title of this blog… The Majestic Ballrooms were on the second floor of the conference center portion of the hotel, and were where numerous panels took place (Including Night Chills.) The most common question we received from attendees – over and above “where are the restrooms?” – was, “Where’s Majestic A, B, C?”