BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

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?”

I had originally planned to eschew the entire idea of writing anything about “9/11,” purely because the media has already overplayed it for more than one full week now. However, I simply couldn’t bring myself to be funny today.

Of course, there are those who think I’m never all that funny – such as the hostess at the restaurant where I ate lunch yesterday. But that’s okay. I usually don’t find those folks all that funny either.

Still… I went to bed last night, secure in the thought that I would arise this morning and type out one of the several humorous incidents that have occurred in my life recently. Some of which wouldn’t even need embellishing. But, as I said, I just couldn’t bring myself to be funny.

And so… Where was I?

At the moment of the first impact, I was most likely listening to Molly Ivins. I adored Molly. Still do, actually. While I didn’t always agree with her, the vast majority of the time we were on the same wavelength; and even when we weren’t I couldn’t help but respect her unabashed, no-nonsense, call-it-like-she-sees-it commentary. If I’d had a different pair of chromosomes, I would have wanted to grow up to be just like her (without the breast cancer, of course).

But back to the story…

On THE 9/11 I had two books out, number three in the can, and feverishly working on number four. Nothing resembling a living wage was rolling in off these novels by an unknown writer from Saint Louis, so I was still working my “day job” at the time – which was as an electronics tech. My specialty, much like that of EKay’s, was printers. Although, I also handled networks and the like.

And I digress, as usual.

I was on my way to work, cruising along with traffic down the long stretch of blacktop known as Laclede Station Road. Our offices were on Watson, situated across from a now defunct movie theater. As usual, I had NPR (KWMU) tuned in on my truck radio, and it just so happened that they were airing an editorial by Molly Ivins.

Starting my day with Molly… I just knew it was going to be a good one.

A few minutes later I pulled into the parking lot, switched off the engine, and climbed out of the truck. Apparently, just a split second before NPR began reporting on the first strike. I dug out my tool kit, and with coffee mug in hand, I wandered into our offices, still chuckling at Molly’s wit and blissfully unaware that anything so heinous was happening a half-continent away.

I could hear a radio playing somewhere near the back of the building. Our dispatcher, Sharon, met me as I came around the corner to head to my bench. She was wearing a startled expression that was a mix of confusion and disbelief. Without ceremony or salutation, she said, “Did you hear that an airplane ran into the World Trade Center?”

“When?” I asked.

“Just now. Like just a couple of minutes ago.”

“Wow?” I said. “Was it like a small plane, like a small Cessna or something?”

Obviously my mind just couldn’t fathom it being anything more than a light aircraft. After all, an airplane had hit the Empire State Building once upon a time. Granted, that was a B-25 and not a Cessna, but still…

“I don’t know,” she replied.

By now, the owner of the company was in his office and tuning in the small, thirteen-inch TV he had sitting in the corner. We were a little surprised that it actually picked up a signal, honestly, as it was hooked to a VCR and all he ever used it for was to lock himself in the office and watch porn, even though he thought we didn’t know that’s what he was doing. (Just being truthful)…

As the image faded in on the old tube, the entire staff stood around staring at the billowing smoke rolling from the tower. There were a few gasps, an “Oh My God” or two, and I remember saying aloud, “That wasn’t caused by a Cessna…”

A moment later, as we watched the live newsfeed, a glint of sunlight from metal flashed in the corner of the screen and before our eyes the second airliner struck.

There were yelps of disbelief, gasps that rendered a vacuum in the small office, and then silence from all of us. The only sound to be heard was that of the news streaming in from the TV.

An hour later I was across the river in Illinois, making a service call on a printer for another small company. I had been listening to the news as I drove, hearing now about the Pentagon, and Flight 93. All air traffic was being grounded until further notice. The towers had fallen. Our world had changed forever.

When I arrived at my destination, I climbed out of my truck and looked upward. Above me, a lone jetliner was lining up on approach to Lambert International to my west. It was the only plane in my piece of the sky as far as the eye could see. I watched as it disappeared on the horizon, then I turned in place, scanning the blue…

An eerie silence had fallen, and for the first time I could recall in my lifetime, the sky was standing still.

More to come…

Murv