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 used to love Quincy.

Not Quincy himself; I mean the show. And the novelizations, even. It probably didn’t hurt that I happened to like Jack Klugman as an actor, because when you get right down to it the scripts weren’t stellar and the acting by some of the weekly extras was pretty wooden. All in all, it was a typical 70’s era crime drama that adhered to the strict formula of the day. Still, I loved the show.

These days we don’t have Quincy, M. E. We have “Body of Proof” with Dana Delany. Well, I’ll be the first one to admit that I’m more than happy to spend 42 minutes every Tuesday evening looking at Dana Delany. I like her as an actress, and I’m not opposed to the fact that they go to great lengths (pun not intended) to work a gratuitous leg shot into the scenes whenever possible. Hey, I’m not shy – the lady has a set of gams that won’t quit.

Still, while the acting from the weekly extras and peripheral cast members is far superior to that of the 70’s era shows, and the scripts are minus some of the appended melodrama that was the formula back then, they really aren’t all that much better. However, as a rule, TV shows tend to do only cursory research on topics and will adjust procedures to fit their needs at the time. Of course, that’s a wholly different topic… I’m not actually here to write about that today.

You see, there I was, standing in the back yard, chainsaw in hand, covered in wood chips and chain oil, sweating profusely, and aching all over as I went about the task of removing a dead tree from the back corner. It wasn’t a huge tree by any stretch. It only stood about 12 to 15 feet tall, and the trunk diameter was no more than 6 inches. No biggie. I’ve felled trees much larger in my day. Of course, I was younger in those days, but once again we are diverging from the topic at hand.

This particular tree had split off into a triple trunk, therefore in order to avoid turning myself into Shazam by dropping it all at once and taking out the overhead power lines, I went after it one section at a time. I had already removed the front split of the trunk and dragged it out into the yard, then taken my filthy, sweaty, tired, and achy self right back up the incline to begin sawing on the next. However, before I could start the chainsaw, I heard a thoughtful “Hmph” a few feet behind me. A second later the “Hmph” was followed by a curt, businesslike pronouncement: “This is a recent death…”

As you might expect, I was a bit perplexed, but not as much as I was about to be.

I turned and looked back over my shoulder. There, among the carnage of the fallen tree was E K, decked out in a stylish business skirt and blazer, stiletto heels, and a pair of latex gloves. For a minute I wondered if she had a sudden desire to play doctor, but she usually wears a white lab coat for that.

Even more confused I asked, “What?”

The sharply dressed redhead squatted down next to the tree and fondled the branches in a purely scientific fashion, or so it appeared. “See here?” she said, without looking up. “These branches bend without breaking, which means they are still green. This tree died recently. A month. Maybe a little more. I won’t be certain until I count the rings.”

“I thought that just told you how old the tree is,” I mused.

“Who’s the Tree Examiner here, you or me?” she snapped.

“Tree Examiner?”

“Yes. I used to be a Tree Surgeon, but that was before the accident.”

“What accident?” I asked.

“We don’t talk about that,” she replied.

“But you brought it up.”

“That’s not important,” she grumbled. “Right now we need to get this tree to the morgue so I can perform an autopsy.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

“Because it’s my job to be an advocate for the dead trees since they no longer have a voice,” she explained.

I thought about that for a moment, then asked, “Are you feeling okay?”

She ignored the question, answering instead with, “Like I said, have them get this tree back to the morgue right away. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” With that, she stood up, stepped over the tree carcass, and began to carefully tiptoe across the yard toward the driveway,  lest she skewer fallen leaves on her spiked heels. (Would have saved me a lot of raking, though…)

“Where are you going?” I called after her.

“There’s a shoe sale at the mall,” she shouted back without slowing her pace. “You don’t think I’m going to miss that, do you?”

And since they say a picture is worth a thousand words…

More to come…

Murv