Bouchercon Advice from a Ten-Time Attendee

 Readers are generally introverts. That doesn’t mean we don’t like other people, and it’s not that we don’t enjoy spending time with others who share an interest, but we’d have to leave the house to meet them and that cuts into our reading time.

 

While Bouchercon provides a golden opportunity to get spend time with like-minded individuals, it can be intimidating. Over a thousand readers and several hundred writers are a bit much for someone with little or no experience in such things. No worries. There is no more welcoming atmosphere than Bouchercon and I can personally attest to that.

 

My first Bouchercon was 2008, in Baltimore, several years before I was published. I was standing on the walkway between hotels with Peter Rozovsky, one of about three people I actually knew then, when he asked if I was having a good time.

Me: Sort of.

PR: What’s wrong?

Me: I don’t really know anyone here.

PR: (Looks around) Do you know Scott Phillips?

Me: I know who he is….

PR: (Waving) Scott! Come here a second! (Scott Phillips comes over.) Scott, this is Dana King. Dana, this is Scott Phillips. He wrote The Ice Harvest. (Peter does not know I am head over heels for The Ice Harvest.)

SP: (Extends hand) Hi, Dana.

(We chat for five minutes and Scott has to go to a panel.)

PR: See? Now you know Scott Phillips.

 

One year later. Indianapolis. I’m on the periphery of the crowd at the bar looking for anyone I know. I see Scott with a group of people, but I only met him for five minutes a year ago; he’s not someone I know. Scott notices me and waves me over.

 

SP: Hi, Dana. We’re going to get something to eat. You want to come?

 

 That’s what Bouchercon is. It’s like Vegas for introverts.

 

See you next week. I’ve made more than one good friend because they read my similar posts in other years and we got together at the conference.

 

I do have one caveat: My eyesight has deteriorated due to macular degeneration in one eye since my last Boucheron. Mostly it’s a nuisance, but a large conference exacerbates the problems. We take recognizing faces for granted, but the level of small, specific detail that goes into such recognition is remarkable. The problem is, picking up small details is what AMD costs me most.

 

So if I know you, or you want to meet me, and I appear to be walking right by you, it’s not because I’m an aloof asshole. I am an aloof asshole, but I’m not blowing you off; I just don’t recognize you, and I probably can’t read your name badge , either. Stop me and say hello. Don’t be shy about reminding me who you are if I’m slow to do so. I’ll appreciate the courtesy.

 

Underworld Available in October

 The seventh Nick Forte novel, Underworld, drops on or about October 1. In this story, Forte’s ex-wife believe she’s being followed by persons unknown, including when their daughter, Caroline, is in the car. This is unacceptable.

 

Below is an excerpt:

 

We ate an early supper to leave time for a drive to Arlington Heights for the high school football game. Caroline would change into her marching band uniform at school and we’d meet up after the game.

She didn’t say much on the drive north. I got a glimpse of why when she asked if I had a girlfriend.

“Nope.”

“How come? You’re smart and funny.”

Apparently I wasn’t all that good-looking. I guess two out of three ain’t bad. “You have to go out to find a girlfriend.”

“So?”

“I don’t go out much.”

“Why not?”

“You go out, you come across a lot of people you don’t know.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“Yeah, but I hate people I don’t know.”

So ended a conversation I didn’t want to have.

We were early to the game, as usual. Diane sometimes referred to me as  “pathologically punctual,” and not as a compliment. Caroline never complained. Fourteen years in and never tired of seeing how parts of me combined with parts of Diane to create a young woman who fascinated me every day. When people asked what my favorite age was for Caroline, I always said, “Now,” and meant it.

I said hello to her friends Tyler and Joanna, reminded Caroline where I’d be after the game, and went to find a good seat. Arlington Heights – Hersey High School, actually – won 26 – 13 in a game that was closer than the score indicated, thanks to the dumbest coaching decision I have ever seen in a sporting event at any level.

Hersey was up 20 – 13 with 56 seconds to play. The visitor – I think it was Schaumberg, but the scoreboard said only VISITOR and I couldn’t hear the PA worth a damn – had the ball on its own 19-yard line. A run and two passes later brought them to fourth down and three yards to go.

They punted. With eleven seconds left in the game. Down seven points.

I have no idea what the coach was thinking, unless he had some secret play to force a fumble on the return. If he did, the play needed work, as Hersey ran the kick back for a touchdown as time expired.

I met up with Caroline and her buds outside the band room. The plan was for me to drive her friends home before Caroline and I made the 45-minute trek to Bolingbrook.

Caroline had a better idea. Even I thought so.

“Can we get ice cream?”

We’d made this improvisation before. “You girls know the drill,” I said to her friends. “Send your mom or dad a text to ask, then show me they said it was okay.”

Apparently they have me pegged as a soft touch; the requests were already approved. Both girls nearly broke my nose shoving cell phones in my face

Sundae School was busy, not packed. I bought sundaes for all three girls – typical, and a primary reason I’m so popular when it comes to giving rides – and a milkshake for myself. I always got milkshakes when I drove, on the off chance we’d have to leave before I was ready. It’s hell to eat a sundae and drive at the same time.

I took my shake far enough away for them to be sure no eavesdropping took place. Tyler’s father got himself busted six months earlier and had yet to redeem his reputation. I maintained a line of sight so they wouldn’t have to find me when it was time to go.

Twenty minutes later two boys/young men I’d noticed sitting in a far corner made a detour on their way out to pass near my charges. No big deal. The boys looked like high school seniors or college freshmen. For all I knew they were friends or relatives of one of the girls.

A couple of minutes later Tyler’s and Joanna’s body language stiffened. Caroline was still cool, but she knew I was close and would handle anything too uncomfortable. The other girls had no such assurance.

These were always awkward situations. My first impulse was to go over and sort these boys out, but the girls needed to learn how to deal with social dilemmas; my best role was safety net. I finished my shake and was watching the situation play out when Caroline peeked over her shoulder in my direction.

I moved with an unhurried stride. Tossed my empty cup in a trash bin on the way over. Took each boy by an elbow to steer them past the girls’ table and toward the door.

This produced the expected reaction.

“Hey! What the fuck, man?”

“Who the hell are you?”

I didn’t speak until we cleared the door. Kept my voice in the register Caroline calls menacing. “I’m conducting a survey and want to ask you a couple of questions.”

These were Arlington Heights toughs, which meant South Side ten-year-olds would steal their lunch money before pantsing them. The taller one said, “You’re not going to like the answers if you don’t turn us loose, asshole.”

“First question: do either of you know what it’s like to eat soup through a straw for…I don’t know. Six to eight weeks? However long it takes a broken jaw to heal.”?”

Not the question they’d expected. “Uh…no.”

“Second and last question: would you like to find out?”

For sure not what they expected. All I got were head shakes.

“Then fuck off.”

And off they fucked.

 

Chapter 44

 The seventh Nick Forte novel, Underworld, is all but complete. The only thing left to do is the proofread, which can wait until after Bouchercon and C3 next month.

 

Except for Chapter 44, which is breaking my balls like a bastard.

 

Here’s the deal: Chapter 44 takes place right after a major plot development. Forte needs a break, and readers probably won’t mind taking a breath while they absorb what just happened. Forte stops by his favorite sports bar to unwind a little with the barmaid. It’s a light, entertaining scene that lays the groundwork for a relationship that unfolds in the next book. There’s no plot development; the book will make sense without it.

 

And it’s too long. It was half again as long as it is now, and it’s still too long. Lots of writers I respect would say to cut the chapter. Nothing truly important happens and it will streamline the entire book. This option is still on the table.

 

The thing is, the book is already just shy of 48,000 words. It’s already as streamlined a book as I have written.

 

And it’s a good chapter. It’s funny, and the dynamic between Nick and Wendy is exactly what I wanted. I’ve already killed about 33% of the darlings in this chapter. How many more can die before the chapters no longer worth keeping is a reasonable question.

 

I finished the other 63 chapters four days ago. Chapter 44 won’t let me go. I’ll take a look today to see what else I can cut without damaging the context of the parts I want to keep. Among the legion of benefits of not having to deal with publishers is I can take as long as I feel I need to fix this.

 

I have for years believed that if a sentence refuses to be edited into something better, the problem may well be it’s a shitty sentence; cut the whole thing and see if I miss it. I may apply that principle to Chapter 44 if it’s still vexing me in a few days.

 

Just when I think I have a book under control, I get Roseannadanna’d.

 

It’s always something.