A week of slogging through mystery Web sites and blogs in prep for my panel discussion has left me with “web brain,” the cybersurfing equivalent of the alcoholic’s “wet brain.” My skull cannot expand to fit my swelling cerebellum, and my eyeballs feel as if they are being pushed out my sockets to make room. I’m sure my liver has been damaged somehow. Call 1-800-WebAnon.
In my search for cybersavvy, I had the odd experience of finding myself quoted in a 16-year-old Singapore girl’s blog, Oct. 1, 2005: http://samology.blogspot.com/, and given credit (thank you, Samantha!). She must have read a Family Circle article I wrote about parenting; "See yourself through your child's eyes." Who knew the publication has a Singapore issue. If I’ve influenced the life of one Singaporese/Singaporian/Singaporite teenager, I’ll die happy and feel hipper than I ever have thought possible.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Monday, February 20, 2006
Across the River...and Under the Sun
After a two-week delay, the ATR Web site was finally linked to my name on the Sleuthfest attendees page (www.sleuthfest.com). Sleuthfest is an annual crime fiction conference presented in Fort Lauderdale by the Mystery Writers of America’s Florida Chapter—well-attended, well-run and well-fed fun-in-the-sun. I managed to get on an “expert” panel on how to attract media attention. This is appropriate, as at last year’s ‘fest, I attracted a bit of attention—only, not in a good way.
At first, I was invisible, so invisible that people took notice. Whenever I raised my hand to ask a question in a panel discussion, the moderator failed to call on me, even when mine was the only palm waving. The first time it happened, one of the panelists, Blake Stewart of Bleak House Books, made eye contact and waggled his eyebrows in puzzlement. I shrugged and muttered, “I guess I forgot that I had on my Harry Potter invisibility cloak.” Finally, audience members on both sides of me were pointing and calling out, “She has a question!” The moderator still hesitated, but eventually sighed, “Okay, the young lady in the gray jacket.” I looked around. Someone said, “He means you.” My jacket was green and I ain’t so young, but I asked my question anyway. I don’t discriminate against the color- or age-blind.
During the next panel, I raised my hand. Raised it again. Raised it again. Raised it…. “Okay, you—oh, sorry, time’s up. We have to empty the room.”
Number 3: The crowd was much larger this time. Raise, raise, raise. A woman was walking around with a microphone to hand to anyone who asked a question. Raise, raise, raise… The mike lady kept coming over to me (I was on the AISLE, ferchrissake), even she assuming that this time, no this time, maybe this time…. Raise, raise, raise. Again, my fellow audience members rose to my defense—literally standing up to call out, “Hey, she’s been waiting!” I was grudgingly given the floor. When I sat down, someone said, “That was a good question.” I said, “I hope it was worth waiting for.” I put those Sleuthfest-ers on my Christmas card list.
Final panel of the day: Ten people in the audience. Two of us had our hands up. The moderator pointed to the other hand. One of the panelists, the kind and gallant mystery author Cecelia Tishy (www.ceceliatishy.com), stopped the moderator and gestured at me, “No, pick on THAT lady! I was in the other panel when she waited so long to ask her question!” I put Cecelia Tishy in my will.
Wait. It gets worse. At the Friday night banquet. Christopher Whitcomb--guest of honor, ex-FBI agent, terrorism investigator, overall great-looking guy--finishes his very charming talk about his real and fictional adventures and opens the floor to questions. Yep, up goes my hand. At least 350 people are in the cavernous ballroom, but I’m the only one with my hand raised. He looks around. “No one has a question?” Someone at another table, who has perhaps scratched her nose but does not have her hand up, points to me. Whitcomb calls on her. She shakes her head and points to me again. Whitcomb calls out, “The lovely lady in the pink jacket.” That’s the woman next to me. (My jacket is still green, but I’m at least as lovely.) My tablemate loyally shouts, “Not me—her!” Whitcomb says, “Okay then.” So I say, “This may be a little anticlimactic at this point, but now that you’ve told us all this, do you have to kill us?” Whitcomb looks away and mutters, “I get that all the time. Anyone else?” This is why the terrorists are winning.
Wait. It gets WORSE. The next day ex-attorney/mystery author Lisa Scottoline is the luncheon speaker and will be signing her latest book. Ms. S and I have a history. The year before, at the Mystery Writers of America annual symposium in New York, she was the guest of honor and I had, of course, asked her a question, a two-parter, from the audience: “Do you think the Italian-American aspects of your novels are a part of their appeal to readers and is there room for another Italian-American writer in the mystery field?” “Yes!” Ms. S pumped her fist in the air and went on about writing what you know and what you are, and OF COURSE there’s room for another Ital-Amer! Then caught up in her own fervor, she thrust her arm out and shouted, in front of 200 witnesses, “I will get you published! Send me an E mail!”
I’m no lawyer, but I know that what someone says when standing on a stage with a microphone in her hand can’t be upheld in a court of law. But I sent Ms. S. an E mail that night, at 2 a.m., before my own adrenaline rush had subsided. I’m still waiting for a reply. But now, what’s the harm of reminding Ms. Scottoline of her promise, all in fun, while she’s signing my copy of her latest book at Sleuthfest? So I’m mentally preparing for that when the lunch plates are being cleared and she steps up to the podium. Coffee is being poured and the woman next to me asks if I could pass the cream? It’s in a rather large carafe but I get a grip on it and hand it to her. She takes it…and drops it. Milk splashes up onto my face, down the still-green jacket, into my lap, into my shoulder bag with the sample chapters I’d brought to give the agent I’d be meeting with that afternoon, into my shoes. Even the copy of Lisa Scottoline’s new book that I’d just bought is doused in dairy product. My other tablemates gasp in horror, the males offer to mop up whatever’s landed on my bosom, and the perpetrator, without a drop on her, is almost in tears. “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” She wants to clean me up. So we exit to the ladies’ room, she tries to dry me off, offers to bring my jacket to the dry cleaner—not enough time before my meeting—but arranges to have it blown-dried. In the meantime, whatever landed between my legs is heating up nicely and giving off a bleu-cheese fragrance. “Well,” I say cheerfully, “I’ll just tell people I’m lactating.”
Returned to the banquet room just in time to hear Ms. S say, “Does anyone have any questions?” She answered without any publishing promises. As the book-signing started, I ran to my car, changed into a clean shirt (yes, I foresaw some sort of wardrobe disaster), grabbed more copies of my chapters, slung my shoulderbag over the stained side of the jacket and went back inside. As Ms. S autographed my slightly soggy copy of “Killer Smile,” I brought up the publishing promise. “Paesan’! Sure, send it to my agent Paul!” The thing is, at the end of her talk she had told EVERYONE in the audience to send their samples to her agent Paul. So much for our Italian-American Social Club bond. But Ms. S is a hoot and all is forgiven.
Despite it all, I’m looking forward to Sleuthfest again. I won’t be wearing that green jacket, though. This year my blazer will be blue, bright enough to be picked up by color-blind moderators or by any spy satellite.
At first, I was invisible, so invisible that people took notice. Whenever I raised my hand to ask a question in a panel discussion, the moderator failed to call on me, even when mine was the only palm waving. The first time it happened, one of the panelists, Blake Stewart of Bleak House Books, made eye contact and waggled his eyebrows in puzzlement. I shrugged and muttered, “I guess I forgot that I had on my Harry Potter invisibility cloak.” Finally, audience members on both sides of me were pointing and calling out, “She has a question!” The moderator still hesitated, but eventually sighed, “Okay, the young lady in the gray jacket.” I looked around. Someone said, “He means you.” My jacket was green and I ain’t so young, but I asked my question anyway. I don’t discriminate against the color- or age-blind.
During the next panel, I raised my hand. Raised it again. Raised it again. Raised it…. “Okay, you—oh, sorry, time’s up. We have to empty the room.”
Number 3: The crowd was much larger this time. Raise, raise, raise. A woman was walking around with a microphone to hand to anyone who asked a question. Raise, raise, raise… The mike lady kept coming over to me (I was on the AISLE, ferchrissake), even she assuming that this time, no this time, maybe this time…. Raise, raise, raise. Again, my fellow audience members rose to my defense—literally standing up to call out, “Hey, she’s been waiting!” I was grudgingly given the floor. When I sat down, someone said, “That was a good question.” I said, “I hope it was worth waiting for.” I put those Sleuthfest-ers on my Christmas card list.
Final panel of the day: Ten people in the audience. Two of us had our hands up. The moderator pointed to the other hand. One of the panelists, the kind and gallant mystery author Cecelia Tishy (www.ceceliatishy.com), stopped the moderator and gestured at me, “No, pick on THAT lady! I was in the other panel when she waited so long to ask her question!” I put Cecelia Tishy in my will.
Wait. It gets worse. At the Friday night banquet. Christopher Whitcomb--guest of honor, ex-FBI agent, terrorism investigator, overall great-looking guy--finishes his very charming talk about his real and fictional adventures and opens the floor to questions. Yep, up goes my hand. At least 350 people are in the cavernous ballroom, but I’m the only one with my hand raised. He looks around. “No one has a question?” Someone at another table, who has perhaps scratched her nose but does not have her hand up, points to me. Whitcomb calls on her. She shakes her head and points to me again. Whitcomb calls out, “The lovely lady in the pink jacket.” That’s the woman next to me. (My jacket is still green, but I’m at least as lovely.) My tablemate loyally shouts, “Not me—her!” Whitcomb says, “Okay then.” So I say, “This may be a little anticlimactic at this point, but now that you’ve told us all this, do you have to kill us?” Whitcomb looks away and mutters, “I get that all the time. Anyone else?” This is why the terrorists are winning.
Wait. It gets WORSE. The next day ex-attorney/mystery author Lisa Scottoline is the luncheon speaker and will be signing her latest book. Ms. S and I have a history. The year before, at the Mystery Writers of America annual symposium in New York, she was the guest of honor and I had, of course, asked her a question, a two-parter, from the audience: “Do you think the Italian-American aspects of your novels are a part of their appeal to readers and is there room for another Italian-American writer in the mystery field?” “Yes!” Ms. S pumped her fist in the air and went on about writing what you know and what you are, and OF COURSE there’s room for another Ital-Amer! Then caught up in her own fervor, she thrust her arm out and shouted, in front of 200 witnesses, “I will get you published! Send me an E mail!”
I’m no lawyer, but I know that what someone says when standing on a stage with a microphone in her hand can’t be upheld in a court of law. But I sent Ms. S. an E mail that night, at 2 a.m., before my own adrenaline rush had subsided. I’m still waiting for a reply. But now, what’s the harm of reminding Ms. Scottoline of her promise, all in fun, while she’s signing my copy of her latest book at Sleuthfest? So I’m mentally preparing for that when the lunch plates are being cleared and she steps up to the podium. Coffee is being poured and the woman next to me asks if I could pass the cream? It’s in a rather large carafe but I get a grip on it and hand it to her. She takes it…and drops it. Milk splashes up onto my face, down the still-green jacket, into my lap, into my shoulder bag with the sample chapters I’d brought to give the agent I’d be meeting with that afternoon, into my shoes. Even the copy of Lisa Scottoline’s new book that I’d just bought is doused in dairy product. My other tablemates gasp in horror, the males offer to mop up whatever’s landed on my bosom, and the perpetrator, without a drop on her, is almost in tears. “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” She wants to clean me up. So we exit to the ladies’ room, she tries to dry me off, offers to bring my jacket to the dry cleaner—not enough time before my meeting—but arranges to have it blown-dried. In the meantime, whatever landed between my legs is heating up nicely and giving off a bleu-cheese fragrance. “Well,” I say cheerfully, “I’ll just tell people I’m lactating.”
Returned to the banquet room just in time to hear Ms. S say, “Does anyone have any questions?” She answered without any publishing promises. As the book-signing started, I ran to my car, changed into a clean shirt (yes, I foresaw some sort of wardrobe disaster), grabbed more copies of my chapters, slung my shoulderbag over the stained side of the jacket and went back inside. As Ms. S autographed my slightly soggy copy of “Killer Smile,” I brought up the publishing promise. “Paesan’! Sure, send it to my agent Paul!” The thing is, at the end of her talk she had told EVERYONE in the audience to send their samples to her agent Paul. So much for our Italian-American Social Club bond. But Ms. S is a hoot and all is forgiven.
Despite it all, I’m looking forward to Sleuthfest again. I won’t be wearing that green jacket, though. This year my blazer will be blue, bright enough to be picked up by color-blind moderators or by any spy satellite.
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