BALTIMORE--Bouchercon isn't ever a single thing. Something this large (1500 people!), this all-encompassing and this desperate to please all of the people all of the time couldn't possibly be. So being here for four dizzying days isn't something that easily invites summation, or even description.
But what the hell, I've got some time on my hands. Why not give it a shot?
First: a disclaimer. If you read the article about Anthony Boucher that graced the convention program under my byline, I must tell you that, while I wish I could have, I did not write it. My best guess is that Jeff Marks did, but I didn't see him in Baltimore to ask, so I can't be sure. It was a very nice article, though, and you should read it, but never think I'm responsible.
On to other business: What's interesting is how much of the conversation this weekend has been about politics. Red author/blue author, even if you didn't try to make your preference known, it was a pretty decent bet you'd be talking about the upcoming election, when you weren't watching the economy evaporate on the bar television or wondering whether Manny would hit one out in Philadelphia. (It's finally time for me to break my self-imposed silence and go on the record about this, and let the reaction of partisans be damned: I'm rooting for a Dodgers/Tampa Bay series, which as of this writing appears less than likely.)
Just as an aside, the only other Bouchercon I've attended to date, in Toronto, was also on the eve of a Presidential election. But the Yankees were in the playoffs that year. As I recall, that didn't work out so well, either.
There are (as I'm writing this during the con, and not on the day you'll read it) so many authors trolling about the premises that after a while, you wonder if this isn't just a convention of authors, all trying to sell their books to each other.
Mostly, Bouchercon is like a river, which you discover when you're trying to make is upstream from the book room to the panels while Lawrence Block's signing line is running the entire length of the corridor and people from the previous panels are heading to the book room, although you have to pity the poor souls who will be in the signing room while Mr. Block continues to enjoy his well-deserved popularity.
But the community is never anything other than welcoming. Even for an aspiring mid-list author (I'm not mentioning any names, mind you), there are plenty of friendly faces, warm hugs, war stories and a good number of laughs. People want to buy you drinks. You can tell them that drinking ANYTHING after a certain hour of the day will cause you extreme gastric distress, and they'll want to buy you drinks. They think you're kidding. You're not.
People just walk up to you, read your chest (where the name tag is; get your mind out of the gutter) and tell you how much they enjoy your work. Imagine that. Suppose you're a secretary, and you're just walking around in the street one day, and people walk up to you and tell you what a swell secretary you are. Is there a better ego boost on the planet?
There are, of course, the celebrities. Lee Child hosts a party and Harlan Coben shows up. So do you. It's very egalitarian. You don't drink anything, because of the aforementioned possibility of gastric distress, but you could if you wanted to; that's the point. Lee's a Yankee fan, too, so he's not watching the game, either.
There are panels on various aspects of mystery writing, publishing, reading, probably the best room in which to read a mystery. Nothing is left undiscussed. These are hundreds of people who use words for a living. There will be discussion. Some of it is hilarious. Usually, that seems to be the panel going on in the next room, but that's the luck of the draw.
The hotel is literally filled with mystery writers and other industry stalwarts (editors, publicists, agents, waddaya know, readers), and the hallways are congested like my arteries after three days of an all-red-meat diet. It reminds me of my high school, where 2800 people crammed themselves into a building designed for 700. You learn to go with the flow, even if that's not the direction in which you were headed. What the hell; you usually run into someone interesting and forget why you were going the other way.
It's an exhilarating, exhausting process. And the whole time you're here, there are people trying to get you to sign up for the same experience next year, in Indianapolis. But I've learned it's best not to make those decisions right after someone tells you how much they love your books.
At that moment, you're not thinking straight.
