bouchercon

The strangest thing happened to me at Bouchercon. I realized how much I missed being in school. Listening to all the discussions, even the ones that were not panels, was exhilarating. I get so bored at home talking to myself. And here was an entire hotel full of people who read.

And I see the attraction for authors as well. I know being seen and promoting the new book is the publisher and agent approach to conferences. Get my author out where people will buy the book. Exposure is everything.

But writing is such a solitary thing that the authors seemed to enjoy seeing each other. They hung with each other a lot of the time. And talked about books and writing a great deal of the time. And how cool is that? A huge salon of writers in a bar in a Hyatt.

We went to great panels. The humour (this is for Martyn) panel really delivered. You could hear the audience laughing all over the second floor. Chris Grabenstein and Donna Andrews have spent so much time together that they could take this act on the road. The Chris/Donna show was repeated at the auction where people paid huge sums to be in a Michael Connolly and Sue Grafton book. The bidding went by me really fast.

And we heard people we are going to sample who were on our panels like the aforementioned Martyn Waites. Such an engaging Brit.

The biggest surprise was the author who turned out to have been one of David's interns at the Associated Press. I looked at the name and said I thought we knew her. We did. That was a lovely surprise. So look for Persia Walker.

Yeah, it was worth it.

randomness

So Heather finally updated, and I'm feeling the pressure. And so many Bouchercon thoughts are buzzing around that I felt the need.

David has decided since Bouchercon that he and I need another blog devoted to mysteries. I see the thought process, but since I'm so GOOD at keeping at this one that I'm not sure how adding to my things not done list will help.

I started this because I got tired of columnists especially, not really bloggers, complaining about how hard it was to write one column a couple of times a week. I thought that was so bogus. And I wanted to write to them and say I'll do it. Give me the money. And all you whiney famous and rich people--I'll take your money too and try my hand at famous and rich. So this was to be a personal challenge.

I also hated when columnists wrote columns about writing. So this blog was never to devolve into how I couldn't find a topic for the day. Such a really terrible topic. Who cares how hard your job is--just do it. Or as we say here at chez speer--give the money back.

I kinda hoped I'd write more if a "safe" outlet were afforded to me. Nobody really reading it, but something I hoped would be more than a journal. Things I hated. Things I loved. My various rants about politics, grammar, life, the universe, and everything.

So I still have put the butt in the chair issues. It's not topics that elude me. It's motivation. It's doing this instead of twenty other things. Things that might actually improve my quality of life. Like the dishes.

But David will, I'm sure, start this mystery blog. So now there will be 2. God help us.

Life Amnesty

I'm sitting in the sweltering 90 degree heat while technicians fix my air conditioner. And it's my own fault. I didn't clean the filter/coils often enough. Especially with the hairy animals we had all over the house.

What I want is an amnesty from life. No life events can happen for a month while all those things I meant to do get accomplished. Like cleaning the furnace coils. All the garden weeding, mulching, harvesting, canning, and picking fresh bouquets get done. Every inch of the house gets cleaned within an inch of its life. That includes everything out of cupboards, cabinets, storage cubicles, basement shelves, and closets. Cleaned or tossed. And all the storage things themselves cleaned. And the washer and dryer cleaned and moved. The books alphabetized and sorted. The tax and financial records brought up to date. Winter clothes get put away. Garage gets cleaned. The sentra gets its trip to the car repair.

Nothing interferes. No doctor appointments, business trips, pleasure trips, nights out, sleepless nights that become sleepy days, special events, or illness. Nose to the grindstone. All work. No play.

I figure that month would make everything else go so very much better. I'm willing to do it. Can someone arrange this for me? I think 2 years from September I have an opening.

My boy is thirty

I really can't believe it. He's really 30. He's been married 9 years. He's got 2 kids. Yikes.

Time is so weird and elastic. I remember thinking when he was a terrible sleeper that it would never end. I'd be stuck in Mom Hell with a crying baby forever. Forever seems to have a short shelf life with kids.

I hated his teen age years. We argued all the time. Mostly about stupid stuff. Sometimes things that stemmed from his resentment at being the oldest and in charge a lot of the time. I don't think I truly understood his feelings then. I have no siblings. It just seemed natural to ask the other driver in the house for help with the increasingly complicated household we became.

Now he's a responsible adult. He's a great dad and good husband. He's become thoughtful and a genuinely neat person. I'm so proud of him.

And now it is so nice to just kick back of an evening, have a drink with him, and talk. No more fraught conversations. Just discussions about the state of the world. Or his job. Or his brothers. Things you discuss with other adults.

And he talks about being in Dad Hell with crying babies. And I tell him it doesn't last nearly long enough.

And the debate continues

I was doing the internet lol after reading a snippet about Harrogate, the mystery writer's convention in the UK.

John Banville, who writes under a pseudonym as a mystery writer (and I'm totally unfamiliar with him in that guise), basically on a panel said that his Booker nominated fiction is harder to write and therefore of more value. Better because all male endeavors are a competition. Even when a male author talks about his own work, one book "wins" over another. Well the panel audience was a bit stunned. I mean you come to a mystery gathering and tell people they are reading and writing inferior books. That's a way to win friends and influence people. I personally just crossed him off my list of must reads.

But my hero comes to the rescue. Reginald Hill (who I'm completely familiar with in the guise of mystery writer) said that it's always a toss up when he goes to write a book, but when he and his wife discuss it, they always decide he'll write best-selling mystery novels instead of a Booker prize book.

Laughter and relief fill the room. But the big ugly question remains out there--is genre fiction somehow a lesser commodity than Literature (note caps)? And who decides? And what does it say about a reader who doesn't read Literature?

I am an omnivore when it comes to reading. There are few categories of books that I do not read. I really like mystery books, but I read the Booker shortlist usually if I can get my hands on the books. I've read 2 books in the past year that I felt were beautifully written. Lyrical almost. One was On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan, a Booker award winning author. The other was Still Life by Louise Penny, a first book by a mystery author. These were both just well-written. And Ian McEwan is not a better author than Louise Penny.

And I've read some books that I labored through or just finally gave up on completely. I won't name names, but the books fall into all categories of fiction. I've quit reading lots of Booker authors. I've put down mysteries. The writing is the touchstone. I borrow this from Matthew Arnold, not because I think he's right. I think he's dead wrong. He wanted to compare to other works, touchstones of (male) writers who we all just "knew" were good. That isn't it. Being able to put the words together to achieve your goal. That's the touchstone.

So what gives? Beyond short-sightedness and a certain prejudice and bigotry, the answer is the same here as in all human endeavor. 95% (or more) of everything is crap. Whether you buy cars, dishwashers, or books, lots of them will be worthless. With books, a crime against the environment for killing the trees. And some books are just middlling. I don't hate it that I read them, but they are not my favorites. Or memorable. Just like a car. It's not a lemon, and it might serve the purpose right then. But it's not a Ferrari.

And as readers, we should recognize the Ferraris when we find them. Without thought to race, color, creed, or literary categorization.

A man's reach ...

should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?

I've decided my garden is following the philosophy of Browning. Our grasp on the homefront has been exceeded. I have more aspirations for outdoor plantings than I have time or space for. But I adore watching all my favorites bloom, so I soldier on in a very military way in my war on weeds.

But then comes the downside. One of the beds gets absolutely choked because it's turn for weeding didn't materialize. I was out of town, or it pours that day, or ... Pretty soon all I can see is the creeping charlie in the roses.

My fab husband tries to redirect to me to the garden in my mind. The one that has no destructive bugs or crab grass or aphids. The garden where roses never lodge and chipmunks don't eat the ripe tomatoes. The garden that has no tree suckers that are now too large to just pull.

But what would I do in such a garden? After planting was done, the work would be done. It'd be like planting a field of soybeans or corn. And I'm not a farmer. I'm a gardener. I enjoy conquering the recalcitrant weeds. I love coaxing something back from a bug or weed attack.

And I can retreat to what's a heaven for when it's all too overwhelming. The perfect beautiful garden. Picture perfect every day.

There is no creeping charlie in heaven.

Back from vacation

Does everyone's house go completely to hell while unattended for a week? I'm bowled over at the yucky clean up in aisle fourteen going on since I returned. Shouldn't my house just hum along, waiting for my return. I may never get on top of it again.

My garden looks like someone took packets of weed seeds and sprinkled them everywhere. I had these beds looking pretty fine when I left. What happened? I pulled enough crab grass yesterday out of my flower beds for several lawns worth of crab grass.

No wonder houses that stand empty fall apart so quickly. I guess I don't realize how much I'm holding back total collapse for my house. Almost makes me feel like I must be doing something while I'm here. Wow, that's a new sensation.

So wish me luck on restoring some amount of order to chaos. Confidence is not high.