News, Views, and Shmooze....

No Glitches in Madison County

Last Wednesday I flew to Madison for Bouchercon, an annual mystery convention that changes moves around the country. My fight was at 6 am (originally scheduled for 6:27, but for some reason American changed the time without asking me). So I set my alarm for 4:45--an ungodly hour, I think you'll agree. And of course, I couldn't sleep.

The day before my trip I heard that travelers are now allowed to carry on-board liquids and lotions, each less than three ounces, all in a quart-size zip lock bag. That's a small bag, I discovered, but I was surprised to find that I could fit quite a number of items into said bag.

On the flight from L.A. to O'Hare, I watched Nacho Libre, with Jack Black. It's hard to enjoy a movie in flight, especially when the captain keeps interrupting to point out the scenery, but Jack Black was funny, and some of the bits were hilarious. In O'Hare I had to walk a mile from one gate to the other. The flight was short - less than half an hour -- and when I arrived at Madison's newly remodeled airport, I recognized fellow convention attendees, including George Easter, editor of Deadly Pleasures. Now You See Me..., my 2005 Molly Blume mystery, was nominated for a Barry Award by Deadly Pleasures, but I told George that since I would be attending the award ceremony, I was certain not to win (read "Lucky Thirteen" to understand why).

We were staying at the Madison Concourse, which has an airport shuttle. But the shuttle was slow in coming, so George and I and two other authors took a cab to the hotel. As soon as I stepped inside the hotel lobby, I saw half a dozen friends -- one of the highs of attending a mystery convention is reuniting with people you haven't seen in some time. I checked into my room on the fourth floor (switched to the third floor momentarily, because I don't use the elevator on the Sabbath, switched back because the pool is on the third floor and the odor of chlorine was uncomfortably sharp. It bothered me, and I was concerned that it would bother my roommate, Judy, even more).

I registered for the convention and received a hefty collection of books in a bag that celebrated Sisters in Crime's 20th anniversary.  I attended a Sisters in Crime (SinC) board meeting (I was vice-president this past year, and assumed the presidency on Saturday night). Then I was picked up for a speaking event for Hadassah of Madison, where I met a fan with whom I'd been corresponding for several years. It was wonderful to put a face to the letters and e-mails. Also at the Hadassah event I indulged and ate a slice of divine cheese cake, and I didn't say no when the hostess offered to pack two more slices for me to take back to the hotel. A girl's gotta eat, right?

Not that we didn't have food. Libby Hellmann, SinC president, had offered to bring an ice-chestful of kosher food from Chicago, where she lives. And for Shabbat, the wife of the rabbi of the Chabad shul in Madison insisted on providing us with home-cooked meals.

Thursday morning I awoke early for a meeting with an active representative of our German and Austrian chapters. Then I explored the book room, went to my room to nibble on the cheese cake, and did my panel: "Sister Act," with fellow SinC members S.J. Rozan, Carolyn Hart, Zoe Sharp, and Dana Stabenow, and moderated by Jim Huang, who has joined our national board as bo0kstore liaison. Although it was Thursday noon, and many of the convention attendees hadn't arrived yet, the huge room was packed. What a delight to have a great turnout!

After the panel I spent an enjoyable half hour at the Mystery News table. And early that evening I attended the opening ceremonies, where toastmaster Kent Krueger entertained us, and where the winners for the Macavity Awards and the Barrys were announced. Nancy Pickard won both for her  short story, "There Is No Crime on Easter Island" (yey, Nancy!). Tom Cook's beautifully written Red Leaves won the Barry for Best Novel, and Reed Coleman beat me out for the Barry.

Told you!

But I had cheese cake in my room, remember?

Friday was busy -- attending a panel formed of representatives of all the mystery organizations; a meeting with SinC chapter presidents,  participating on another panel. I had a delightful coffee with my agent at a coffee shop a few blocks from the hotel. When I returned it was time to prepare for Shabbat. So Judy and I decided which lights we wanted to leave on throughout the weekend. I phoned the Front Desk and asked them to tell Housekeeping not to change any of the lighting. We set out our tealights, the challah, the wine. We phoned our families back in Los Angeles, and family members who live elsewhere. Then we lit our candles. I made the kiddush on the wine, and the blessing on the challah. Downstairs the convention was still going on, and many of the authors were attending dinners hosted by their publishers. But in our room it was Shabbat.

Shabbat morning we slept in late. I davened, made kiddush, and walked downstairs to sit in on a panel where Carolyn Hart, Margaret Maron, Nancy Pickard, Dorothy Cannell, and moderator Gillian Roberts entertained us while talking about the traditional mystery. And how a bra can be used to effect an escape. You had to be there.

In the afternoon Judy and I read and napped. I took a short walk outside the hotel to the capitol, passed by the stalls of the farmers' market, took a look at several of the art cows on my way back to the hotel. After havdalah, we dressed and went downstairs. First, to the SinC business meeting, where I was officially installed as president and received the SinC seal of approval - which is actually a stuffed white seal that Margaret Maron picked up in London years ago and started a tradition. Then we moved across the hall, where SinC hosted a dessert reception for all Bouchercon attendees to celebrate our 20th anniversary. It was a grand evening, highlighted by the presence of past presidents whom I presented with crystal roses and baseball caps: Nancy Pickard, Carolyn Hart, Margaret Maron, Sue Henry, Eve Sandstrom, Kate Flora, and Libby Hellmann. We all missed Sara Paretsky, one of the founders and the first president of SinC, who wasn't able to join us.

And the ever-charming Parnell Hall, a SinC member of long standing, capped the festivities by singing a song he wrote especially for our 20th. You can read the lyrics on our web site, and we hope to get it on a CD, too.

Wish you could have been there!

I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar...If I Use A Mike

Kitchen equipment, travel assistance, portraits, matchmaking, jewelry, home accessories, salon and spa ointments and paraphernalia, real estate development--those are only some of the products or services featured this past weekend at the inaugural Head To Toe Women's Expo, held on the Del Mar Fairgrounds.

I've been to Del Mar several times (my agent lives there, lucky woman), and if you have a chance to visit, do. A fifteen minute or so drive from San Diego, it's inches from the beach and surrounded by rolling hills of green, and it will instantly relax you. I promise. (Several years back I signed at Esmeralda Books in Del Mar. I was saddened to hear a while ago that the store had closed, but Google still has it listed. I hope Google is right.)

The three-day weekend Expo (ticket sales benefitted Reading is Fundamental) was organized by Rosemarie Gibson and Debbie Adelman, savvy ladies who worked together in media for eighteen years and decided to try their hand at something new.

Their "something new" was a huge success. Even on Sunday, day three of the Expo, the aisles of the cavernous indoor arena were crowded with women (some spouses and children tagged along...or were dragged along) who were engrossed by a variety of products and services at the many booths:

Because I would be speaking and signing books, I didn't have much time to browse through the aisles, but I did pick up a mini spool of dental floss and a brochure for Personal Protection Parties. I'll definitely use the floss and am contemplating having a protection party at my home.

Debbie and Rose, the Expo organizers, greeted me as soon as I arrived. They are warm and hospitable, and it was great to finally meet them after having communicated mostly by e-mail. They introduced me to Suzie and Dale, who own The Yellow Book Road (a children's book store in La Mesa). Suzie and Dale are delightful. Suzie's husband is a pediatrician. Dale's husband is a retired OB/GYN--escalating malpratice fees made retirement a more viable option than continuing his practice. They both sighed when I told them our youngest son, who adores childen, plans to be a pediatrician.

"He should follow his dream," Suzie said.

(I ended up spending several hours getting to know Dale, who took care of selling copies of my books thoughout the afternoon while Suzie stayed at the Yellow Book Road booth. Many of the attendees, we found out, weren't mystery fans. (Sigh) Some weren't readers. (Double sigh) Some women spoke with yearning about having no time to read, and pointed to the infants in the strollers they were pushing. I flashed back to the days when I was a nursing mom. I would relax in my rocking chair, the baby at my breast, a book in my free hand. That's how I read Fear of Flying, Shogun, so many other books.)

Sunday I did my thing, stood in the aisle, said, "Do you read mysteries?" to anyone passing by. Shouted, really, to make myself heard over the din. Some people stopped to look at the books. Others smiled and continued on their way.

Dale and Suzie had ordered 50 copies of each of my three Molly Blume titles. I wanted to do well for Dale and Suzie. I wanted to do well for my publisher. It's hard to get someone to plunk down $26 for a hardcover if that person is taking a risk on a writer she's never read before, or heard of. But we sold a large number of paperback copies of Blues in the Night and Dream House, and over a dozen copies of the hardcover, Grave Endings. Not too shabby. One woman paged through the book and told us she'd be back. Dale thought she was being polite. I agreed. But the woman did return...and bought five copies of the hardcover as gifts.

In the end, it's not about selling books--though that does make the publisher happy. It's about connecting with people, sharing my stories.)

My talk, about Grave Endings, my latest Molly Blume mystery, was held at a T-shaped staged area. The mike sputtered initially, but then behaved, and I had an enjoyable forty minutes talking with women (and one brave man) who came by to listen to what I had to say. Not a huge crowd--most of the Expo attendees were busy checking out the booth offerings; I was tempted to do the same--but an engaged one. One woman wanted advice about the copy-editing service she'd just started. Another woman, writing a novel, wanted to know at what point in the writing process she should approach an agent. ("Finish the manuscript," I told her.)

I told them about my own experience in becoming a published writer. I told them to be prepared for rejection, to recognize that one person's opinion (a member of a critique group, an agent, an editor, a reviewer) is just that--one opinion--but to pay attention if more than one person says the same thing. (I received sixteen rejections for the original version of my first Jessie Drake mystery. Three of the rejecting editors said my writing was great, as was the story, but the detective hero was bland. I listened, yanked the poor, bland detective, and created Jessie.)

I told them about my experience in finding an agent. I had written my first mystery (I titled it The Get; Avon Books eventually published it as Till Death Do Us Part) and had sent it, unagented, to several publishing houses, all of whom admired the writing and story but rejected it. ("In this crowded marketplace...")

So I wrote another mystery, Where's Mommy Now? I sent the manuscript to an L.A. agent (this was three degrees of separation--he was the agent for my second cousin's ex-boyfriend). The agent's reader adored the manuscript. So did he. He phoned and told me he wanted to represent me.

I was wildly excited. The call came on the day of Purim, a Jewish holiday celebrated for its festive spirit. Perfect timing, I thought. We were on the way to my brother's house for a Purim dinner, and I joked to my husband that perhaps we could stop by the Lexus dealership so that I could pick out my dream car.

The next day I meet with the agent. He's with an established L.A. agency that has impressive credentials, and has sold mostly non-fiction, but his enthusiasm is overwhelming. He loves my book. The writing, the narrative, the dialogue, the characters. (He didn't mention the font or margins, but I think he loved that, too.) He wants to sign me up for a multi-book contract.

I am in heaven.

I go home and share my joy with my husband, who urges me to sign a one-book contract and let this agent prove that he can sell fiction.

I agree. I phone the agent.

"Didn't you get my letter?" he says.

"No." Something in my brain is telling me that this isn't a promising opener.

"On second thought," he says, "I did have some problems...."

With the characters. With the narrative. Probably with the font, too. By this time I have more or less tuned him out. At the end of this tortuous (for me) conversation, he offers to work on the manuscript with me "to get it in shape."

I politely decline. Not because I'm thin-skinned (okay, I am), but if he had initially expressed concerns, I would have respected his opinion. Now I just want to end the call, hang up, and sulk.

I am relieved that we didn't stop by that Lexus dealership.

I have two choices: I can mope for days and eat chocolate to assuage my bruised ego and dashed hopes, or I can try to get another agent. The moping has its appeal, but I am a "fixer."

I decide not to mope, but I do eat quite a bit of chocolate. A colleague at the Jewish high school where I am teaching tells me she loved the manuscript (even the next day...) and would like to give it to her husband, an entertainment attorney, who can pass it on to one of the many agents he knows.

A month later one of the agents signed me on as a client. He sold the book to Pinnacle Books (now Kensington). It won the Anthony Award for Best Paperback Original and was later filmed as Perfect Alibi.

Someone did send a press release to Agent X.

And that's how I learned that one person's view is just that.

It's a lesson I still take to heart and will try to remember the next time I need to.

Possibly today.