NoirCon Is This Weekend

By Steve Weddle

Every two years, degenerate writers descend on Philly to talk about noir.

In 2010, a circuit court judge was kind enough to allow me to leave the state for a few days and visit fellow fans of noir. I said some stuff about that here.

This morning, Peter Farris was sharing some of his thoughts and preparations for the weekend here.

If you're anywhere near Philly and have a warm coat, you should swing by. It's a great chance to meet some cool folks and talk shop.

Lawrence Block, Otto Penzler, and many others are scheduled to be there.

Spend the weekend or grab a day pass. Great stuff.

More here.

Do Writers' Conventions Still Matter?

By Steve Weddle

A couple of years ago I went to a conference. I wrote about it here. Great fun.

But pricey.

Of course there was the $43 to get the urine out of Dave White's pants (totally my fault, but still).

And the hotel room that was around $200 a night. It's one of those where they tell you it's $120 conference rate or whatever but then there's tax and a separate room tax and then a separate room-with-a-door tax. I mean, it was Philly, so it wasn't like DC with its extra $87 for-the-hell-of-it tax, but it wasn't cheap.

And the conference registration fee, which was worth every penny.

I mean, you start adding up NoirCon and Bouchercon and Left Coast Crime and Murder in Muskego and one in Canada and one in Florida and Malice Domestic. You could go broke.

So maybe you have to choose. Or maybe you go to all of them and use your $150,000 advance to pay for hotels and bacontinis. I dunno.

I guess what I'm wondering is what many folks have asked me via email and in person.

Are you going? Why? Why not?

I guess it's become popular these past few years to say that people won't attend conferences because they can meet in the Gopher Chat Rooms and on MySpace, or whatever the kids are into now. You can twitter away all day chatting with people. You don't have to wait in line at a signing table to meet authors. You can shoot them a message online. Email them. MyFace chat. You can connect for free, without having to battle the "Bring Out Your Dead" piles of flesh at the Atlanta airport or $12 hotel bar bourbon.

Then you've got the folks who say that nothing beats hanging out in person and getting to know people.

But, as a man with fiscal responsibilities, I have to look at the ROI of something like a convention or conference.

I wouldn't give back my trip to NoirCon. Met some nice people there, as well as a couple of complete assholes.

So my thinking is that conventions and conferences are most certainly worth the time and the money -- if you choose what works best for you. For example, I doubt there's much overlap between NoirCon and Malice Domestic.

What do you get out of conferences that you don't get out of chatting online and emailing and MyFacing?

Do you have a favorite conference? One you'll never again attend? One you'll never miss? One you wish existed?

----

Speaking of authors I'll probably never meet -- Frank Wheeler, Jr has a new book out. Right now. Like now, folks. It's called THE WOWZER.

In the Arkansas Ozarks, old-timers spin tales of the Wowzer, a giant panther-like creature that decapitates those who wander too far into the woods. County sheriff’s deputy Jerry was raised on Wowzer stories, but they aren’t enough to stop him from carrying out his own business in the remote hills. Jerry’s more than a sheriff’s deputy; he moonlights as muscle for local drug traffickers, who sometimes need people to get hurt—or get dead. 


Fortunately, Jerry’s pretty good at his job. And since Tom Haskell runs the sheriff’s office and the drug-protection racket, Jerry doesn’t see much of a moral dilemma. That is, until he starts thinking about getting out of the trade, and then things get complicated fast. For starters, Jerry’s girl Maggie flees the state after learning about a disturbing diagnosis tucked inside Jerry’s psych report. 


And now Sheriff Haskell is dragging his feet paying Jerry his cut of the drug money. Is Haskell just reluctant to lose his top muscle? Or is he plotting to take out the man who knows his dirtiest secrets? Fans of hardboiled, “country noir” fiction will love gnashing on Frank Wheeler’s violent and darkly comic debut, sneaking a glimpse into the mind of a killer whose inner monster is about to be unleashed. 

Because I love you all, I will send to one of our commenting people an electronic version of this book. So, to the comments, folks.

So we're still doing this convention thing?

By Steve Weddle

So this week is Bouchercon in St. Louis. Everyone you know will be there. You might want to hop over to the site and make your own B'con reading list. Our own Joelle Charbonneau will be there, so be sure to say 'howdy.' If haven't registered and you're nearby, it's not too late to check it out. They have day passes available. And if you are going, I look forward to your twitpics.

Last year, Noircon fell right around B'con, so I got to hear my fair share of stories. Noircon was a blast, of course. I wrote a thing about it here. Since Noricon is every other year, my calendar say they'll be back in Philly next year.

And Murder & Mayhem in Muskego is coming up in November.

Sleuthfest is in Florida in March.

Thrillerfest is in July.

And that's just a handful of offerings in the states.

The UK has a few, as done Canada.

Wasn't Twitter supposed to kill crime fiction conventions? You make friends online, you don't need to meet them 'in person' to know them. Isn't that the, ahem, conventional wisdom?

So much for that, huh?

Do you dig conventions and conferences? If you've been, what's the best part? If you haven't, what would make you go?

And, hey, how about I grab another name from the comments and send them a copy of D*CKED? That cool?

NoirCon 2010: Stuff I learned

By Steve Weddle

The trouble began around Maryland when I saw the big "No Texting" sign crossing the border. I can't text in Maryland while I drive? Geez, texting while driving is my only skill. (That's a joke about texting and driving, of course. I have many skills.)

But the downtime from Twitter and texting and emailing would be worth it. A few hours through the badlands and I'd be at NoirCon 2010 and all would be teh awesomes. Or, you know, so I thought.

Stuff I Learned at #NoirCon2010 (a terribly unwieldy hashtag, by the by)

An extra dose of Lucky Jim pills this morning
or
Can I just go back outside and come back in again?

So the panels for NoirCon2010 were at the super cool Society Hill Playhouse in Philadelphia. (Only two problems with this. One involved Seth Harwood's height and an elderly man's penis, but I'll get to those later.)
I walk in and see Dennis Tafoya right away. So my brain says, "Tafoya. Book. Hole. Remember?" So I tell Mr. Tafoya the story that pops into my head. Because apparently I'd left my dumbass filter back in the hotel's holy-crap-I-can't-make-that-turn parking lot.
I introduce myself and tell him how I accidentally stabbed a hole in the front cover of his book, a library book I'd checked out. Then, you know, I kinda realized that I'd just told a very nice man and critically-acclaimed author that I hadn't bought his book. Nice move, Weddle.
No sooner had I insulted him, than I ran into Reed Farrel Coleman.
"Mr. Coleman, I just wanted to say how much I loved THE JAMES DEANS."
He seemed please. Said thanks.
Then I said the thing I shouldn't have said:  "It's the only book of yours I've read but it was cool."
He didn't seem as happy about that. I don't know why I said it. I don't know why I came. I don't know why I'm allowed around civilized people.
Then I turned around and punched Dave White in the gut. As a joke. While he was on his way to the bathroom. Uh, yeah. I know. Sorry, Dave. Send the cleaning bill to Stacia Decker.
Oh, and it wasn't even Mr Tafoya's book I was thinking of. His is on the Kindle. D'Oh.

The slugger and the signers

So I brought one of those Food Lion canvas grocery bags full of books for folks to sign. Only, it kinda ripped in the parking garage. Books everywhere. And I didn't have books for all my favorite authors. And not all my favorite authors have books. Lucky for me I'd thought about this on the way up.

For the past dozen or so years I've kept a Louisville Slugger in my office. My lovely bride had picked it up at a yard sale and I've had it ever since. Keep it behind my desk. Not really useful, of course. I just keep it for show. Kinda like my MFA.

I figured I'd always have the bat near me and wouldn't it be cool if everyone at NoirCon2010 signed the bat. I asked and no one said it was a stupid idea. I was kinda surprised how nice everyone was because this would have to be the point at which my stupidity and sheer dorkiness was greater than authors' politeness, right? Turns out, no. Everyone seemed to think it was a good idea. Christa Faust took pix of folks signing it. (More on her in a bit.)

By the time I sneaked out Sunday morning, many folks had signed. I mean, how nice is that? I even managed to snag George Pelecanos. I said "Very nice of you, sir" and he said "No problem. Just please don't call me 'sir'" and then because I'm a dork I said "yes, sir." Again, it just kinda fell from my mouth. I mean, I'm talking to George Pelecanos, you know. I'm lucky I didn't pull a russel all over his shoes.

The madman and the madman

So back at the NoirCon HQ, I apparently still wasn't done offending people and making an ass out of myself.

I caught Scott Phillips out of the corner of my eye. He was deep in conversation, but still kinda bouncing around the way he does.

I'll never forget Saturday night. Scott was leading a dozen of us from the Field House to the Locust Plague Neighborhhood Bar and Grill. He was high-stepping and chugging his arms, like a butt-raped marching band leader. And there we were, dancing through the exhaust-smoked midnight of Philadelphia like an army of maniacs on parade.

But this was after I'd first attempted to tackle Scott the day before at the playhouse. I don't really want to get into it, because he didn't take it too well. Um, sorry, man. If the knee is really messed up, send Stacia the bill.

Cameron -- It's Australian for "lunatic"

Soon I met Cameron Ashley, who was in the final days of his five-week trip across the US from his home in Australia. The only real problem occurred at the German wiener house that first day.

We were sitting down for lunch. I was next to Sarah Weinman (one of many nice people I didn't get to talk enough with) and Cam. Behind me was Laura Lippman. I tried to sneak a picture of the famous person eating behind me, but, um, I stink.

So Cam says to me, "Hey, you know what's really disgusting?" I had a mouthful of brat and just raised an eyebrow in an attempt to explain that American custom generally frowns upon any disgusting discussions until at least dessert. He took the look to mean "do tell."
"Old man penis," Cam said*. At the lunch table. And I'd just met the guy.
Apparently Cam had been making use of the facilities at the NoirCon HQ (Society Hill Playhouse) when an elderly gentleman unflapped his khakis and flopped out his johnson "like a discarded jumprope," Cam said.
I put my brat back on the plate while Cam continued his explanation, which this author will spare his gentle readers.

Being in a conversation with Cameron Ashley is like trying to watch a tennis match in the middle of a fireworks show. His hands are everywhere. He jumps back in his seat when he is happily excited, which is often. I'm not sure I've ever met someone so genuinely excited to hear whatever you had to say.

Cameron Ashley

Me: "So then the guy slides into third."
Cam: [rocking back and forth in his chair] "You are fucking KIDDING me!"
Me: "No. And he was safe."
Cam: [falling forward in his chair and smacking both palms on the table] "Are you fucking KIDDING ME?"

I knew Cam was a talented writer and the work he does with CrimeFactory is unparalleled. But to find out what a fascinating and cool guy he is in person, well that's what the weekend was about, right?

It's Friday, Jed's in love

If you have never gotten a chance to see Jedidiah Ayres shoulder dance in a crammed booth, you haven't lived. He can dance to any sort of music, from Duran Duran to The Cure. And he will. Was it a coincidence that as soon as Jed started dancing, The Field House began charging a cover Saturday night? The shimmy and shake? He's your guy. The thing with the fishing pole in which the dancer casts his or her line and then mimes an attempt to "reel in" someone? He's the master.

Oh, and if you think you've read a book that he hasn't? Heh. Doubtful. If you think you understand a book better than he does? Feh.

And many people commented on how regal and cool and tall Jed appears. I think the completely undoctored photographic evidence will show that I am just as tall as Mr. Ayres, thank you very much. Gentle Ben and I are pretty much the same. In the height thing, I mean. In everything readerly and writerly, though? Yeah. You can't match this guy.

One of the highlights was Jed's continual taking of each phrase and pinning it on the tip of an aggressively annoying Australian accent to the delight of Australian Cam Ashley. Someone might be having a harmless conversation.
A perfectly nice guy everyone is beginning to think is a dork: "This is blood pudding? Dang. I think I'm gonna puke."
Jed: [in that Foster's beer commercial accent] PUKE. Australian for perfume.

And then there was one

Kieran Shea leads Jed, Neil, Cam, and me to fish tacos.

When George Clooney looks in the mirror each morning and wishes he had a stronger chin, he's wishing he was Kieran Shea. As with all the other guys and gals at NoirCon2010, I knew most of these folks online a bit. I'd read everything online I could find from Kieran. When he put his PI character away, I was sad. And I hate PI books. Kieran Shea can friggin write.

A couple of people I met this weekend have serious presence. Scott Phillips radiates. Christa Faust is the most upright and least uptight person I've ever met. (I sat near her for a couple of panels and her back never once touched the chair. Like straight-up posture. Oh, and so nice. Crap. I should have led with that. Sorry. Amazingly nice. And such presence. In person as she is on the page, there's not a drop of ink out of place. Her books are so well put-together, I guess you should expect. Oh, and her dog Butch is super cool and so mellow.)

Kieran Shea is one of those people. One of the really astounding things about this weekend was sensing the control Kieran has on the air around him. I mean, the dude is in charge. A commanding presence, you know? He was talking to me about "what character would you want to have your back in a fight?" He's thinking Joe Pike from Robert Crais or Gravedigger from Sean Chercover. Both good choices, of course, but I'm thinking "Kieran Shea."

When Kieran writes his new sci-fi piece or crime fiction, you have to pay attention. But in person, don't worry about that. He'll be paying attention. Back to the wall. Eyes on the front door. Never having to do a damn thing other than just being the biggest badass in the room.

Kieran said he comes from a family of five brothers. I couldn't help but think that if Kieran Shea were my big brother, I would have been a much better person than I am today.

I didn't say that, of course. And if he really were my big brother, maybe he'd punch me in the nose for saying something so dorky.

The Winterfahrt and Neil Smith

I wasn't kidding about the fish tacos. At an Irish pub. But that wasn't the Neil Smith highlight. That occurred during his panel discussion with Megan Abbot about Noir. (By the way, two things really stunk about the conference. One was I'd be talking to someone for five minutes before I realized I hadn't shut up about the novel or magazine or story or cord of wood I was working on. Like they came to listen to me say a damn thing, right? Still, almost everyone was too polite to walk away. (Except for that one lady at the reception.) The other thing that stunk was not getting to chat much or at all with everyone I wanted to. Megan Abbot was one of those. Her encyclopedic knowledge of mysteries and noir and hardboiled stories is amazing. If I were that smart, you wouldn't be able to get near me, I'd be so wrapped up in my own intellectual arrogance. Not her, though. What a nice person she is. Oh, and a fantastic author. If I were that talented...)

Oh, so Neil. Yeah. His layered, nuanced definition of Noir is worth the price of admission. The manner in which he weaves in twelfth-century candle making to talk about the history of "shining a light" on the dark places is simply miraculous. And watching his use of German cognates and traditional Peruvian puppets to answer "What is Noir" is one of greatest enjoyments of my life.

And when we told the cabbie "Mummers Museum" and ended up at the "Mutter's Museum," Neil Smith was the one who calmed us all down and suggested we forgo taxis and just walk the rest of the way, as that is a much more economically and environmentally friendly alternative. And healthy, too!

Should I wrap this up or continue next week?

Oh, and the panels were great. Not just the Neil/Megan one. All of them. Especially the one on Patricia Highsmith. I gotta read some of her. Sounds great.

More people I didn't get enough of -- Patti Abbot and her husband. How cool are they? So pleased to finally get to meet Patti. A shame we didn't get more time to chat.

Rector, Cam, and Jed

John Rector loves his phone. And checking his phone. Often. Plus, he was working on edits all weekend, so he saw more of his room than anything, I'm afraid. Bad in the short-term, but good long-term because it means more John Rector coming up. And from the sound of what he was saying, expect tons of awesomeness in the near-future.

If Stacia Decker is ever throwing out the first pitch at the World Series, keep yourself safe and get seats right behind home plate. Oh, and never try to be nice to her. She had mentioned in passing that the maid at the hotel had left her much extra soap that morning. Well, thinks I, the maid must know something. So I grab a few extra bars out of my room. Nice bars, too. According to the box, they came from some mill in France. Anyhoo, while she is in the lobby thumb-Twittering some mean-spirited insult about her favorite client, I dropped a few bars of soap into her opened duffle-bag of a purse. You know, to be helpful like the maid. Then I moved away so that she wouldn't feel that she had to thank me. Before you can say "Look out, she's gonna throw" one bar of soap flies across the lobby and into the shoe of some girl who seemed sad that momma had taken big sister's green bridesmaid gown and tried to craft a sort of avante garde prom gown for little sister. She was not happy to begin with. She was soon less happy. World's Best Agent will say that she hit me between the eyes, but c'mon. Her world is fiction writing. She's gonna make stuff up.

At the reception on Friday, I got a chance to chat with Reed Farrel Coleman at length about THE JAMES DEANS, so that worked out well. I should probably send him some sort of gift. Maybe a fedora from 1940s LA, a time and place Mr. Coleman seems passionate about.

Of the people who signed my Louisville Slugger, I think we missed Mr Dennis Tafoya. That's not good. He's an amazing writer and I'd love to have him along there. Same with Neil Smith. Guess I gotta head back to another one some day.

Somehow Jedidiah Ayres, Owen "Canadian Seth" Laukkanen, Calvin Seen, Libby Cudmore and their dates and I ended up at the very back table "Reserved For Unpublished Authors" at the Friday night rewards reception at which people who are not me got awards. One woman there walked across the room at a quick clip to reach me. She leaned in and looked at my name tag. Then my face. "Oh, nevermind. I thought you were someone." She walked off.

Also, it is possible that I had a piece of spinach go down the wrong way and kinda coughed back up something that may have been part of last week's cold right into a cup. It's also possible that Jed had some of that thinking he was sneaking whiskey and warming ice cubes while I wasn't looking. I should have said something then. I'm sorry. I would have said something, but it was kinda funny so I didn't.

The good part of the reception is that Hilary Davidson finally stopped by from her 40 Cities in 30 Days Tour, or whatever she's calling it. I think Hilary has been the topic here at DSD more often than "Where Do Your Ideas Come From." So everyone knows about THE DAMAGE DONE and how cool it is. It was fantastic to see and talk to Hilary and I'd love to tell you it was all delightful, but it wasn't. See, Hilary is Canadian. Or part of her is. I don't know how that works. Anyway, they do the metric system up there. So Hilary thought it would be fine for us to walk the two miles back to the hotel after the reception. You know, instead of taking a cab and ending up at the Mutter's Museum. So a dozen of us agreed. And she led. Just two miles. That's what she said. She must have been confused. She must have meant two kilometers or two megameters or whatever they do in Canada. Because it ended up being something close to seventeen-thousand miles. I'm scheduled for a shin replacement on December 16. This tragedy only added to the disservice done to me by Seth Harwood. Seth and I walked from the hotel to the playhouse together. He is eleven-foot-three. I had a tough time keeping up. Seth kept asking if the wind was irritating my eyes. Screw you, Harwood.

Delaware charged me actual cash money at a toll to drive the two miles across their state. If they get that much money, there must not be any state income tax for the entire state population of nine people.

Chatting with Edward Pettit about fights between Baltimore and Richmond was a good time, too. Except that it was in the German wiener house. German wiener house -- it's Australian for Cam's story told in poor taste.

I don't know if it was because he wasn't there or what, but I heard more about John Hornor Jacobs and his talent and his fantastic novels than I heard about practically anything. The dude can't even get there and he's the talk of the town. Sheesh.

Next week I'll probably catch up on all the stuff that wouldn't fit here. Meanwhile, I'm thinking about the weekend. The authors who took time to talk to me about whatever I could think of to hold their attention, um, I mean to generate a meaningful discussion. All the cool folks online I've "known" but never met. Honestly, there were only seven or eight people who were complete assholes. Nearly everyone was super-nice. So now when I think about the weekend, all I can hear is Jed's awful accent:
"NoirCon -- Australian for friendship."

*FOOTNOTE:
It is possible that I was the one who told Cam the story about the old man penis.