How difficult was it to select one to two panels or events for each hour of the day when Friday, one of shorter days, had over 60 of them to attent amongst 13 to 14 different rooms?
It was excruciating. Like picking a new kitten from a dozen kennels.
Worse, authors I met enticed me to go see their panels when I had already selected different ones. It was a tough call, and I might have been a little critical in my decisions.
It was excruciating. Like picking a new kitten from a dozen kennels.
Worse, authors I met enticed me to go see their panels when I had already selected different ones. It was a tough call, and I might have been a little critical in my decisions.
First of all, I removed from my list any and all panels/events about publishing or related to editors. I know I am not yet ready for this stage.
Second, while undoubtedly very fun, I'm thinking of the laugh-out-loud Dr. Seuss off hosted by the multi-talented Josh Pantalleresco (he has a podcast!), I tried skipping them for the sake of knowledge.
P.S. Josh, you guys were so loud, we couldn't hear what was going on in our panel, so some of us invaded yours and probably wished we had been there earlier.
Thirdlydoo, I selected all panels that were only reflecting my genres or included subjects I might need further knowledge on, such as panels on the military or how to interview people.
Fourthly, I screened all panel hosts like a very prejudiced person. Everyone who did not have a background long enough to be deemed really knowledgeable in the domain they were presenting got the cut. I was a panellist executioner, on my schedule papers, crossing Xs upon their panels. Absolutely biased and unfair. Life is like that sometimes, and so was I.
Finally, I had one sure panel, and one to two back-up panels each hour a room was open. And of course, each subsequential panel happened in the other building. Mostly.
While I should have been sitting all day, I walked a lot.
So take notes: Writer's conventions are great if you know you should be exercising but can't seem to find the time or energy to do it. You'll be so excited to walk, run, skip to the next panel, like me, you'll be wishing you had a convention every week!
Some of these panels were loaded with experts and veterans in the craft, I felt safe being moulded within their callused hands.
Then Friday evening came, I spotted Jim Jackson, author of fabulous books, one I've talked about already, and blues musician. Lo and behold, he remembered me! So did Josh whom I met later that day... I hope it's because I leave good impressions.
Jim introduced me to his friends, and that's when I met Tony. The most adorably scandalous person I've ever met. An American who dares sport a Canadian moose buttoned shirt and claims we should pirate a panel. Which we might, one day.
They led me to the Atrium where we thought we could sit down and get drinks, but the Noir @ the Bar event was about to start. I don't think Tony knew what it was more than I did, so we signed up.
The description of the event read "Literary mayhem with Canada’s best crime writers. Drop by for teaser readings and discussions dark and deadly."
Basically, people prepare a crime fiction text or use an excerpt from their book and read it out loud and later, we vote and mingle. The winner gets a golden skull, how cool is that? There were also prizes I wish I had won; whole bags filled with books, writing goodies and merch!
Tony and I sat at a table with I think four, yes, four funny ladies who gladly partook in Tony's folly of creating, right here, right now, the most ridiculous, obscene and ludicrous story ever.
For you Tony, since you use my notebook to write in anyway, I have transcribed your story for all to be affronted by it. WARNING: It is offensive, and you will be offended by it. It's so nasty, Blogger would likely sue me, so instead, you can read it when he decides to finally put it online (I was planning on linking it, but it's taking too long, Tony.
Had it not been for Jim and Tony, I don't think I would have gone to the Noir @ the Bar. I was remotely aware of it but thought I would retire early and write in my hotel room. It's so funny how deluded I was. I constantly went to sleep in the wee hours of the night.
I'm glad I went, though. It was a pivotal moment for me and my budding self-esteem as a writer. You never truly know your potential until you expose yourself to be critiqued. And who could be better to judge than authors themselves, many if not all, already published!
So while others read their dark and twisted tales, Tony adding final touches to his Crime-fiction baby, a second Smirnoff in my bloodstream, I wrote a tale of my own within the last twenty-thirty minutes that was left. And I read it out loud, a first draft unedited (gasp!) for all to judge while I slightly misread words or didn't even know where I was. Tip: don't read while tipsy.
So here is my almost unedited transcription of that first draft. Let's call it a second draft now, even though I kept most of its clumsiness intact. I simply rephrased a few sentences because, when hearing the recording I made, I notice I had ad-libbed some of it as I read, noticing some parts didn't quite make sense. It's now closer to the audio recording, but still pretty rough. Also, there are curse words, so you've been warned. Why am I posting this piece of fiction while it's technically still in the oven? To let you smell the sweet aroma of what a draft you can be ashamed of looks like. I'm opening the door a little and letting some vapours waft off in your direction. While I'll admit, I'm pretty proud of how it turned out, it's mostly because people came to me later to fill my head with a sense of mild success. Otherwise, I, too, would think it's nothing to shake a stick at.
It was 3am, I was still waiting for Joe to come back from his night shift at the French bar, an oddity in Stuttgart. He was late again. Was it François holding him back, or was he holding him in? I always suspected my stuck-up boyfriend didn’t wander down other women’s cleavages for a reason.
I took another sip of mint tea and looked out the window from our 3rd floor apartment. Bats had been out for hours now, and weasels came and went from car to car. Someone was going to be late for work in a few hours when they’d find out the cables had been chewed out.
“Oh fuck, no.” I left, slammed the door and called François.
I had drunk enough for one night, and after calling it quits, I hit the sack hoping to get up early and write. HA. HA. HA. I made it for breakfast and the first panel of the day.
Saturday had a great start with co-writers Detective Dave Sweet and Sarah Kades Graham presenting the always fascinating panel about detective and police work. This time, it was about interviews and how to present evidence to suspects. I missed Angela Ackerman's likely enlightening "Hidden Emotion & Subtext" panel and went for World Building in Fiction. I'm sad I couldn't do both as I'm certain Angela's was remarkable too.
Unlike last year, I was able to free one hour to have a real meal, not just candy and power bars. Then slid inside the Craig DiLouie's Your Brain on Words panel as it had already started, and enjoyed a presentation chockful of information on what reading, especially fiction, does to our brain. Spoiler: it makes us healthier and saner! I had 2 more fun panels, and then my spouse picked me up for our annual WWC date. We ate and laughed, and I dragged him around to meet my fellow authors and help me out at the autograph session. He calls himself "Sam's Mule". It was only a few books. Maybe ten. I bought this anthology of writing tips called Write Better Fiction as it had been highly recommended to me, and I sought to get as many of the authors present that night as possible to sign their contribution to the book. I read a few chapters, and I'm impressed by how inspiring its content has been so far.
My favourite panels were about world-building and building your characters with human emotions, as well as using emotions to tell a reliable story. One favourite author who was here again this year was Angela Ackerman, the co-author of the Emotional thesaurus series. She's absolutely wonderful to talk to and so knowledgeable on human behaviours. One of the things I like best about her is how calm she is, it's like a radiating anchor, sending smooth waves capable of un-frazzling my nerves. That was my impression of our talk when she signed her book for me. I wanted her to sign all of her books, but I chocked at the last minute. I didn't want to look too much of a fangirl.
The rest of the night gets fuzzy, but I remember chatting up authors gracious enough to sign my Write Better Fiction book, telling me more about their part in its successful launch, and happily bringing my signed books back to my room. I then bid farewell to my spouse and went back to the restaurant/bar in the Tower section of the hotel. I met again with Josh and Tony, and we had an excellent talk about writing, but mostly about life. Because we are real beings, with real problems and real experiences and we're all very nice people, most of the time. And because we likely leech off each other's experiences as writing fodder. I sure do, I have a dump folder in my head just for that. I would otherwise write boring stories if I only relied on my own experiences. After a few heartfelt exchanges, we decided to lift up the mood and go see what others were up to. Apparently, building a fort. You understand that I had to watch grow-ups building a giant fort out of chairs and tablecloths, and find out what the heck they could be doing in there. I'm not supposed to mention that there was a mild accident, a chair made a mortal enemy, and I ran like crazy trying to find ice, a plastic bag and a cloth in the middle of the night, so I'm not going to say anything.
After much excitement, I helped people put back the chairs and tablecloths the way they were, after all, this is an annual event, or so I heard, and I'm sure if we leave a mess, this privilege will be taken away. There wasn't much to do afterwards, Tony had disappeared, and I was tired. I went up to my room, spent a little more time than I should on my laptop and went to bed. In a few hours, another day filled with even more panels would begin.
The more the days progressed, the more of a blur they became, maybe it was the lack of proper sleep, or the alcohol, although I don't get hungover somehow, even if I'm a lightweight. Perhaps it's because I am a lightweight drinker? I don't know, alcohol doesn't stay too long in my system. Of all the panels, The Art of Interviewing was the most memorable, along with Building a Protagonist from the Ground up and Getting the Characters Emotion on the Page. Maybe that was because the last two had Angela Ackerman in them, but they were excellent. The Art of Interviewing was even better (sorry Angela) and I left with lots of tools I can use and great stories.
I had to miss the last few pannels as family got in the way. I ended up having to take care of the kids earlier than agreed, but I'm incredibly happy I participated in this year's convention. It was such a great break from monotony, and I met people who changed my life for the better and people I aspire to emulate in their successes.
My only regrets are that this weekend had to end and that Jim Jackson's new book got delayed, but keep an eye out for Elemental Tales: How to Deepen Your Writing Using Mythic Structure. If you've read Jim's other works on the craft, you'll want this one on your lap as soon as it comes out.
My only wish, right now, is to see you guys, readers and friends at When Words Collide in 2020!
Second, while undoubtedly very fun, I'm thinking of the laugh-out-loud Dr. Seuss off hosted by the multi-talented Josh Pantalleresco (he has a podcast!), I tried skipping them for the sake of knowledge.
P.S. Josh, you guys were so loud, we couldn't hear what was going on in our panel, so some of us invaded yours and probably wished we had been there earlier.
Thirdlydoo, I selected all panels that were only reflecting my genres or included subjects I might need further knowledge on, such as panels on the military or how to interview people.
Fourthly, I screened all panel hosts like a very prejudiced person. Everyone who did not have a background long enough to be deemed really knowledgeable in the domain they were presenting got the cut. I was a panellist executioner, on my schedule papers, crossing Xs upon their panels. Absolutely biased and unfair. Life is like that sometimes, and so was I.
Finally, I had one sure panel, and one to two back-up panels each hour a room was open. And of course, each subsequential panel happened in the other building. Mostly.
While I should have been sitting all day, I walked a lot.
So take notes: Writer's conventions are great if you know you should be exercising but can't seem to find the time or energy to do it. You'll be so excited to walk, run, skip to the next panel, like me, you'll be wishing you had a convention every week!
Some of these panels were loaded with experts and veterans in the craft, I felt safe being moulded within their callused hands.
Then Friday evening came, I spotted Jim Jackson, author of fabulous books, one I've talked about already, and blues musician. Lo and behold, he remembered me! So did Josh whom I met later that day... I hope it's because I leave good impressions.
Jim introduced me to his friends, and that's when I met Tony. The most adorably scandalous person I've ever met. An American who dares sport a Canadian moose buttoned shirt and claims we should pirate a panel. Which we might, one day.
They led me to the Atrium where we thought we could sit down and get drinks, but the Noir @ the Bar event was about to start. I don't think Tony knew what it was more than I did, so we signed up.
The description of the event read "Literary mayhem with Canada’s best crime writers. Drop by for teaser readings and discussions dark and deadly."
Basically, people prepare a crime fiction text or use an excerpt from their book and read it out loud and later, we vote and mingle. The winner gets a golden skull, how cool is that? There were also prizes I wish I had won; whole bags filled with books, writing goodies and merch!
Tony and I sat at a table with I think four, yes, four funny ladies who gladly partook in Tony's folly of creating, right here, right now, the most ridiculous, obscene and ludicrous story ever.
For you Tony, since you use my notebook to write in anyway, I have transcribed your story for all to be affronted by it. WARNING: It is offensive, and you will be offended by it. It's so nasty, Blogger would likely sue me, so instead, you can read it when he decides to finally put it online (I was planning on linking it, but it's taking too long, Tony.
Had it not been for Jim and Tony, I don't think I would have gone to the Noir @ the Bar. I was remotely aware of it but thought I would retire early and write in my hotel room. It's so funny how deluded I was. I constantly went to sleep in the wee hours of the night.
I'm glad I went, though. It was a pivotal moment for me and my budding self-esteem as a writer. You never truly know your potential until you expose yourself to be critiqued. And who could be better to judge than authors themselves, many if not all, already published!
So while others read their dark and twisted tales, Tony adding final touches to his Crime-fiction baby, a second Smirnoff in my bloodstream, I wrote a tale of my own within the last twenty-thirty minutes that was left. And I read it out loud, a first draft unedited (gasp!) for all to judge while I slightly misread words or didn't even know where I was. Tip: don't read while tipsy.
So here is my almost unedited transcription of that first draft. Let's call it a second draft now, even though I kept most of its clumsiness intact. I simply rephrased a few sentences because, when hearing the recording I made, I notice I had ad-libbed some of it as I read, noticing some parts didn't quite make sense. It's now closer to the audio recording, but still pretty rough. Also, there are curse words, so you've been warned. Why am I posting this piece of fiction while it's technically still in the oven? To let you smell the sweet aroma of what a draft you can be ashamed of looks like. I'm opening the door a little and letting some vapours waft off in your direction. While I'll admit, I'm pretty proud of how it turned out, it's mostly because people came to me later to fill my head with a sense of mild success. Otherwise, I, too, would think it's nothing to shake a stick at.
Noir @ the Bar
Untitled by Salem Wolfe
Untitled by Salem Wolfe
It was 3am, I was still waiting for Joe to come back from his night shift at the French bar, an oddity in Stuttgart. He was late again. Was it François holding him back, or was he holding him in? I always suspected my stuck-up boyfriend didn’t wander down other women’s cleavages for a reason.
I took another sip of mint tea and looked out the window from our 3rd floor apartment. Bats had been out for hours now, and weasels came and went from car to car. Someone was going to be late for work in a few hours when they’d find out the cables had been chewed out.
I hope those Polynesians weren’t back again; their
underground firearm business made me uncomfortable. I laid my face against the
window pane, waiting for his silhouette to come into view
5h30.
I called his boss, but no answer. At 6 am, I put on my cap
and headed down the cold cobbled stone street. I walked faster, until I broke
into a run. The distance seemed endless under the uncertainty of my boyfriend’s
whereabouts. Joe… where are you?? Gosh, I hope you’re safe. I don’t
care if you’re warming up against François, we were never much of a couple
anyway. You’re my best friend. Be Safe.
As I approached this arrogant affair of a bar, the snotty
owner, I remembered as Jean-Jacques or Jean-Gilles …something like that.
“Hey!” I called. “Is Joe still here?” Whatever his name was,
he took his damn time turning around. I was about to yell “Well?”, when he
finally felt like elucidating the mystery.
“Eh… No heez been gone since clozing time.” He locked the
door and left me there, all alone in the middle of buildings older than my
lineage. I felt cold all over, light headed, drained… and it didn’t help that
the tea slushing inside my stomach had turned to vinegar. I ran back, looking
left and right, looking for shadows or anything resembling a face.
Then I halted to a slow pace. There in the shadow, three streets away from the bar, lying in the shadows, stood a dumpster by a set of recycling bins. There was a face, looking back at me, hollow and still. Probing the stones beneath my feet, I walked to meet the face with my heart in my hand, and each time I squeezed my fists tighter, I died a little. I moved forward, but the face felt so out of reach. “Oh please… oh please.” I swallowed, shutting my eyes only to stare back at a set of hollow pits. I trust my hand forward, I needed to know and grabbed at the pale skull only to find out it was fucking paper bag!
Then I halted to a slow pace. There in the shadow, three streets away from the bar, lying in the shadows, stood a dumpster by a set of recycling bins. There was a face, looking back at me, hollow and still. Probing the stones beneath my feet, I walked to meet the face with my heart in my hand, and each time I squeezed my fists tighter, I died a little. I moved forward, but the face felt so out of reach. “Oh please… oh please.” I swallowed, shutting my eyes only to stare back at a set of hollow pits. I trust my hand forward, I needed to know and grabbed at the pale skull only to find out it was fucking paper bag!
I heaved and wailed, not giving a damn thing about who was
still sleeping or shagging. A disembodied dog yowl answered back. It translated
roughly to “blow me” or “Shut the fuck up”. Whichever one, it sounded quite
accurate.
I don’t know how I made it back home, but I was shaking so much, I was vibrating. Might be white my laces were undone when I faced our bedroom door. That wasn’t the only thing I noticed undone, by my feet. Clothes were strewn around. Well guess what? Blood came back into my body tightly coiling around my Joe were the Polynesians, smirking, drunk and silver toothed. I bore extra holes into Joe. Had they been real, it would only had been filled with more dicks.
Joe lifted his head towards me, “Where were you? I thought we could all-“
I don’t know how I made it back home, but I was shaking so much, I was vibrating. Might be white my laces were undone when I faced our bedroom door. That wasn’t the only thing I noticed undone, by my feet. Clothes were strewn around. Well guess what? Blood came back into my body tightly coiling around my Joe were the Polynesians, smirking, drunk and silver toothed. I bore extra holes into Joe. Had they been real, it would only had been filled with more dicks.
Joe lifted his head towards me, “Where were you? I thought we could all-“
I had drunk enough for one night, and after calling it quits, I hit the sack hoping to get up early and write. HA. HA. HA. I made it for breakfast and the first panel of the day.
Saturday had a great start with co-writers Detective Dave Sweet and Sarah Kades Graham presenting the always fascinating panel about detective and police work. This time, it was about interviews and how to present evidence to suspects. I missed Angela Ackerman's likely enlightening "Hidden Emotion & Subtext" panel and went for World Building in Fiction. I'm sad I couldn't do both as I'm certain Angela's was remarkable too.
Unlike last year, I was able to free one hour to have a real meal, not just candy and power bars. Then slid inside the Craig DiLouie's Your Brain on Words panel as it had already started, and enjoyed a presentation chockful of information on what reading, especially fiction, does to our brain. Spoiler: it makes us healthier and saner! I had 2 more fun panels, and then my spouse picked me up for our annual WWC date. We ate and laughed, and I dragged him around to meet my fellow authors and help me out at the autograph session. He calls himself "Sam's Mule". It was only a few books. Maybe ten. I bought this anthology of writing tips called Write Better Fiction as it had been highly recommended to me, and I sought to get as many of the authors present that night as possible to sign their contribution to the book. I read a few chapters, and I'm impressed by how inspiring its content has been so far.
My favourite panels were about world-building and building your characters with human emotions, as well as using emotions to tell a reliable story. One favourite author who was here again this year was Angela Ackerman, the co-author of the Emotional thesaurus series. She's absolutely wonderful to talk to and so knowledgeable on human behaviours. One of the things I like best about her is how calm she is, it's like a radiating anchor, sending smooth waves capable of un-frazzling my nerves. That was my impression of our talk when she signed her book for me. I wanted her to sign all of her books, but I chocked at the last minute. I didn't want to look too much of a fangirl.
The rest of the night gets fuzzy, but I remember chatting up authors gracious enough to sign my Write Better Fiction book, telling me more about their part in its successful launch, and happily bringing my signed books back to my room. I then bid farewell to my spouse and went back to the restaurant/bar in the Tower section of the hotel. I met again with Josh and Tony, and we had an excellent talk about writing, but mostly about life. Because we are real beings, with real problems and real experiences and we're all very nice people, most of the time. And because we likely leech off each other's experiences as writing fodder. I sure do, I have a dump folder in my head just for that. I would otherwise write boring stories if I only relied on my own experiences. After a few heartfelt exchanges, we decided to lift up the mood and go see what others were up to. Apparently, building a fort. You understand that I had to watch grow-ups building a giant fort out of chairs and tablecloths, and find out what the heck they could be doing in there. I'm not supposed to mention that there was a mild accident, a chair made a mortal enemy, and I ran like crazy trying to find ice, a plastic bag and a cloth in the middle of the night, so I'm not going to say anything.
After much excitement, I helped people put back the chairs and tablecloths the way they were, after all, this is an annual event, or so I heard, and I'm sure if we leave a mess, this privilege will be taken away. There wasn't much to do afterwards, Tony had disappeared, and I was tired. I went up to my room, spent a little more time than I should on my laptop and went to bed. In a few hours, another day filled with even more panels would begin.
The more the days progressed, the more of a blur they became, maybe it was the lack of proper sleep, or the alcohol, although I don't get hungover somehow, even if I'm a lightweight. Perhaps it's because I am a lightweight drinker? I don't know, alcohol doesn't stay too long in my system. Of all the panels, The Art of Interviewing was the most memorable, along with Building a Protagonist from the Ground up and Getting the Characters Emotion on the Page. Maybe that was because the last two had Angela Ackerman in them, but they were excellent. The Art of Interviewing was even better (sorry Angela) and I left with lots of tools I can use and great stories.
I had to miss the last few pannels as family got in the way. I ended up having to take care of the kids earlier than agreed, but I'm incredibly happy I participated in this year's convention. It was such a great break from monotony, and I met people who changed my life for the better and people I aspire to emulate in their successes.
My only regrets are that this weekend had to end and that Jim Jackson's new book got delayed, but keep an eye out for Elemental Tales: How to Deepen Your Writing Using Mythic Structure. If you've read Jim's other works on the craft, you'll want this one on your lap as soon as it comes out.
My only wish, right now, is to see you guys, readers and friends at When Words Collide in 2020!
