My message board, which was behaving badly last week, is now back to normal. I worked with support at my ISP, but they weren’t able to figure out why it was throwing errors. Then it just started working properly again. I figure it must have been some weird server error, but I’m just glad it’s behaving, because I wasn’t looking forward to migrating to a new board.
Episode 19 of the Lilja & Lou Podcast features a lengthy interview with me about The Dark Tower Companion.
I’m back from four days at the Stoker Weekend/World Horror Convention in New Orleans more or less intact. I was generally kind to both my liver and my brain, so the only aftereffect I’m feeling is sleep deprivation. This photograph was taken at the airport—it’s the first thing you see when you get off your plane. Says it all, I think.
My flight got in ahead of schedule on Thursday, so I didn’t have to rush to get to the hotel for the opening ceremony. My role at that function was to announce the Grand Master and read his message to attendees, because he couldn’t attend. The honoree was Dan Simmons, who I called “The Grand Master of Everything” in my appreciation/tribute for the conference souvenir book. Afterward, I had drinks and dinner with Jay Clarke (Michael Slade), who I first met at WHC2001 in Seattle.
Friday was my busy day. I was the token non-editor on the “themed anthology” panel, which was surprisingly well attended for a 9 a.m. event. Not so my reading. Tod Clarke told me a week or so ago that he would be at my reading and I almost (but didn’t) respond, saying, “Oh, good—at least there’ll be one person in the audience.” As it turns out, that’s all I had. Then I was on the rather glum “remembrance of those who could not be here” panel in the afternoon, which was poorly attended. The mass signing was a smash hit, though. I got Rick McCammon to sign my copy of Dark Dreamers, which I treat as an autograph book and then signed quite a few copies of The Dark Tower Companion and other things people brought by. I gave away the three copies of Twenty-first Century King that I brought with me. I didn’t bring books to sell, as I discuss in my new Storytellers Unplugged essay, A Writer, Not a Seller.
Saturday was more laid back. My only commitment was to work at the HWA table in the late afternoon, but when I showed up they were dismantling the table to set up for the Stoker banquet, so that was canceled. I went to back-to-back readings by Robert McCammon and Tom Monteleone, two of the best public readers I know (Tom’s story was an especially funny tale of the Lovecraft mythos being turned into a Broadway musical). I went to several Guest of Honor interviews: those for Glenn Chadbourne, Caitlin R. Kiernan, McCammon and Ramsey Campbell, all very entertaining. I used my free time from my volunteer position to attend David Morrell’s reading, which he decided to turn into a talk instead. I also attended his kaffeeklatsch the previous day, a concept that I hope gets picked up in the future—a small group (perhaps a dozen) gets to sit with one of the guests of honor for an hour in an intimate setting. Alas, there was no kaffee, a bone of contention with some.
I sat with Tom Monteleone, Kelly Laymon, F. Paul Wilson, Jay Clarke, Danel Olson and a few people I didn’t know at the Stoker banquet. To entertain ourselves, we tried to predict who would win the 10 awards. Paul and Kelly won, with seven out of ten. I only guessed six. Jeff Strand was in fine form as the emcee, keeping things going with just the right amount of banter. Caitlin Kiernan pulled out a sonic screwdriver during her stint as presenter, which went over very well. Glenn Chadbourne was spotted in a white shirt and jacket, an unusual sight indeed. The food was very good, although most of the people at our table overlooked the roast beef station until we were too full to have any.
Many of the best moments, though, were the conversations in the lobby and elsewhere with people who I’ve either known for a long time or was just meeting for the first time. It was good to finally see Hunter Goatley, who I’ve corresponded with since the late 1980s. Had a nice chat with artist Alan M. Clark and discovered, much to my surprise and delight, that he’s also a novelist. How did I not know that before? And many other chats with friends old and new.
I don’t think I enjoyed New Orleans as much as many others. In fact, I know I didn’t, because I was always in bed by midnight, whereas a lot of people didn’t stagger back to the hotel until 4, 5, or 6 a.m, which was about the time I was going out for breakfast, which was akin to witnessing a zombie walk. During the Stokers, Jeff Strand mused that a Nawlins Chainsaw Massacre at that moment could wreck the horror genre, but I figure Bourbon Street took care of that, killing off countless, irreplaceable brain cells among some of our finer writers. What the alcohol didn’t take care of, the humid heat surely did. Being from Houston, I only found it hellishly hot instead of infernal, like many of my friends from northern climes.
This was my fourth trip to New Orleans, and the only one that I truly enjoyed was a vacation with my wife before Katrina. We had a seriously good time back then. Without her along, I didn’t have much interest in the gimmickry and rambunctiousness of Bourbon Street. I walked the full length of the street on Friday evening and didn’t see anything at all that said to me, “Come in and have a bon temps.” The music blaring from he clubs seemed to be mostly recorded rock. I should have wandered farther afield, I guess, away from the tourist haunts, but I was content to hang out at the hotel with those others who weren’t seduced by the Big Easy’s seedier side.
