Social Experiment #1

Social Experiment #1

My co-worker, Adam and I decided to conduct a social experiment at work. What do you get when you take a handful of trading cards and a Post-It Note with “DO NOT TOUCH” written in black marker on it? We found out by placing both of the above on the break table in one of our office kitchens.

Here is the pile of cards as we left it.

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Here is the pile of cards when we came back an hour later.

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As you can see, people we work with have very little regard for following instructions. Perhaps they find it hard to resist a pile of Magic: The Gathering trading cards. Perhaps the cards were in the way of their roast beef sandwich. Perhaps someone spilled a Diet Coke and someone else was trying to rescue said cards from being eating alive aspartame. Or, perhaps, I work with a bunch of anarchists who live to defy authority on every level. That seems most likely.

Pam, our wonderful receptionist and witness to our experiment said people were getting downright mad at the pile of cards with strange instructions. They stood leering over the pile of cards like they were the pissed off parents of a four year-old who just caused a ruckus at an Olive Garden.

“Why can’t I touch these? What’s wrong with them?”

“Just because it says not to touch it, I’m going to.”

“Don’t tell me what to do! I won’t wear the red coat! I hate it! Not the red coat!” (Not sure if that one was in regards to this experiment or not.)

And finally, “Is this a test? This has to be a test.”

Ah, yes, you are correct. This was in fact a test. And you all failed! Good to know my fellow humans are so insubordinate. That being the case, I’d like to ask you all to stop reading this entry. In fact, don’t ever come back to this website! And don’t you dare even think of buying my book when it comes out on September 18th, 2007.

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An Interview with My Brother

While visiting the family, my brother Mike insisted on an interview. Maybe he heard how popular my mom became after people read her interview. Or maybe my mom is making him do this so I get off her back. Regardless, I shall indulge him so here goes.

ME: Hello Mike. I hear you want to talk to me.
MIKE: I’m forced to.
ME: By whom?
MIKE: By justice. Who knows the crap you’re writing about me.
ME: If you didn’t have this forced interview, I wouldn’t write anything.
MIKE:Everyone is afraid to say things in front of you for fear you’ll exploit them on your fancy, new website. Not that it matters because you’ll make something up like you always do.
ME: Example?
MIKE: Mostly everything you wrote in that Dragons book about me is not true.
ME: Oh, you knew I wrote a book? I had no idea.
MIKE: I’ve heard about it.
ME: Did you read it?
MIKE: Just the parts Mom read out loud.
ME: So you didn’t read it.
MIKE: I heard it, if you want to get technical.
ME: And only the parts that offended you, I take it?
MIKE: She seemed to think it was funny.
ME: Are you denying that you’re an asshole to play Monopoly with?
MIKE: I play to win. Why bother otherwise?
ME: Are you denying that you idolized Donald Trump?
MIKE: No.
ME: Are you denying that you made me call you The Michael?
MIKE: You needed to show proper respect. I am your elder.
ME: Indeed you are. So it sounds like everything I wrote about you was true.
MIKE: I don’t understand what this interview is for.
ME: You demanded it! You said you were forced.
MIKE: It’s a preemptive strike in case you embellish anything else about me.
ME: Don’t flatter yourself! I wasn’t planning on writing anything about you. And for the record, my friends think you sound “cool” in the book.
MIKE: Why don’t you give me their numbers?
ME: Because they wouldn’t like you if they met you in real life. I’m trying to save you the heartache.
MIKE: Well don’t flatter yourself. The most attractive thing about your friends is that they live 3,000 miles away. (PLEASE NOTE: HE’S SMILING WHEN HE SAYS THIS.)
ME: Ooh! Nasty.
MIKE: I just don’t think you should be exploiting our childhood for the purpose of your writing. All that stuff about our stuffed animals and their questionable life choices. That’s nobody’s business. You could be sued.
ME: By Froggy O’Hara?
MIKE: By anyone you exploit them in real life.
ME: But I’m not exploiting. I’m reminiscing. Now, let me ask you some questions. What is your fondest memory of our childhood?
MIKE: Eating. And vacations in Ocean City, Maryland.
ME: I fondly remember mom and dad driving slowly down hotel lined streets while you leapt from the car and ran into lobbies grabbing brochures.
MIKE: I hardly leapt. And I don’t think that was odd. I was doing research for when I owned a hotel someday.
ME: Mom and Dad’s friends used to call you and ask for recommendations on where to stay.
MIKE: That’s true. Sometimes I made their reservations. For a fee.
ME: But you were like seven years old.
MIKE: I was driven and determined even then. I even wrote to the Chamber of Commerce’s on my own.
ME: And then I was finally old enough to go into the hotels with you and ask for brochures. What a thrill!
MIKE: You were my apprentice.
ME: When did you decide you didn’t want to own hotel?
MIKE: When I finally worked in one. It was horrible. Horrible hours, horrible people, horrible jobs. So I went from the cooker to the frying pan.
ME: Hmm…I’m not entirely sure what you mean. Are you trying to say you went to work for dad?
MIKE: Yes. Whatever.
ME: So Dad is the cooker?
MIKE: No. The hotel was the cooker. Dad is the frying pan. Duh.
ME: I like your spin on old clichés. Can you share some more Mike-isms? How about “Don’t throw glass houses at too many hands in the kitchen?”
MIKE: I will not be made a mocker.
ME: A mocker! Good one. You’re a modern day Confucius.
MIKE: Stop it! You know what I mean.
ME: Tell me more about myself. How was it having me as a little sister?
MIKE: You were a rotten child.
ME: No I wasn’t. I idolized you. I did everything you asked. I wanted to play restaurant. You made me play hotel. I wanted to watch The Dukes of Hazard. You made me watch the Mets.
MIKE: It was a constant struggle.
ME: I cried for you when our babysitter made you eat peas. I remember screaming “No! Don’t make him eat them! He hates peas!”
MIKE: You should have cried. I was being tortured!
ME: I wanted to go to Friendly’s. You insisted on Chinese. You made me hate Chinese food.
MIKE: Mom and dad hated Friendly’s. That’s why we never went there.
ME: Stop spewing that hateful venom.
MIKE: It’s true. They didn’t love you enough to sacrifice even one bad meal.
ME: I’d break your arm for a Reese’s Pieces Sundae.
MIKE: Let’s talk about something else. You’re clearly getting upset.
ME: Okay. I seem to remember us getting along. At least until about thirty seconds ago.
MIKE: Sure we got along. Compared to Michael and Latoya.
ME: Or Bart and Lisa.
MIKE: Or Will and Dixie.
ME: Oh good! An All My Children reference. Let’s talk about our love affair with soaps.
MIKE: Summer 1982. We got hooked on AMC with the “Jenny and Jesse Escape to New York” storyline only to be devastated in ’84 when she was killed in the famous Jet Ski incident.
ME: Jenny and Jesse are what made me want to run away to New York to become a soap opera actress.
MIKE: A ridiculous dream but still better compared to your lofty ambitions of being a waitress at Friendly’s.
ME: Which is still cooler than being a twelve-year-old guy who watched soaps.
MIKE: I only watched soaps because I read that hockey players watched them on their summers off. It’s also why I took French instead of Spanish. I wanted to be Canadian.
ME: Uranus rules some people. Donald Trump and hockey players rule others.
MIKE: I remember when you were like five or six I taught you to swear. You walked into the kitchen when Mom was making dinner and said “God damn shit bitch.”
ME: I remember you making me play hockey with you when you needed a fourth. You made me stand in the goal while you and all your friends took slap shots on me.
MIKE: I sprayed oven cleaner in your eye.
ME: You slapped me with a piece of pizza.
MIKE: (Laughing like a hyena) Yes! I was jealous you had a better night than I did.
ME: And us trying to make an ice rink in our backyard by throwing ice cubes in a baby pool.
MIKE: It might have worked if it wasn’t June.
ME: And I remember you coming home so drunk you swung off the screen door. Dad found you plastered to the side of the house with screen marks in your cheeks.
MIKE: He stayed up with me all night in case I puked in my sleep.
ME: He must have been so proud.
MIKE: We bonded. You were a goody-goody. You never had those moments with our parents.
ME: I wasn’t a goody-goody. I was just better at not getting caught. I mean, ringing the doorbell with your drunken forehead in the middle of the night is pretty obvious.
MIKE: Oh yes! Another great memory—playing “Another One Bites the Dust” every time one of your goldfish died!
ME: Oh my God! That isn’t funny. That’s a horrible memory!
MIKE: Such a sensitive child. This is fun. Remember when I used to try peeling your fingernails off? And when you were six I woke you up to tell you Mom and Dad were getting a divorce and you were getting put up for adoption so start packing. And I threw your all your birthday presents in the fireplace on your eighth birthday.
ME: Weird. I can’t seem to conjure any memories of me doing bad things to you.
MIKE: I told you. I was your elder. You needed to show respect.
ME: Now who’s exploiting our childhood? You’re a monster!
MIKE: I’ve got more. Let’s see. I taped over some Bon Jovi concert you recorded with an Islander game. And I dropped your Winnie the Pooh cake on your sixth birthday.
ME: Stop it!
MIKE: On purpose!
ME: Enough. I think Mom is calling you. Why don’t you drink a bunch of tequila and go bond with her?
MIKE: Hey! I have an idea. Let’s play Monopoly.
ME: I’m going to puke.
MIKE: A fool and her money are soon worth two chickens before they are hatched.
ME: Oh wow. And people think I make this stuff up?
MIKE: This was fun. Thank you for your time.
ME: My pleasure. I’m sure you’re coming across even cooler now.

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Is This News?

Probably not, but I wanted to say thank you to everyone for dropping whatever they were doing to visit my website. I really appreciate it, along with all the nice comments you made that I’ll be sure to share with the designer. What I do not appreciate however is getting mail like this:

what the hell kind of web site is this…write something…you’re supposed to be a writer…why did i put you in my favorites…?

This is from my dad.

Yes, I know, I’ve been lax about updates but I was in DC until yesterday at 8:25 AM working at the American Library Association (ALA.) There was no time! I plan on recapping that event mostly because no one believes A. 26,000 librarians really travel to an annual convention B. There are 26,000 librarians or C. You could possibly have a good time with 26,000 librarians. Really it’s my favorite show. Soon you’ll see why.

So fine, I’ll write something. For those of you who have something better to do like water a plant or watch some grass grow, go forth and do it. You won’t be missing anything. This will not be an astounding work of literary genius but rather a breadcrumb for the angry mallard that is plaguing my mailbox with hate mail.

I’m writing to you from Binghamton, NY where I’m relaxing on vacation with the family. Poor mommy just had back surgery (which she rallied through like a champ) and was worried that I would have a sucky vacation because she’s not supposed to do anything more than move from the bedroom to the living room and back to the bedroom again. Sadly, she said I’d be resigned to reading lots of books, watching lots of HGTV and falling into a narcoleptic stupor every thirty-six minutes. And that’s bad why?

I arrived at the airport to find my dad at Subway, sitting at his favorite table in front of the window. You can sit here and watch passengers who have just gotten off the plane, which is what he does only while pretending not to see me. Today he was deeply immersed in a Golf Digest. We stared at each other through the window for a few minutes, feigning surprise and half-recognition while my fellow passengers marveled at the uncanniness of a man who decided to take an early lunch at the airport Subway and looked up from his Golf Digest just as a woman (who looks remarkably like him) that he happens to know was just getting off a plane from Washington, DC. Weird.

Although they were happy to see me, my parents were sad because they wanted to surprise me with a swimming pool. That’s right. A swimming pool. In our backyard. It was supposed to be done by the time I got home but alas, the date got pushed back and they haven’t broken ground yet. This is weird, right? Don’t most parents surprise their visiting offspring with things like reservations at their favorite restaurant or painting the guest room or a divorce? But a swimming pool? I will most likely not get to enjoy the new pool, as I’ll be heading back to Seattle before it’s birth but I will get to see a big, dirt hole in the ground reenact that scene Poltergeist when JoBeth Williams mud wrestles with the skeletons in the empty pit of a pool. Finally!

Today I woke up at 9:00 AM, which pissed me off. I am on vacation after all. I made my way downstairs to mom’s bedroom to continue my slumber. She was reading the newspaper and watching the Food Network. After a quick nap, we decided to do something productive so we rented Dream Girls from On Demand. After the movie we forced ourselves to get up. Mommy made a pie while I ran on the treadmill. Then we fell asleep while watching Paula Deen.

Now I’m hanging out in the kitchen waiting for the couscous to cook. Mom just yelled in from the living room making sure I had the gas on low. “Really, really low. Are you sure?” I would have responded with something snarky like “It’s couscous, not a kidney transplant” but the poor woman is trying to Saran wrap her back so she can take a shower. The least I can do is keep my bitchiness on my hard drive. I’m trying desperately not to fall asleep again.

I would love to stay and chat but I need to tend to my couscous, which at this very moment is foaming like a rabid raccoon and spilling over the sides of Mommy’s Farberware pot. Oops. Good thing I didn’t make that snarky comment after all.

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Looks Like the Real Thing

I’m pretty proud of my webpage and I can be because I had nothing to do with it! My very talented website designer, Karin Bolstad did the whole thing (with a little “Can that be in italics? You can make that a link??? from me.)

Karin is not only a wonderful webdesigner (and very patient and easy to work with too!) she’s also a really good illustrator. To prove my point, check out the life-likeness of my two favorite animal companions. You’ll find them both on this website.

ZeldaCharlie

Yes, it’s really me updating this website. Karin is that good of a teacher! Someone please call me right now and ask what I’m doing so I can say, “Oh nothing…just updating my website with pictures of my dearly departed dog and ex-boyfriend’s cat.” Er, actually, that doesn’t sound nearly as cool as I thought it would. No matter. Welcome to my website. I hope you’ll come back and visit.

As of tomorrow I’ll be DC for the American Library Association and then on vaction for 10 days so I’m already coming up with excuses why this thing won’t be updated. But do check back. If nothing else, I’ve got hundreds of pictures of Charlie and Zelda. I’ll post pictures of your pets too. And your self-indulgent diary entries. Bring ’em on!

Enjoy.

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BEA Part 2: Enough Already

BEA is BEAT. Yeah, yeah, I agree. But indulge me here. I suffer a bit from OCD, which means lots of things, one being I must finish every lingering project if I said I would. No matter if it’s fifteen years later. If I said I’d do it I will. Thankfully this does not apply to the seventeen or eighteen half done projects around my house like The Great Recipe Organizer Project of 2006 or The Absolutely Essential Storage Room Cleanout of 2004. No one knows about those. And let’s not forget the Live off the Land Container Garden Masterpiece of Summers 2003-2007 (yes I’m trying it again this year and now that I’ve written that, it will come to fruition. And when it does, I shall eat it.)

So now you understand why you must suffer through a recap of an event that occurred a few weeks ago and you probably didn’t care about to begin with. You can stop reading now. Seriously. I’ll never know. But there are a few cool things to talk about like the dozen cupcakes that made their way into our booth (thanks, Joe!) and into my heart.

Seeing as though we’re discussing psychological ailments, here’s another one to add to the kitty. I’m food obsessed. At the animal shelter where I volunteer, they test the dogs’ food aggression by using a rubber arm on a stick (which someone decorated with fake blood for added effect) and use said stump to pull the dog’s food bowl away while they’re eating. An aggressive dog (me) will go after the bloody limb while a happy-go-lucky pooch will follow the food bowl wherever the stump takes it. Personally I don’t think this is a fair test. For one thing, they use really good food so the dogs are way more likely to protect it than if you were grabbing generic, liver and cod flavored stale kibble. Second, why is it a bad thing if the dogs go after the bloody appendage? I WANT any dog of mine to recognize an unattached, foreign object, decorated in fake blood that tries to steal our food and to go after it. Not cool, bloody arm! Not cool at all. Anyway, I digress…

Last night I had a dream of twelve little cupcakes. Twelve perfect and unique cupcakes decorated to perfection with frosting the colors of baby blankets. Seeing as though it was my dream I sampled all twelve by biting into their little frosted heads until I got to the cake layer then dropping the half eaten nuggets back into the box. I did not, however, take advantage of the dream factor here or else I would have eaten the whole darn things and then taken off flying. What a waste. Oh well. I’m sure the dream will happen again.

What does this have to do with BEA? Nothing. Sort of. Let’s start at the beginning with Saturday’s breakfast of a giant toasted sesame bagel smeared with eleven pounds of cream cheese. Toasted sesame bagels with cream cheese are no doubt in my top five favorite foods. Delicious. And because today was the day I would do my first ever book signing, I ate the whole thing with no regard. What empty calories? Bad Carbs who? I ate it all including the excess cream cheese that oozed out of the giant bagel and had no other vessel to my gullet other than the wax paper it was wrapped in. I ate it, I loved it, and I would do it again. Back off, Dr. Atkins! Not in my house, you don’t!

This was also the day I finally got to wear the green dress. Correction. The Green Dress. It is a proper name, after all. The Green Dress was spotted at Nordstrom and way too expensive for a green, cotton dress. It’s the kind of expensive you can only justify if you’re going to the Emmy’s or competing in Miss Teen USA or attending BEA for your first ever book signing. So I bought it under the guise it’s a reward for writing a book. Or rather, another reward, but who’s counting? I love me, ok?

So, The Green Dress and I tooled around the booth in the morning (with a dime sized piece of dried cream cheese stuck to the side of my nose) and wandered briefly to other booths like Ripley’s where I saw the two headed goat, shrunken head and God (or maybe Moses.) God wandered around the Javits Center with a staff, long robe, gray beard and a sign around his neck that read “Need Work.” Not “Need Work?” Need Work. It was a statement. God needs a job apparently. I might have pondered this more heartily, maybe even offered a suggestion or two, had I not been distracted by the site of a toucan a few booths over. Not sure why he was there, or even if he was a he, but I got to hold the exotic he/she on my forearm and gaze lovingly into it’s pretty blue eye (you can only see one eye at a time thanks to the foot long honker, but you probably knew that.) I want one!

Other animal sightings included a beautiful black lab that was the star of a children’s picture book. You could have had your picture with her, which I would have been all over had it not been for the fact I was with an interviewer when I saw her and wanted to appear somewhat “professional.” Yes, the girl who writes diary entries from the point of view of her D&D character wants to come across as professional. Problem?

Oh and let’s not forget Dogtoberfest. A full-on beer and schnitzel party hosted by a fellow publisher. They had pugs decked out in lederhosen. Unhappy looking pugs (but really, do they ever look happy?) wearing green lederhosen. Suspenders and all. I’m fairly certain these same pugs ate their owners in their sleep that same night. Even I would draw the line at lederhosen. (Tiaras and cashmere scarves, yes. Lederhosen? No.)

Right-O. Onward. This brings us to The Hugger. Paul, my co-worker, happened to mention seeing The Hugger walking the floor. I saw him too but my mother told me to pay no mind to people who dress up like mimes (only without the creepy make-up), trailing a 1920’s suitcase behind them offering “Free Hugs.” Nice try, Buddy! Paul however was not raised with my apposite moral values and jumped right into the loving arms of this maniac. And he insisted that a professional hug is indeed noticeably different from an amateur hug.

“Professional, how?” I asked. I’m a pretty good hugger but even I wouldn’t say I was professional. This guy has a lot of moxie.

“It was sort of Zen,” Paul said, his eyes glazing over. “It was calming and massaging and awakening.”

“Sort of like Dove shower gel?”

“Go see for yourself.”

Clearly I’m not enlightened enough for The Hugger. At least I wasn’t on Saturday and technically that’s what day we’re still on. But—Spoiler Alert—Sunday was a whole different ballgame!

So now it’s time for my book signing! But first, let’s set the record straight. This wasn’t MY book signing. This was R.A. Salvatore’s book signing. It was not entirely without reason. He writes about D&D, I write about D&D. He’s got a zillion fans, I have one and unfortunately she was in Upstate New York nursing a sore back. Maybe he was in need of some good karma. Or maybe the thinks I really am a sorceress and could cast a spell on him. Whatever the reason, he’s an incredibly gracious man who let me act as the appetizer to his main course. The calm before his storm. The Skid Row to his Bon Jovi. I am the Youth Gone Wild.

Bob’s fans started lining up an hour and a half before the signing. Good thing we had catering that day because some of these people were sounding like they crossed the Sahara with nothing but a pair of soleless Keds and a backpack full of New York Times best-sellers. They were NOT moving. Not for free coffee or pistachio muffins or sesame bagels with cream cheese. Not even for me so I could get through and take my seat next to Bob. Most of them were happy to have me divert their attention while Bob was deep in conversation with the person in line ahead of them. And hey—they got another free book. Only a few thought I was the person who hands Bob a bottle of water and a fresh Sharpie and simply smiled at me while fanning themselves with their free copy of my book.

Bob is amazing and not just in the zillion of fans sort of way. He treats everyone like they’re his neighbors. He’s friendly and relaxed and chatty and makes you feel like any conversation is a meaningful conversation. And he lets newbie writers hijack his fans! Let me tell you—if you have to do a signing, try to do it along-side a New York Times best selling author.

Saturday concludes with another great meal at some Italian restaurant in the Village where food starts flying out of the kitchen the second your butt hits the chair. What’s bad about that? Woof!

On to Sunday. By far the slowest day but that’s good because it gives us a chance to walk around and see what the fuss was about all this free stuff. It was a great day for the food obsessed because most exhibitors were having a fire sale on all their edibles. By “fire sale” I mean “stuffing shortbread cookies and Tootsie Rolls into your pockets as you walk by.” By 9:30 I already consumed more sugar than Barry White (does that make sense to you? Because it makes sense to me.)

There were still lots of books for the taking but after watching the debauchery that surrounded our booth the last few days, I was hesitant to take anything. But I did. No one wants to ship that stuff back, right?

Perhaps it was the sugar gushing through my veins or the punchiness of having spent the equivalent of an entire day confined in the Javits center with cream cheese on my nose, six-dollar lattes and a throng of angry pugs in lederhosen on the loose. Whatever. But I succumbed. I got hugged.

Nina, co-worker and editor extraordinaire, new friend and agent to the stars, Stephen Barbara (and winner of some people’s poll that deemed him “hottest man in publishing”) and myself walked the hall in search of an exhibitor’s booth where some party was going on. We found the booth after about forty-five minutes but there was no party. Unless of course you think two sad looking, beaten down, publishing dregs that probably quit their jobs the next day constitutes a party. Stephen stopped outside their booth and called the friend who spread the vicious rumor of this party and proclaimed loudly, “There ain’t nothing going on here!” The sad publishing dregs merely shrugged their shoulders in apology. I think I saw a tear slide down one of their cheeks. They might as well have been hog-tied and duct taped to their folding chairs, so crushed were their spirits.

But had it not been for the would-be party we never would have crossed paths with The Hugger. He and his handler were casually strolling down a wide aisle, 1920’s suitcase trailing behind. Was he too beaten down and weary after three days of non-stop hugging? Just one more, Mr. Hugger!

“Hugger!” I yelled.

He turned around, no words, just a smile.

“Will you hug my friend, Stephen?” I asked.

No falser words could ever have been strung together than “friend” and “Stephen” judging by the look Stephen shot me that declared our friendship was short-lived and oh-so-over. Oh well. It was almost worth it to see Mr. Hottie Agent-Pants enveloped by a middle-aged man dressed like a mime for what seemed like several hours. Apparently it felt like several hours to Stephen too because he totally broke the Zen-ness of the moment by declaring, “That’s enough, Dude.”

The Hugger backed off. He has boundaries, which I’m grateful for because I threw myself into his loving arms next. I gotta tell you. There IS a difference between a hug and a professional hug. It was relaxing, sort of massaging, and not nearly as weird as I thought. Or as Stephen looked. I think the secret (and I think this is sort of a cop-out) was the fake carnation he wore on his suspenders that strategically hit where most people’s hearts were. The darn thing vibrated! I know, I know, I should assume the buzzing I felt and heard was the sounds of his heart finding mine in a joyous awakening. But that would be…weird. Needless to say, The Hugger was on to something. He’s definitely honed his craft. Hats off to you, Hugger! Or rather, arms out?

I’m not sure much else happened after the hug. Really, what more could happen?
Nina and I bid farewell to Stephen. We even hugged, which of course paled in comparison. We gave away the rest of our giveaways and guarded the Sharpies with our lives. After the show I fled Manhattan on a bus destined for Jersey where I spent some much needed quality time with my dear college friend and her family. Then returned to New York the next afternoon to spend some quality time with my dear friends, Macy’s and Bloomingdales, and later another college friend I don’t get to see nearly enough. Good times.

Wow. I think this little ditty is officially longer than BEA. But I feel much better having wrapped it up. Now I will work on finishing the other 16 entries half-written on my desktop. Or maybe I’ll do that in the morning. Right now I could use a cupcake and a professional hug—both of which I’m resigned to only dream about.

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BEA Recap

I feel the need to recap my trip to New York for Book Expo America because it was quite a trip indeed. I got hugged by a professional hugger, interviewed by a 12 year-old Dungeon Master, celebrated Dogtoberfest with 2 pugs in lederhosen, and ate a cupcake the size of my head and saw God shortly after. Or maybe it was Moses. No matter, that darn cupcake was a religious experience. I’m getting light-headed just thinking about it.

BEA is 3 days long but I think the only way I’ll get something written is to break it down into days. It was quite an overwhelming experience and one you may very well care nothing about but hey—whose blog is this anyway?

Friday:
It will take time to fully recover from Book Expo America, the most surreal and scariest jaunt into the bowels of the human psyche this little convention-goer has ever seen. Like I said, Book Expo is the show young writers dream about—a convention center likely in a seedy part of some metropolitan city filled with free books piled from floor to rafters. Authors, editors, agents, and professional huggers. In my fantasy, authors are all friends, the editors are all editing and the agents are all clamoring to offer representation. (The hugger wasn’t actually part of my fantasy but I’m finding it hard to leave him out now.)

I was told to bring an extra suitcase because I’ll likely be coming home with more pages than a television network employment fair. I don’t need more books. I just donated five boxes of books. My nightstand isn’t even a nightstand anymore; it’s…well…a pile of books with a drawer filled with more books sticking out of the middle. I deliberately bought smallish bookshelves in hopes I’d be deterred from buying more books. Didn’t work. I just found more creative places to stash my books. I guess this is the same kind of theory as to have your dinner on a small plate so you’ll eat less. This also is complete bunk because I happen to enjoy small foods like M&Ms and Fruit Loops, which can do a lot of damage on a small plate.

Imagine my delight when I’m told I’ll get to attend BEA this year—just one of the many perks of working for a publishing company. Perhaps they sent me because I could perform double duty—act as Associate Brand Manager for Mirrorstone books AND promote my own book, Confession of a Part-Time Sorceress. Okay! Plus BEA was in New York this year, which is always a nice bonus. Away we go!

One of the best parts of going to BEA was finally getting to meet Hallowmere author, Tiffany Trent. We’ve been working together for several months now on the upcoming release of her awesome series but never met face to face. She’s great. We bonded over our love of 80’s bands (she’s a Duranie, I’m a butt-rocker) and our alter egos, Trudie and Kiki who strap us down to kitchen chairs and force us to eat dessert. Bitches!

In keeping with my fantasy, the Javits Center is absolutely monstrous and yes there were free books piled nearly to the rafters. I’m sure there were authors, editors and agents there but I didn’t see any. Or at least, didn’t notice any. They actually look remarkably like librarians, publishers, and bookstore owners. Who knew? What I did see were people who may or may not have anything to do with the publishing industry, storm our booth demanding to know where the “free stuff” was. Perhaps these people too were low on bookshelf space, which is why they TRIED TO STEAL OURS. That’s right. OUR DISPLAYS!
“Are you giving these away after the show?”
No.
“You’re not going to ship them all the way back to Seattle, right?”
Wrong.
“My apartment is only seventeen blocks from here. My friend with a truck can come by on Sunday and pick them up.”
How about you have your friend with the truck take you to Ikea to BUY YOUR OWN STINKIN’ BOOKSHELVES? But please help yourself to the free bookmarks.

We also had someone try to steal our Sharpies. Yes, Sharpies. They’re cool and all but three black Sharpies on a folding table do not a give-away make. I mean, why would Wizards of the Coast be giving away Sharpies anyway? I’m not seeing the connection there.

I seldom left our booth on Day One, mostly because I was afraid it wouldn’t be there when I returned. I did manage to make nice with the cookbook people who had an exhibit next to us. I was drawn in by the 1,000 Cheesecake Recipes signage on their shelves. That’s a whole lot of cheesecake and let me remind you, cheesecake fits very nicely on a small plate.

Another big event in little author world was the three interviews I did on Friday. “Did” as in answered the questions. How cool is that? Everyone was very nice and asked intelligent, well-thought questions, which I hope I answered in an intelligent, well thought out way. One of my interviewers was a 12-year-old Dungeon Master who is the nicest, most articulate, charming kid I’ve ever met. He and his mother (who was also very sweet and obviously skilled at raising polite, articulate children) conducted the interview and of course he’ll end up giving me a scathing review because I’ve been telling everyone how great this kid is. Ain’t that always how it goes?

This was also the first day I saw God. It happened after I ate the noggin-sized cupcake. Let’s talk about the cupcake. Joe from our events team brought a nondescript brown paper bag into the booth and told me if I could guess what was in it, I could have half. I said cupcake. Not sure why, but Joe was certainly impressed. But this wasn’t just a cupcake. It was carrot cake with—wait for it—cream cheese COCONUT frosting. As if cream cheese weren’t good enough on it’s own! I blacked out it was so good. And Joe was either so amused or sympathetic, he promised to bring more cupcakes on Day 2. If you happen to be in Manhattan or will be ever in your lifetime, get ye self to Burgers & Cupcakes STAT. And send some to me?

Day One ends with another fabulous meal (and yes I’m counting the giant cupcake as a meal) at a trendy, modern restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen where everything is cement, white and accented with tall green grass potted in silver rectangles. Bathrooms were great and I’m kind of a bathroom snob. I will judge you and your establishment by your loo. Sorry, but that’s how I operate. Some people judge on looks or intelligence or political preference. I judge fixtures and hand towels and availability of Neat Seats. I’d tell you the name of this fine establishment but honestly all I remember was what looked like a ruin stone carving in the cement to the right of the door. I told you it was trendy.

We walked back to the lovely Affinia hotel, happy and full and ready for Day Two. By the way, the Affinia used to be studio apartments so every room has a kitchen. By far the biggest kitchen I ever saw in Manhattan. The bathrooms were decent but rose dramatically in my esteem the second I spied Aveda toiletries! Shampoo, conditioner, moisturizer, soap and mouthwash. I hid them every morning in my nightstand so the housekeepers would give me a fresh supply. I love you, Affinia housekeepers!

And that is a wrap. Stay tuned for Day Two and Three. The hugger, a book signing, the real Rainman, a toucan, a shrunken head, another God sighting, and more cupcakes! Oh my!

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BEA Bound?

Me too! Just one of the perks working in publishing is you get to travel to the coolest industry shows. Not only will I be there promoting the great line of Mirrorstone titles but I’ll be donning a second hat and promoting my very own book, Confessions of a Part-Time Sorceress. I’ve wanted to go to Book Expo America since I was a wee writer (and reader.) OK maybe not so wee but for a while now. Make sure to stop by the Wizards of the Coast booth and say hello and get your very own free advanced reader’s copy signed.

Saturday, June 2nd from 11:00AM – 1:00PM. (What? I’m going to miss lunch????)

Lucky me will be signing along side The New York Times best-selling author, R.A. Salvatore. While you’re waiting in line to talk to him, you can watch my palms sweat, my cheeks flush and me trying desperately not to toss the authentic New York bagel I most likely had for breakfast that day onto my new shoes (which I will also undoubtedly be wearing). Sounds fun, eh?

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GenCon

What is GenCon? Well, if you have to ask, you’re probably not planning on going. But I am! You can’t write a book about D&D and not hit a few gamer conventions. Especially GenCon—the longest running gaming convention in the world. Lots going on in the Wizard’s booth but who cares about all that? I’ll be there promoting Confessions of a Part-Time Sorceress and you should be there too. More info coming soon.

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