Don't forget your nutcracker

The first night of the Willamette Writers Conference there was a Writers Faire co-sponsored by Willamette Writers and Oregon Writers Colony. It's a lovely event—a room full of writers with their books. Very comfortable. You can chat at length with anyone you like, and there are lots of chances to buy books. I've gone in previous years and I've come to look forward to it.

This year, I had an author encounter unlike any I've ever experienced.

Let me come right out and say the Author in question was a very nice fellow. An older gentleman, he seemed like an ideal grandpa: friendly, outgoing, quick to laugh. He introduced himself and shook my hand and asked my name. He asked me if I was going to the Conference and what brought me.

So far so good. I told him I'd come to the conference to meet people and to devel—

"That's wonderful, that's wonderful," he said. "Here have a pen."

Oh. Well, okay. He handed me his pen. Anyway, I hope to lear—

"Do you have children? Grandchildren? They need pens too. Here."

Um, okay. Two more pens. I decided to give up on explaining why I'd come to the conference.

"Does your wife ever write notes? Take one for her too. Take a few, in case she loses one."

Now at this point, I had enough pens for my wife, son, daughter, poodle, cat, and lizard, as well as for several theoretical grandchildren. No clue what his book was about though. I figured I should at least find out what all the pens were for.

"What's your book abou—"

"It's the true story of an assassin! Tell you what, have a magnet. I bet your kids need magnets too. Where you from? Back east I bet."

"Well, Ohio originally, but I've lived out here for over—"

"A lot of this book happens on a farm in the midwest." (Assassin on a farm?) "I bet you can relate to that. Do you have enough magnets?"

"Um—" I am juggling magnets and pens by now, but it's not much of a performance. I drop several.

"That's okay. I have more. This is my daughter. She helps me out because I can't see anymore. What's your name?"

"Bill."

"Honey, this is Bill. Do we have any more pens? Give him some bookmarks. He used to live on a farm." (I did?) "There's a scene on a farm I'd bet you'll like." At this point, he picked up one of his books and started leafing through it. His daughter smiled at me and said hello, and helped me collect my pens and magnets. She handed me half a dozen bookmarks too.

"I can't find it," the Author said.

"That's okay—"

"Honey, help me find the pig scene, you know the one. I've got to sell Bill here a book!"

Oh, Lord.

Here's the thing. I might have bought his book. Hard to say, at this point. An assassin on a farm sounds a little iffy, but also just weird enough that it might have been interesting. If I'd ever been able shed myself of pens and magnets and bookmarks, I might have been able to actually look at his book. Maybe he had a fresh and unique perspective on barnyard political killings.

"Normally they're $12.95, but the Faire Special is $10 only!"

"Um—" I look around frantically. He's not set up to take credit cards, looks like. "I didn't bring any cash. Can you take a credit card?" (Please oh please oh please oh please.)

"Oh, no. I left my nutcracker at home!"

"Well," I said, avoiding the whole nutcracker theme altogether. I already felt like my balls were in a vice. "Maybe we can catch up later in the conference."

"Yeah, well, okay." Not so much bubbling enthusiasm in his voice now.

At that point, Another victim happened by and the Author shifted focus. I slipped away. A few tables over, I bumped into a friend. "You escaped," he said.

"Barely."

"That guy was almost as bad as J.A. Konrath."

I didn't want to go there. I laughed a bit, then had a thought. "You have any kids? Here, have a pen."

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Over at the Killer Year, Sandra discusses blatant self-promotion in more general terms, with more at her blog. Be sure to check them out.