I had a better time at Bouchercon than I thought I'd have. Which may sound weird, since it's a crime fiction convention, and crime fiction is a deep passion of mine. And sure, it was cool to see Michael Connelly and Sue Grafton hoofing around Long Beach. But I went down there thinking of it as a business trip, a chance to hype my book, to get the word out. Not as a vacation, and not as something that would be a lot of fun. 

But it was fun. I sold some books, and I made some connections, but more than that, I got to meet and hang with some writers I respect, like John McFetridge and David Swinson. That made the trip worthwhile.

Jacques Filippi, Your Correspondent, David Swinson, and John McFetridge. Photo by Tanis Mallow.

Writing is a solitary gig--that's one of its chief pleasures. My fifty-second pitch at the Bouchercon New Author's Brunch began with me saying, "I'm not a morning person, and I'm not a people person." Which is true. But I think what Bouchercon taught me was the pleasure of hanging with other crime writers.

My closest writing friends have typically been people working in different genres or mediums. This was the first time I really got to hang with people who work in the same genre as me, who struggle with the same problems I do, and who hold the same authors in regard. And it's an addicting feeling. As much as I love Vancouver's anarchist poets, I'm definitely not one of them. Nor am I a screenwriter, a fantasy/sci-fi buff, a romance writer, or a literary critic. I respect those genres, aspire to them on occasion, but crime fiction is my thing. And it's good to be reminded that it's our thing, something shared by millions of people. 

With Don and Jen Longmuir from Scene of the Crime Books. Photo by Dietrich Kalteis.

At Bouchercon you see people who are pure fans. You see people who are at the beginning of their writing careers, searching for a way into the walled city. You see established writers, big names, midlist authors, booksellers, critics, scholars. And people like me who fit somewhere in between those categories. The tables at the convention center are littered with bookmarks and book flyers, gew-gaws and doodads, all trying to hook the attention of publishers or agents or readers. It's obscene self-promotion, yeah, but it's also a beautiful collage of aspiration, a tribute to a shared love of a particular genre.

I'm privileged to do what I do, and have these opportunities. So thank you, Bouchercon, for letting me add my junk to the pile.

Literally.