(*disclaimer: If I forget to mention you, or a certain event, it’s not personal. It means: I’m still foggy while recovering from my flu and/or I’m a horrible person who sometimes forgets the names of his own children, no really, it’s true*)
Laird and I woke up early to have breakfast with the talented and charming Steve Berman. The breakfast conversation was going wonderfully until Laird annouced that his pancakes were the worst he ever had. Steve finished his eggs quietly then flipped the table in a blind rage.
Then it was on to my two panels. The ten o’clock was Short Horror Fiction: The State of the Art (and Market) Today, which I think went really well. It helped to have moderator Adam Golaski keep everything moving, and of course, pros like Ellen Datlow, Jeanne Cevalos, and Laird Barron weighing in on the subject. The next panel was The Killer Inside Us, which was fine, but I have to admit I was a little disappointed it turned into the serial killer panel.
Fellow writer’s group mate John D. Harvey made the trek up from Rhode Island. We spent the rest of the afternoon splitting time between the pub and the dealers room. In fact, we made ourselves into quite a nice road block near the front door of the dealer’s room at times. I managed to introduce myself to Peter Straub, who was kind and accommodating. Later, after a run through of the Shirley Jackson Award ceremony with MC and GOH Liz Hand (who was so good to us Jackson folk, thank you thank you Liz!), eleven of us left the hotel for some great Thai food.
Upon return it was pub/wandering the hotel/pub, rinse and repeat. And the night ended like the first: Laird, my flu ridden self, Stephen Jones, and the Canadians in the lobby.