Thursday, October 17th....

The conference starts today so I warm up my professional smile. It suffers a bit from yesterday's red wine, but I'm standing. I wait in line to register and run into an author I have met briefly before. I like her and our books are often linked on Amazon.com, the literary equivalent of six degrees of separation. She is wearing an unusual hat and, a few moments later, when I see two women wearing the same style of hat, I decide to be friendly. I ask if they are fans of the first woman. Oh, dear. Bad move. It turns out they are authors and I have put my foot in it. One of the women is quite friendly and we chat for a few moments. But the second gives me a look that includes narrowed eyes and flared nostrils: "I am not a fan," the looks says. "I am an author. And you, my dear, are a cockroach I would love to crush beneath my boots."

"My, my," I mutter under my breath as I escape, "don't we take ourselves seriously?"

My friends later inform me that my remark could not possibly have been a bigger insult to the lady in question, who takes herself seriously indeed. But I feel bad when I reflect that my comment probably seemed like one of those passive-aggressive cannon shots that only female authors in the presence of other female authors can take. Bouchercon is a prime breeding ground for such behavior. In fact, I begin collecting these gems over the next few days, marveling at the malice they manage to convey under the guise of friendliness. Most of all, I wonder at how blissfully ignorant their authors seem to be when it comes to how much such comments say about them. Some of my favorites over the next few days will include:

"I really love the color of your hair. It looks so natural."

"Oh, yeah. They asked me to do that reading first, but I turned them down."

"She has lost a lot of weight -- but have you noticed how much older she looks?"

They should be serving saucers of milk at the bar, I think, as I confine my hardcore socializing to a group of friends who utter their insults outright and do not hide behind faux compliments.

Perhaps because of too many early encounters of this ilk, after we register Carol and I slip out for one more foray into Austin proper. We tour neighborhoods of vast one-story homes and absurdly manicured lawns. The sheer number of imagined lives behind all those stone walls is paralyzing. We encounter yet more dogs who refuse to budge from their spot in the middle of the road -- they must train them not to give in at what's left of the Alamo.

We pull over in a quiet parking space near the Capitol Building so I can clean out the cache on my digital camera. Birds chirp. Leaves rustle. Cars whoosh by on the nearby highway. The near silence is divine... until a man with a leaf blower rambles up to within inches of our convertible and stands there contentedly, blasting a roar in our ears and filling our hair with leaf bits. Just another bucolic autumn morning in America.

Carol is anxious to see the tower on campus that hosted America's first amateur sniper attack and so I oblige, finally discovering a good view of it from across a campus quad. Carol is not the only one getting out and taking photos. But when Carol (who is from Maryland near Montgomery County) gets back in the car, she decides she'd like to return to the hotel so she can check on her kids. We crank up the music and go....

We return to the hotel at noon to find the hordes have arrived. The noise level has quadrupled within the few hours we were away. I wave to faces whose names I don't quite remember and escape to the hotel room. Carol calls home and everyone is fine. I call my office to see to see if my current client has called in. I have a job I must finish before I can really have fun; the afternoon has been set aside so I can take care of it before the merriment commences. Fortunately, I get a phone call and it is Margaret, another writer from my home state. Do I want to meet her for red meat downstairs? My blood sings at the thought of iron and I traipse happily toward the elevator.

Margaret is in a grand mood. She has left a book-in-progress behind and is happy for the break. She has also known me for a long time and has seen me go through my writerly ups and downs.

"It's good to see you back," she says after a few minutes of watching me happily greet people I have missed over the past two years.

"I know. I skipped last year's conference."

"That isn't what I meant," she says with a smile.

She is right. My last Bouchercon was spent in an angry fog of frustration further compounded by non-specific resentment at non-specific idiots, most of whom worked in publicity and marketing. A 2-year break from writing has cured all that. I explain to Margaret about the miracle of finding the joy in writing again and she listens with a kind smile in place. She actually knows my parents, so I am always acutely aware that she can see them in me and I find it's important to me. In recent years, I have begun to cultivate the good parts of me that comes from my mother -- a brilliant but quite tortured soul before Alzheimer's robbed her of all that made her unique. In fact, in some ways, my adult life has been a 30-year journey to reconcile the dark days and learn to remember the good ones. And I have come to acknowledge that she's there, in me, whether I like it or not -- so I may as well find a way to live with the best she has given me and to be happy with it.

Margaret -- who has seen my mother at both her best and her worst -- knows this. She has writer's eyes and can watch you even when she appears to be talking to someone else. At some point during the weekend's festivities, she will say to me, "You know, you are the best of your mother and father," reducing me to private tears that someone besides me remembers my parents when they were young and full of life. (Maybe because of this, Margaret becomes my touchstone of the convention and I find myself running into her at nearly every important moment. She's having a great time, too and we will smile and wave at each other across a series of rooms.... our sign to one another that life is good.)

It is not even Thursday night and already I have nearly lost my voice from talking too much. An afternoon spent finishing my business project takes care of the problem. Who knew a mere 4-hour vow of silence could so effective? Which may be too bad for a lot of people, I think to myself as I prepare to head for the bar early that evening. I have finished my work and am ready for my reward. I hear a frozen margarita calling my name.

I have a great fear of heights. Just being on the 7th floor and seeing those large gaps between the railing and posts makes me queasy. "Keep passing the open windows," I tell myself. I run into Maggie and Brian in the hallway outside my room. I am quite pleased to see that Maggie is with an amiable smart ass, and one every bit as intelligent as she is. He makes jokes about the balcony railing, shaking it. The whole floor seems to quiver. I feel faint. My weeks of pre-B'con tanning are in vain. It occurs to me I need to deal with this phobia, so I make myself ride up and down in the glass elevator car several times, looking out over the atrium, coming to terms with the height. It works. I arrive in the lobby desensitized, though not quite ready for rock climbing yet.

"What the hell were you doing riding up and down in the elevator so many times?" some friends ask me. "Are you that ambivalent about being here?"

Hmmph, I think. People who live in glass elevators really shouldn't throw stones.

The lobby bar crowd has once again tripled in size and noise. Carol and I snag drinks, then decide to explore the terrace and grab some fresh air. As I pass by a couple huddled at a small table, the man glances at me, then jumps slightly and turns away. Okay, I think to myself, my hair can't look all that bad... then, halfway out the door, I realize it is another writer who has turned a disagreement with me into a 4-year-and-counting feud. With some shock, I realize that I don't even really know what he looks like, much less what his equally resentful partner looks like, and this drives home the absurdity of my wasting any energy in returning the acrimony. I find myself glad I left it behind me several years ago. It feels good to know I am no longer living my life collecting petty resentments and fanning the flames of literary frustration.

Carol and I forget to eat. I soon find myself sitting at a table with two other authors, both of whom I have enjoyed meeting in the past. They are non-conformists, unafraid to cry bullshit and are always having a damn good time together. We swap gossip with each other, but I soon find myself embroiled in a most improbable conversation:

"Say," one of the authors asks in a very loud voice. "Do you think I could find a goddamn vibrator in this town? Mine gave out and I can't find a decent one at home."

A silence falls over the bar as heads turn our way. I collapse in laughter, then suggest (from the floor) that she should surely be able to find a Texas-sized vibrator somewhere in Austin.

"Ask the concierge!" Carol says.

"God no," I choke out. "He'll press a button and produce a computer print-out of their guests' favorite model, with precise directions on six ways to use it."

The hotel, I have discovered -- and especially the concierge - is almost obnoxiously organized and efficient.

Carol and I locate more usual suspects. The hours pass by in minutes. I hear the rumbling thunder of Gary's laughter and know that my favorite West Coaster has arrived. I finally get to meet Mitchy in person, a lovely woman from the U.K. who has long written me about how much she likes my Casey books. Better yet, she has been known to send chocolates. She turns out to be wonderful in person, bubbly and smart and good-natured. I have the best readers, I think yet again, there's not a pill in the entire bunch. Eventually, though, the sheer number of new faces is overwhelming and I see too many people I was hoping not to see. Carol and I escape to our room for a breather.

After a few minutes spent trying to make a dent in the 3,677 cosmetic items still littering our bathroom, we pour ourselves glasses of wine from our in-room stash and wander out into the Texas evening. Glasses in hand, we stumble across Tangerine's, the bar and disco that's attached to the hotel. We find a local benefit in progress. "Come in!" the people at the front door beg us. "Come in and bid in our silent auction!" We heed their call and discover, to our relief, that absolutely no one else from Bouchercon is there. Instead, it's a whole other planet busily orbiting ours. In fact, we're on Pluto: Planet of Lithe Urban Texas Oglers. Everyone seems to have a slender body and a drink in hand. They eye one another even more than they eye the merchandise lined up along the tables. We are surrounded by late twenty and young thirty-something professionals who want to do the right thing and don't mind getting slightly drunk in the process. All the women look like Jerry Hall from behind and Mr. Ed from the front. All the men look like they design computer software for a living and plan to retire at age 55. I feel like Miss Marple among them.

But things are looking up. "I'm sorry," a waiter says as he approaches us. "But I see you have glasses from the other part of the hotel and we have two separate liquor licenses. I'm going to have to take the wine away." He smiles. "The good news is I can replace it for free."

We nod solemnly, then high five one another once his back is turned. Dregs of nameless merlot gives way to brimming $16 glasses of the premium house brand and we debate how many times we might be able to get away with this in the course of a single evening. To top it off, people urge food on us and we begin to feel like the guests of honor at a surprise party. It is pleasant being so far removed from our lives -- not to mention far removed from the the jockeying, allegiances, grudges and hopes flooding the lobby next door. The lights in the disco are low, the music is loud, we're surrounded by strangers and we can be anyone we choose to be.

We drink more wine and wander around the silent auction looking for something to buy. In my alcohol haze, I become obsessed with a basket of Mary Kay cosmetics that sits in the middle of the head table like some chunky matron at a party of Carolyn Bissette look-alikes. I bid on it, then sit on a stool nearby, glaring at anyone who dares to bend over the bid sheet that bears my name and price.

"You didn't just bid on that, did you?" Carol asks incredulously.

I smile and sip at my wine, unwilling to be distracted. I'm keeping an eye on an older woman who is moving a little too close to my Mary Kay for comfort. Maybe I should take her down now while I have the chance?

"That's a ghastly gift basket," Carol points out. "Is that a white teddy bear I see sitting in the middle of it? How old are you?"

"Shut up," I mumble. "That can be my present for Zuzu. I want those cosmetics!"

Upstairs in our hotel room, there is no longer enough room left for even a single tube of lipstick to be added, but I still have visions of staggering upstairs with a gift basket as big as the bathtub for the bargain price of $35. And it will all go to a good cause, besides!

"Katy, there's blue eye shadow in there," Carol says with great finality, dragging me away with the promise that Lise is due to arrive any moment.

"But that woman is getting ready to bid over my--"

"Let's go," she interrupts firmly. I follow meekly, accepting my defeat.

As I step out into the fresh air, I come to my senses. My god, I think, Mary Kay? What was I thinking? "What if I'm the high bidder?" I ask Carol anxiously, trading one obsession for another.

"Will you forget that fucking gift basket?" she orders me as we approach the hotel.

"You bid $45 for the Texas flag," I point out.

"Katy."

It must be e-bay withdrawal, I think hazily as we push through the hotel doors. And stop. My god. We stare at the teeming, roaring mass that now surrounds the lobby bar. The tide has turned. Our ship has come in. There, displayed across the panoply of the lobby, is just about everyone I have missed over these past two years. There are shouts and squeals and rounds of drinks and laughter plus stories and lots and lots of lies about how we look exactly the same.

Thank god Lise has arrived. She has the rare talent of being able to combine extraordinary silliness with enduring sensibility. Plus, she has honed her survival skills through years of convention-going and is a good influence when it comes to meals. "Food," she declares just as the walls begin to pulsate. "We need food." We set out in search of dinner.

Many hours later, sated and content, we wander back toward the hotel. It is a perfect night, filled with warm air that is spiked unexpectedly with a gently cool breeze. The sky is clear, the stars twinkle high above us, the moon hangs nearly full in the sky. We have touched the edges of drunkenness and skirted back to semi-sobriety, thus adding an over-inflated sense of self-satisfaction to our repertoire of good feelings.

Lise and I are about a quarter mile from the hotel when we notice a figure hurrying by. It is a man. I catch a glimpse of his face plus the glimmer of a Bouchercon badge banging against his beige windbreaker.

"Lise," I say in a loud whisper. "That guy didn't have any wrinkles!"

We stare at each other in wonder, then watch him stride toward the far edges of the parking lot. Panic overcomes us. He is escaping!

"Come back," I shout into the darkness. "You're our age. You can't go."

Incredibly, the man stops.

This confuses us. He must be a very good sport. He stands in the dark, waiting.

"What's your name?" I finally call out.

His first name floats back on the wind.

I have a heart attack. There could not possibly be two men named that at Bouchercon.

"Lise," I hiss as I grab her arm in a vise grip. "He wrote my favorite book last year." I go from cool writer to flustered fan in an instant. "Wait," I cry as I rush toward him, Lise hot on my heels, either willing to go along or planning to protect him against my onslaught. To his great credit, the man does not flinch as we charge across the pavement toward him. Perhaps being accosted by strange women is a normal occurrence for him. Or, perhaps he, too, is up for adventure. We drag him into the light -- this proves a very good move -- and introduce ourselves.

Fifteen minutes later, we are still standing in the parking lot, swapping stories and questions, laughing and joking with one another. "You can't go back to your hotel," Lise and I tell him firmly. "It's barely 11:00." We are afraid if we let him go, he'll evaporate, leaving us with the absurdly-toupeed drunk or the perpetual Bouchercon lech with the good tan and bad personality.

He holds out an arm so I can apply the obligatory twist, then follows us back toward the hotel's front door. We tumble through the doors, laughing, and our laughter is a good omen. We have made a wonderful new friend.

By now, the roar of the bar crowd sounds like a freight train approaching. We wade into the madness. People have clearly been drinking steadily since I last left. Drinks spill, eyes glitter, hands grab my arm and I begin to feel just a wee bit claustrophobic. I am saved by a more sensible mind than my own, when another writer appears suddenly at my elbow." Shall we go out on the terrace?" he suggests, sounding a bit like Cary Grant talking to Deborah Kerr.

We escape to a miraculously empty terrace and find a dark corner where we hide and look out over the pristine Texas night. My drink sits, forgotten, as we discover a myriad of beliefs, hopes, frustrations and childhood memories in common. It is a rare meeting and I find myself wishing we could stay in the dark corner forever. (Indeed, that quiet hour unexpectedly becomes the conversation I most like to remember when I look back.) Alas, just as we agree it is wonderful to have found a quiet corner and fresh air, the door to the bar opens and shrieking laughter floods into the night, followed by a large man with a large cigar.

"This breeze is great," he declares as he leans into our faces, seeking the shelter of our protected corner. "But it sure makes it hard to light my cigar." He exhales a plume of exhaust in my face. "Nothing like fresh air, eh?"

No matter. I am in too good of a mood to care. I have discovered someone fabulous, he is sitting a mere one foot away, and I find myself in a generous mood. "Sit down," I invite the cigar smoker and he is soon joined by others seeking sobriety in the night air. Lise finds us, as does Jeremy, and an adorable young man who is engaged to our cocktail waitress and who has clearly been over-indulging in the perks of free alcohol. He is impressed we are writers. I leave him to his illusions and listen as the cigar smoker -- a Canadian -- regales us with stories of the Royal Family. "Liz," he calls the Queen. "You know, Her Maj."

Lise and I collapse in giggles, the first of many such collapses. "Her Maj?" I think to myself.

An hour later, well past midnight, I head upstairs to bed: sober, content, sleepy, tired and very, very happy. I didn't really want to come to Austin, I only came because I had backed out on Carol last year and could not bring myself to be such a rat again. But now I am supremely happy I am here. I am surrounded by old friends who make me feel like me -- and I have already met someone who, I can tell, could well become a lasting friend. My good karma is kicking in.