Stephen King, Part 3

Stephen King’s talk was effing entertaining.  The man knows how to tell a story.  He had it all – humor, pacing, swearing up the yin yang.  And an appreciation for his audience – a bunch of readers hanging out in a bookstore.

Some stories I’d heard before – he used material from “On Writing,” which I’ve read so often I’ve practically memorized it.  Others I probably gleaned from other sources.  But there was new stuff.  Fresh stuff that gave insight into the man, the myth, the writer.

I particularly loved how he says he has three personas – There’s the guy who was up there in front of us, slightly schlumpy in jeans and t-shirt, shooting the shit with us, out in the world, selling books.  There’s the husband of oh so many years who goes to the grocery store and takes out the garbage.  And then there’s the creepy guy who has a cabin in the woods who writes the books.

That resonated with me.  As a writer, I want to be like Stephen King, with three personas.

He took questions from the audience and it was great fun to see just how excited some people were to be actually speaking to someone who was their hero.  Quivering with the excitement would be an accurate description.  And we were going along, having a good time.  People were asking good questions and he had great responses, until the idiot in the front row asked him to autograph her hat.  He said “No” and that was the end of the fun.

And then we got to stand in ANOTHER line to pick up the book we’d bought earlier.

All in all, a weirdly surreal experience.  And I’d probably do it again.

So, when is Janet Evanovich coming to Reno?

Stephen King, Part 2

After first one line and another, I left Barnes & Noble and got more coffee and something to eat, ran a few errands and then arrived back at the bookstore to stand in my third line of the day.

And this is where the confusion of the whole multiple-line process came to fruition.  For me, anyway.  I was 102^nd in line, but due to some confusion, #101 didn’t show up by the time the doors opened.  #101 was a lovely woman from Chico, and we’d had a nice time getting to know each other while standing in Lines 1 and 2, but alas, she’d gone back to her motel room to take a shower and The Line waits for no woman.

I got in and managed to get a chair facing the podium so I was quite tickled with my luck.  I didn’t realize it at the time, however, but the man in front of me had ridiculously broad shoulders and the need to record the event.  Every.  Single.  Second.  With progressively larger electronic devices that he held to one side so I had to not only crane around the shoulders, but the iPad-enhanced block head.  I probably would have been better off standing, but damn it, I had worked hard for a seat and I wasn’t giving it up.

For nearly two hours we waited.  Around me was revealed fandom of increasingly horrifying proportions.  People were live-tweeting.  A man cruising up and down the center aisle was revealed to be the creator of a Dark Tower-centric website.  Stephen King t-shirts were the norm.  Me?  I just wished I hadn’t had that second cup of coffee.

I finally couldn’t stand it anymore and asked the Tweeter next to me if he would save my seat while I hunted down a restroom.

I cruised the perimeter of the room and perused the huge crowd.  I found #101 leaning against a bookshelf in a pretty darn sweet location – there was no broad-shouldered dude blocking her view.

I did my thing in the ladies’ room and came out to find a security-type planted in front of the men’s room.  Across the narrow hall from the man in black, a woman leaned against the wall.

“Pssst,” she said, gesturing to me.  “Come stand here with me.”

I figured I’d at least get closer and see what she had to say.  Her eyes were a little crazy, but it had been a long morning.  I stood next to her.

“Why are we standing here?”  I whispered, leaning toward her.

“He’s. In. There,” she whispered, gesturing to the men’s room door.  Her eyes got a little crazier.

I looked at the man standing in front of the bathroom door.  I looked at the woman standing next to me.  And I shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” I said, pushing myself from the wall.  “I’m just not that kind of fan.”

And I returned to my seat. 

To be continued…