Two years ago, last May, I had the chance to hop on a train in Brussels, Belgium (where I lived at the time) to attend a mystery writer's conference in Bristol, England. The headliners included Lee Childs, P.D. James, Sue Grafton and Jeffrey Deaver, among many talented others.
I had never experienced anything like it, and the weekend was a pivotal turning point in my life as an aspiring author. The book sale room was stacked with mystery novels, all written by authors in attendance. The panels included a wide-range of speakers, from newly published authors to experienced forensic researchers. Avid mystery fans mingled with their favorite authors, and the book signing queues often stretched down the hall. I was in awe of it all.
My table for one of the dinners included university student volunteers, excited to embark on their creative writing careers; a newly published author who had just hit the bestseller list; and two super-fans, who spent their summers driving around to various book festivals, filling their car boot with stacks of first edition signed copies. They admitted to not having room in their house for all of their books. And I could have listened to them talk about their favorite (and least favorite) autograph experiences all night.
Later, sipping cocktails in the bar with some of the newer authors sealed the deal: This was what I wanted to do with my life. In those 48-hours, my mystery writing hobby, became a passion. I vowed to do whatever it took to try and make it to the other side of that panel table.
It's a good thing, too. Because my pre-arranged live pitch session on Saturday morning was about to become the most difficult 30 minutes of my writing career thus far.
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