|
snoopy369
|
 |
Of the Peanuts Gallery
Apr 2004
time: 23:35
|
|
Noon, Thursday, June 4, at the Random House Exhibit
Bill Bryson, Dave Barry, Joseph Ellis, China Mièville, Erik Larson, and John Irving are sitting at a table, eating sandwiches.
"Hey, man, that was a rough crowd," Bill said. "I swear, why those guys get so hyped up over a guy writing about a bunch of dead people, I'll never understand ..."
"Yeah, exactly how I feel," said John. "I mean, yes, I did write Widow For One Year, but that's not the same. At least my main characters were alive."
"Yeah, whatever," said Erik. "My main character killed at least a dozen people - and that's just the architect."
"Who wants to read about *people*, anyways? Writing about constructs and other post-human beings is much more fun. Humans are so ... past tense," said China.
"At least my subjects *did* something with their lives... Who could imagine a better character to write about than the founders of our great nation??" Joseph exclaimed.
"You guys are getting waaay too into this discussion. Just try writing newspaper columns with a four year old walking around you ... and then try writing them about your four year old ... and still being funny!" Dave had a great sense of humour. At one time.
"So anyway, I think the nonfiction crowd was a bit thin. What about you, China?" asked Erik.
"Yeh, fiction seemed pretty crowded. I dunno, there weren't enough authors on our side of the booth."
"I agree," said John. "Way too many of your sci-fi guys. I could barely get to the bathroom - had to forgo that second diet coke."
"Eh, i needed three to get through my slow day," said Joseph. "You, Dave?"
"Yeh, it was pretty boring over in the humor depantment. Haha. Only one diet coke, though. I hate going to the bathroom in these places ... halfway across the building, and that's like two city blocks..."
At the Penguin Putnam Pavilion ...
Robert Parker was sitting having a sandwich with everything on it, when Orson Scott Card walked up to the table.
"Heya stranger, are you well?" asked Orson.
"Not bad, not bad. Too bad we weren't selling books, as I'd have made a ... killing ... haha. Mystery author humor. Anyway, all the fans were here asking for me, as Tom didn't seem to be available."
"Really? I haven't seen him around, either. Perhaps we should have him paged?" asked Orson.
"Um, i'm sure he'll turn up, eventually ..." said Robert. "Anyway, did you have a good time this morning?"
"Yeah, busy enough, Tor has a lot of good authors here."
"Cool. Well, see you later. Hopefully Tom turns up somewhere ..." Robert said, looking around.
At the Harper-Collins Area
Joyce Carol Oates, Jonathan Safran Foer, and Elmore Leonard are sitting around a table. Joyce is eating some chicken, Elmore has a hamburger with buffalo wings on the side, and Jon has a salad and a large piece of apple pie.
"Ah, that was refreshing," said Elmore. "I love seeing all the people who sell my books asking questions and talking about my plots. Makes me want to get out there and have a couple other books ghostwritten, er, write a few more books, wait ..."
"Elmore, you're not supposed to talk about that. It's like saying Macbeth or something," said Joyce. "Everyone uses them every so often, but you don't talk about it. You know that."
"Yeah, yeh, sorry. Slipped. Anyways, we're in good company ..."
"Well, I write all of *my* books," said Jonathan. "Well, all one of them, anyways."
"Yeah, though i did see you had quite a few fans over there," said Joyce. "Good thing you got to slip away for a few minutes to grab a drink."
"Yeah, must have needed a ... drink ... of a different sort, haha," said Elmore. "That crowd was murder, though. I think Harper Collins needs to shell out for a bigger booth for us next year ..."
"Yeah, sounds like a good idea. Or an in-event-space water cooler like those guys at Little, Brown, and Co. (T.W.) have ..." said Joyce.
"That would be sweet ... " said Jonathan. "Heck, even a kosher deli on the premises ... city famous for Kosher Hot Dogs and they don't bother to bring a single kosher meat item to the fast food at the convention. Heck, even Wrigley Field has more Kosher options than this ..."
"True, true. Maybe next year. New York is a bit more hospitable to the Jewish author," suggested Joyce.
At the above-named Time Warner annex ...
"Dave, Dave. So many readers among these booksellers ... it's a wonder you haven't made a #1 bestseller yet. You think maybe they hide your books from the customers, in case they might actually *buy* one and wreck their displays?" said Alice.
"Yeah, Dave, it's a wonder they don't spend all day talking about your books. They certainly seem to have spent all day talking to you ..." said George.
"Well, I think maybe they spend so much time reading my books that they forget to actually talk to customers ... haha. Anyway, I have a strong persistent readership ..."
"Well, perhaps. Although I think my characters are doing pretty well too ... heck, I might just have to kill *myself* to get a bigger readership base than this," retorted George.
"Persistent, bleh. The fans are so fickle ... I'm happy to have one big hit, and maybe a spot on Oprah next time around. There's no counting on the fans. Though I have to say i'm jealous of people like Tom (Clancy) and John (Grisham), they've managed to keep huge reader bases even through some pretty lousy books," opined Alice.
"Yeah, well that's the business. Write a couple of stellar thrillers and people will buy any twenty thousand words you put on paper," griped David. "As opposed to people like me ... write some of the best short stories in the modern english language, and all you end up with are a bunch of lousy booksellers who apparently don't talk to customers ... blah."
In the middle of the floor ...
Neil Gaiman and George Carlin ran into one another again.
"Hey George, how's it going?"
"Not bad, not bad. Though those seven dirty words are going to get me in trouble one of these days ... my fans can't stop saying them around me. Bloody annoying. Wish i had written 'The Seven Nice Words People Don't Say Enough While Waiting In Line For A Soda' ..."
"True, true. My fans are a bit rabid as well. Wish they didn't keep asking me to draw Sandman, though. I am not a horrible artist, but I don't do the drawings in the issues, as any REAL fan would know. Just the writing."
"Oh, definitely understandable. Heck, I get you confused with that McKeon guy sometimes myself."
"Admit it, George, you don't know either of us."
"Well, okay then, true."
"haha. Anyways, have fun."
"You too. "
At the Simon and Schuster Table ...
Ann Rule, David McCullough, and Hunter Thompson are sitting at the table having a brisk lunch. Ann has a turkey salad, David has a ham sandwich, and Hunter has a huge roast beef sandwich with plenty of Au Jus.
"Wow, that was a rush," said David. "With this many hungry fans, I bet my new paperback box set is going to sell like hotcakes this winter. It's got all three of my award winners ... my two Pulitzers and my National Book Award winner ... plus something i scrounged up to add $8 to the price. Jefferson, I think. Whatever."
"Sheesh... you think you'd have to write something new every so often to make any money in this business," groused Hunter.
"Oh behave, Hunter, you know you made plenty of money on that film based on a book you wrote based on your drug induced hallucinations of Las Vegas ... how much easier could it get?" said Ann.
"Yeah, well, i'm not the only one to have a movie made based on my hallucinations ..."
"Hey, I actually research my crimes. I get into their *heads* and figure out exactly why they commit the crimes they commit. It's hard work!" retorted Ann.
"Very true. Research is a hard task, but someone has to do it," said David in a conciliatory tone. "Hunter, you must do research too, after all you are a journalist."
"Yeah, whatever. Research, sure. How about researching how a city with italian beef as good as this could make a sandwich this bad? Maybe we can get that Schlosser guy in, give it a whirl. Check if anyone has ever managed to choke on one or get food poisoning or something. Makes me wish I hadn't gone to get it."
"Well, Tom over there doesn't look to happy," said Ann.
"No, he doesn't," said David. "Let's take a look ..."
Tom Clancy was sitting down in a chair, sagging really, with a odd look to his neck. Odd, because it was broken. He was holding a coke in one hand and a pen in the other. The pen was nearly out of ink. He also had a picture of a submarine drawn onto his shirt, obviously by an amateur, and the words "Hunt This You Pompous Braggart" written on it.
Ann screamed, and David went to grab her and make sure she was okay. Hunter ran over to the telephone to call 911. They confirmed he was dead, and took him away. The cops decided to let the conference continue, as they want to find the killer.
Tom Wolfe wandered up afterwards, and ran into Robert and Orson. "Heya guys, what is going on?" he asked.
"Well, Tom, your counterpart Mr. Clancy seems to have been ... killed," said Orson. "I'm afraid it has shaken Robert here up a bit."
"Wow, see what you miss if you're the signature speaker ..." said Tom. "That's sick ... I wonder who could have done it?"
"Yeah, I wonder ... " replied Orson. "Hmm... could it have been one of us?"
"Well, it's not me, if that's what you mean," said Tom Wolfe. "But now that you mention it, those words are a bit ... odd ... for a fan, don't you think?"
"Yeah... odd ... *shudder*," said Robert. "And to think I was just talking to him a few hours ago ..."
"Well, at least you didn't go get a soda with him," said Orson. "Although ...," and with that Orson looked away thoughtfully and decided the Tor booth was the better place to be.
"Well, good luck, Robert," said Tom Wolfe, also deciding the Farrar, Straus and Giroux booth is a bit ... safer ... given the circumstances.
The authors conferenced a few minutes later, sure that one of their member had committed the gruesome murder, based on the clues. But whom?
Last edited by snoopy369 on 15-03-2005 at 07:43
|
14-03-2005 21:29
.
)... 
ACK!
Is this being killed early thing going to become a permanent one?
It happened last time too...
|