I’m in New York City for Thrillerfest. It’s the week when we authors descend on the city to practice the dark arts of suspense. And eat Reuben sandwiches.
Yesterday I taught an all-day workshop on writing, and this morning I taught a session on creating suspense on the page. My voice is already gone. So if you’re at the conference and strike up a conversation, I’m not giving you the silent treatment. I just can’t talk too much.
Or maybe I was struck speechless when I saw that Walter Mosley was also giving a talk to the conference: Plotting the Unconscious. WALTER MOSLEY. I sat in the front row, gasping in fangirl awe. I would have screamed like a teenager at a Beatles concert but, fortunately: my voice was already gone.
More reports to follow.
(Obligatory view from my hotel window: looking south across 42nd Street.)