It's what writers don't do enough of (I don't mean ending on a preposition; I mean meeting up and hanging out with real people rather than our electronic creations). We work away in isolation, usually eating too many biscuits and drinking too much coffee, until we develop the 1,000-yard stare and wonder who that strange person is across the other side of the dinner table, and whether you really can make a silencer out of an old baked beans tin and some fibreglass wadding. (Although not in the same context, of course).
Well, it's time to break out. Tomorrow Ann and I are off to CrimeFest in Bristol, at the Marriott Hotel on The Green. Crimefest is all about authors and readers, writers and reviewers, agents and publishers. We'll be chewing the fat, listening in to other conversations we might wish we were part of, wondering in the wee dark hours how much information we've given away in the bar and whether it will be remembered in the morning. (It usually will be, by somebody). And whether that nice chap who just said 'Hi' down the corridor really was the famous author from across the pond.
And while attending panels (I'm on a couple) and listening to how others do it, we'll be realising that we haven't seen enough of the outside world for far too long. No wonder we get introverted.
One thing I'll be thinking about is the release on Friday 31st of my latest Harry Tate book - 'Execution' - (available here (Goldsboro books for signed copies) and here for others, among others.
It will also be cool to answer the question, 'When's your next book out?' with 'Today'.
And I won't be offended if anybody wants a signature. On anything. We authors are sluts for that stuff.
Apart from that, though, seeing Bristol is always a pleasure. Just hope the weather is nice, otherwise we'll be staying indoors. No, hang on; we've been doing too much of that...