My Time in the Sun ... Sort Of

So day before yesterday, it finally came: My invitation to attend the annual Edgar Awards. You know, the mystery writers' equivalent of the Oscars? Every year, I promise myself I won't go. Why, I always say, should I spend $150 for the privilege of standing around, being ignored, in a crowd where I know next to no one and no one cares to know me? Why would anyone in their right mind do this? But every year, I find a reason to plunk down my cash, go digging in the closet for Old Faithful (my one evening outfit) and trot downtown to the Grand Hyatt. Afterward, I collect the free books like the consolation prizes they are and shuffle on home, always with one thought in mind: Never again!

This year would mark my fourth Edgar Awards banquet. I've done one every year since returning from Germany. The first year I did it because I was told that this is what one does. It was when I first heard the comparison with the Oscars. Good thing I went, too. It turns out that Michael Connelly was in his second term of being MWA president and he was there. Wow! I'd already met him at the seminar meetings during Oscar -- oops, I mean Edgar -- Week. Emboldened by an itsy-bitsy glass of red wine (I'm a cheap date), I'd even found the courage to talk to him at the Agents and Editors Party. And the night of the banquet, I cornered the poor guy and had my photo taken with him. Michael, of course, as all of my friends know, is my hero. He is one of the few people on this planet who so intimidates me that I can barely utter a word in his presence. Movies stars, politicians, diplomats -- they don't bother me. They're regular people. But Michael? He's a rock star.

So anyway, that was the first Edgar. The second one? Don't remember. (That was probably when I really started wondering, "Why am I doing this?") The third? Well, that was last year, wasn't it? I went because my other literary idol -- Stephen King -- was there. The guy was receiving a lifetime achievement award, I think. I figured it might be my one and only time to see him. Turns out I was wrong. He showed up back in New York a few months later at Symphony Space, where I could've seen him much closer up for far less money. Oh, well. That taught me a lesson. I promised myself, "Never again."

That Edgar was also memorable because I ended up sitting at the same table as Michael's agent. Of course, I didn't know the guy was Michael's agent, not while I was rattling off the horror stories I'd heard about agents. Only later did I learn who'd been listening. Boy, talk about someone trying to clean up her act fast. He's a great guy though -- the agent, I mean. Real classy. Very much a gentleman.

Then this year rolled around. I was cool about it. No Edgars, not for me. I'm not gonna pay money to just stand around and feel like somebody's extra left foot. Not this time, buddy. No way.

But then something happened. Of course, it did. Blue Religion actually, finally, came out. Forgot about that, did you? Well, I most certainly had. The book was put together ... what? Two years ago?

This lovely MWA Anthology will hit bookshelves in April, just in time to be celebrated during Edgar Week. Why do I care? Well, as you may or may not remember (just to be a bit pompous here), I'm one of the Blue Religion authors. Yup, that's right. Little ol' me. I'm even on the invitation they're sending around to tell people about the book launch party, (which, by the way, will be April 29, at the Mysterious Bookshop, 58 Warren Street, right here in New York City and you're all invited).

Yessiree, I'm on the invitation. Right there. Right where it says who's going to be there: "Michael Connelly (he's the editor), Alafair Burke, Paul Guyot, Laurie King, & numerous other co-writers!" What? You didn't see my name? But it's there. Look at it again. See where it says "& numerous other co-writers?" That's me. Call it an umbrella pseudonym. I do. (Let me tell you, nothing makes a gal feel more important than such a thoughtful effort to protect her privacy.)

Anyway, back to the Oscar-Edgars. A friend says to me, "You should go this year, because the book's coming out." In other words, you'll be somebody. People will talk to you because you'll have the cachet of being a Blue Religion author. Well, I don't know about that. It would be nicer, for example, if people would talk to me because I'm the Lanie Price author. But hey, why quibble? So guess what? I bit. (And this time the bullet bit back. That $150 had miraculously mushroomed to $175.)

But this year will be the last, the very last time folks. Not me, no more Edgars, not ever!