I Don't Wanna Grow Up

<!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Times;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Se</style>When I was 12, my bedroom walls were covered in magazine pictures and posters of Marlon Brando and Mickey Rooney. (Yes, really, Mickey Rooney.) I used to spend hours imagining that I was a reporter. I was eventually invited over to M & M's houses for dinner. I became their friend, their confidante, and I was the one who got the big stories.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When I was 17, I tried to leave high school at Grade 12 and go to Ryerson College to study journalism. Marlon and Mickey were no longer on my bedroom wall, but they were still waiting for me to come and interview them. That idea got shot down by my parents based on advice from my school counselor. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As a result, Marlon and Mickey never met me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">These days, I have different idols. They are writers. Mainly female, because I not only love their novels, I love their personalities. They are feisty, attractive, thin, well spoken, smart, and confident. Their books are instant best sellers. They write mystery, the genre I love, the genre I write. I adore their characters. They take their plots into very dark territory sometimes – another technique I admire (and write).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So attending a conference like Bouchercon transports me back to the days of posters all over my walls. Back to a time when I believed I would become friends with my heroes (in this case, heroines; goddesses of creativity). As a writer, with a panel listing of my own, I must, however, remain dignified. I must remember that half a century has gone by since I was twelve.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DgzOM03uGTU..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DgzOM03uGTU..." /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I arrive early at the panel for Elizabeth George and sit not too close, but not too far away. Very quickly, the room fills up. A woman sits to my right, but suddenly gets a text from her sister, and has to leave. By then most of the seats are taken, so a fit, good-looking gentleman in glasses asks if he can take her place. Of course I nod and smile.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He has an uncapped coffee cup in his hand and says, “I hope I don’t spill this on you. I almost spilled it on Elizabeth George and she got really mad at me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh my god,” I respond with a laugh, thinking, but you were that close to her, you lucky...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“But it’s okay,” he continues, “I’m her husband.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I try not to throw myself at him, but I do gush, and we end up having a fabulous conversation about the creative process. He’s not a writer, but he watches carefully as his wife goes through book after book. He’s friendly, has a great sense of humour, and is obviously an admirer of both his wife and writers in general. He takes one of my bookmarks. I think I love him.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t wanna grow up.  <a href="http://www.amazon.com/author/catherin... Author's Page</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com...' alt='' /></div>