The One Where Jason Socializes

Or, Friends.

For better or worse, being a cop brings with it a ready-made friend group. Like any job, you have co-workers. Those co-workers hang out. Grab dinners. Share experiences. Unlike most jobs, police work develops a specific—and dark—sense of humor. That humor, I’ve found, doesn’t always land in the real world. I’ve loosed lines I thought would kill, only to see horrified expressions. So, yeah. Reintegrating with society has been tough.

Doesn’t help that my wife and I moved from New York City to New England. We don’t have kids, and meeting new people has been hard. Especially for me. For twenty years my social outlet had been my work, and now my work involves me sitting at a laptop while our Golden Retriever judges me. The first two years after retirement were especially difficult. I felt adrift and alone (other than my wife). Sought counseling. But the more I’ve written, the more I’ve chatted with other writers. I’ve found something of a community. It’s helped immensely. But I still missed face-to-face human interaction.

And then I went to Bouchercon.

If you don’t know, Bouchercon is a conference geared toward the thriller/mystery/adventure subset of publishing. Authors, editors, agents, and fans—lots of fans—attend. A crowd of two thousand came this year. Over five (!!!) days panels are held, drinks are drank (drunk? Drinked? I really need to figure that out), and friends are made. I cannot explain to you how important this last part is, or what an amazing time I had.

The Gaylord Opryland Resort & Convention Center (and unsolvable maze. Seriously, this place breaks souls.)

Bouchercon is held each year in a different city. Nashville hosted this time out, in the labyrinthian, Winchester House of a terrarium that is the Gaylord Opryland Resort. I’m telling you, this place was designed my MC Escher; I got lost more than once, elevated pathways criss-cross the skies, escalators aren’t where they should be, stairs climb and climb (and climb. And climb.), signage—where it exists—is demonically spare, and the Cinnabon is TOO EFFIN’ CLOSE TO MY ROOM. Seriously, how is a man supposed to deny himself sweet delights at that range???

But I digress.

This was about friends. And strangers I didn’t know were friends yet. I met authors who’d helped me over the years, and connected with writers I respected so much I never thought I’d talk to them (I shook Mick Herron’s hand!). Most importantly, I spent hours with people who’d existed only as pixels on my phone screen. Men and women who’ve read my work and offered guidance. We shared meals and drinks and bad jokes (they think I’m funny!). I finally met the editors who published my first story ever. Thanked them for making me realize I wasn’t alone. That I was part of something, even if I didn’t know it.

I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed that camaraderie until I got to the Gaylord Opryland. This past week I connected with my people. Hell, I discovered I had people. As an introvert, this shocked me. For that, I am grateful.

My point is, no matter how much writing can feel like a lonely, unforgiving gig, remember that there are hundreds (thousands?) of others who feel the way you do. And a few times a year they get absolutely hammered at a confusing, sprawling, Disney-esque resort. With a Cinnabon on the main drag.

If you’re on the fence about attending, go. You won’t regret it.