In July, I attended the Public Safety Writer’s Association Conference in Las Vegas. It was held at the Orleans Hotel and Casino. I was too late to get a room at the Orleans, so my wife and I stayed at the Hilton Vacation Club, less than five minutes away. I’ve been a Hilton Honors member since my days at the FBI, and it was a great choice.
The rooms are more like small condos than hotel rooms with a spacious living room, full kitchen, separate dining room, and in-room laundry. We saved a ton of money by cooking our own meals and washing our clothes rather than using an overpriced hotel service.
Our home in Yuma is only five hours away, so we drove up the day before the conference began on Thursday. If you’ve never made the trip from Yuma to Las Vegas a word of warning. Always use a car in good mechanical condition as you pass through areas so desolate as to be life-threatening if your vehicle breaks down.
The GPS took us west on I-8 into California, where we turned north at exit 159, Ogilby Road. We drove along a mixture of partially improved and completely unimproved roads. Most of the time, the speed limit is 55, but driving at that speed risks serious damage to the car’s suspension system. Passing through the California towns of Blythe and Needles was, at best, depressing. We stopped for a bathroom break and snack in Needles. Like many of the small towns in the eastern California desert, Needles was circling the drain. The closure of the Ford and Chevy plants after the financial collapse of 2008 plunged a dagger into the town but sadly missed its heart, relegating it to a slow and painful death.
We stopped at McDonald’s. Fast food joints were one of the few establishments still in existence as Needles was a way station for weary travelers passing through to brighter destinations. The only residents walking around in the heat were in the deep throws of drug addiction. Two of these individuals were in the restaurant when we entered. One man stood at the counter. He attempted to order, became confused, and started again. He stood six-foot-four, and his skin had the bronze color of rotisserie chicken, glazed by sweat. He shoved a shaking hand into his back pocket and placed crumpled bills on the counter. The clerk picked out the correct amount and slid the rest back to him without a word. His gaunt frame and tremors caused me to guess that meth was his drug of choice, but it could have been heroin.
The other man stood by the drink dispenser, casting furtive looks at everyone who entered. He made no attempt to purchase food or refreshments and never moved from his spot. The staff ignored him as if he was a regular. We concluded our business and got back on the road.
I had informed my wife that this was strictly a business trip, and we would not take in shows or see the sights. She was okay with this as she was preparing for her oral exams at the University of Arizona, the second to last stop on her way to a doctorate in choral conducting. The last one is her final document, formerly known as a dissertation. Between presentations, I worked on my sequel to When the Lantern Swings working title, When the Pieces Fall. I was at the halfway point, and it was going well. SPOILER ALERT! If you haven’t read When the Lantern Swings, stop here.
When the Pieces Fall continues the journey of Ed Freemen and his now wife Nancy. It takes place one year after When the Lantern Swings. Ed and Nancy have moved to Yuma, Arizona, where Ed is a captain with Somerton Police, and Nancy is a lieutenant. Ed believes that he is going to return to normal life after his battle with the demon-controlled Jackie Hudak, but when a series of “accidental” deaths form a pattern, he is thrust back into the supernatural world.
On Friday, I participated in a panel discussion focused on creating series characters you can live with (see photo). I was the least accomplished writer on the panel. The moderator, Michael Black (middle), is a prolific author of over 50 books in several genres. I bought his book, Border Blood, which is part of the Concho series. The guy next to me is Frank Scalise, who has written over 30 novels under his own name and various pen names, including Frank Zafiro. In spite of this, I believe I held my own with these wordsmiths.
This was the smallest writer’s conference I had ever attended, with only about 60 writers, all in some way connected to law enforcement or public safety. Unlike other conferences where there are multiple programs going on at the same time, this was all in one room. I found the intimacy valuable. I am, by nature, an introvert, so networking does not come naturally to me. My wife spent the first two days with me and cajoled me to meet and talk to people. By the end of the conference, I talked to every attendee and have formed lasting friendships with several including Steve Ditmars, who has a fascinating series on police canines called Big Dogs, the aforementioned Michael Black, and Margaret Roche, who has an excellent supernatural series. I am currently reading A Haunting on Dunbar Lane.
I brought about 50 copies of When the Lantern Swings and sold 20, which I deemed quite an accomplishment considering the competition. I joined the PSWA and became part of their listserv group, which allows writers to ask questions about authentic law enforcement techniques.
The conference is one of the best I’ve attended. The wealth of knowledge in the fields of writing, publishing, and law enforcement techniques was unparalleled, and I will attend again next year.
Join me for part two, in which I will talk about my trip to my home state of Ohio.
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