In honour of the Arthur Ellis Awards for Excellence in Crime Writing, held last Thursday: This post, from a few years ago.
By Melodie
Campbell
Okay, I haven’t
done it yet. But I may soon.
I’m the Executive
Director of a well-known crime writing association. This means I am also responsible for the
Arthur Ellis Awards, Canada’s annual crime writing awards night, and the
resulting banquet.
I’ve planned
hundreds of special events in my career as a marketing professional. I’ve managed conferences with 1000 people
attending, scarfing down three meals a day.
Usually, we offer a few choices, and people choose what they want. They’re pretty good about that. People sit where they want. Simple.
Granted, most of
my events have been with lab techs, doctors, nurses, and other health care
professionals.
It is not the
same with authors. Nothing is simple
with authors.
THE SEATING
ARRANGEMENT
A can’t sit with
B, because A is in competition with B for Best Novel. C can’t sit with D because C is currently
outselling D. E can’t sit with F because
they had an affair (which nobody knows about.
Except they do. At least, the
seven people who contacted me to warn me about this knew.) G can’t sit with H
because G’s former agent is at that table and they might kill each other. And everyone wants to sit with J.
THE MENU
The damned meal
is chicken. This is because we are
allowed two choices and we have to provide for the vegetarians. We can’t have the specialty of the house,
lamb, because not everyone eats lamb. We
can’t have salmon as the vegetarian choice, because some vegetarians won’t eat
fish.
So we’re stuck
with bloody chicken again.
P writes that her
daughter is lactose intolerant. Can she
have a different dessert?
K writes that she
is vegetarian, but can’t eat peppers.
Every damned vegetarian choice has green or red pepper in it.
L writes that she
wants the chicken, but is allergic to onion and garlic. Can we make hers without?
M writes that her
daughter is a vegan, so no egg or cheese, thanks. Not a single vegetarian choice comes that
way.
I am quickly
moving to the “you’re getting chicken if I have to shove it down your freaking
throat” phase.
Chef is currently
threatening the catering manager with a butcher’s knife. I am already slugging back the cooking
wine. And by the time people get here,
this may be a Murder Mystery dinner.
Postscript:
Nobody got
murdered, but a few got hammered.
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