In that I’m imitating Sarah’s addictive bullet-point style, noting the notable from where I was standing.

* After a wonderful lunch with my editor, Kelley Ragland, Slavica and I headed to the Dell Magazine cocktail party. I’d checked the location online and committed it to memory. My mistake. We wandered up and down Park Ave, asking confused hotel doormen where “The Thompson Club” was. After giving up and returning to the hotel, I realized it was “The Williams Club” on Madison. Whoops.

* At the Edgar cocktails (in the hotel itself, which is the only reason I found it) I finally met my agent, Stephanie Cabot, in the flesh. Extraordinary experience and an extraordinary person, which justified my long, labored decision when choosing her a few months ago.

* While out smoking, I met and shook hands with Lee Child, then Slavica pointed out my fly was down. Tragically, she was right, and everyone watched me, flustered, right the wrong.

* As Sarah noted, the video of the Rock Bottom Remainders performance with Stephen King playing and singing something awful was really very hilarious.

* Denise Mina pulled me aside at the beginning of the cocktails, when I was wandering around friendless. What a hell of a nice woman. Turns out we were the only 2 best-novel nominees with our shit together enough to be in place for the group photos.

* I missed The Wire’s win because I was outside, smoking and checking my fly.

* I introduced myself to Cornelia Read, who wore a better tux than mine, and she showered me with praise. It’s really nice to be praised by someone dressed better than you.

* I was pleasantly surprised by the number of people who stopped me to compliment my work, though more often than not they seemed most interested in where I live. “But why Hungary?” some asked, flabbergasted and vaguely horrified, as if I lived in North Korea, or Texas.

* I made extra sure to not get drunk during the banquet just in case I won and had to speak. Oh well. I also didn’t stay up until 4am this time, which my body thanks me for. Nor did I chat with pimps, which is only because Bruen wasn’t there.

* Despite losing the Edgar itself (and, really, those things are too fragile—one was delivered in two pieces), I did get a wobbly-head plastic Edgar that I’m going to show to everyone at home and claim it’s the real thing. Really, they won’t know the difference.

(Originally posted at the Contemporary Nomad)