I was not daunted, however. Even though King was on stage participating in a Q & A with Colin McEnroe (not, to my disappointment, John McEnroe -- I've really got to stop skimming these emails from the Bushnell when I get them) I felt certain King would notice me. Probably he'd recognize me from the pictures on my website. I have hundreds of readers who visit my blog every week; I don't think it's unreasonable to assume that one of them is Stephen King. We had really good seats, and I was able to stand up and wave "yoo-hoo" four or five times before the usher threatened to kick me out, so I'm certain he saw me. Sitting back down under threat of eviction, I waited. Now it would come: King would tell all the people in the auditorium who I was, how funny my blog is, and how he's admired my writing ever since he read my short story "Private Beach" in the Epitaphs anthology. (I'd mailed him seventeen copies of it when it came out, so he ought to have read it by now. Particularly since the guy who wrote the introduction referred to "Private Beach" as "a direct, blatant rip-off of Stephen King's 'The Raft'. Mr. King's lawyers should be verrrrry interested in this book.") I waited. King continued to talk about his youth, growing up in a Republican household. What the heck was going on?
Time to pull out the big guns. I stood up again and held up a giant poster of myself with King's son, Joe Hill. (I met him three years ago -- the picture is located on the photos page of my website. Hill looks so completely enamored and gaga over me in the photo that it's a little embarrassing.)
"Hello, Mr. King? Could you please talk a little about how if your son had his way, I'd be your daughter-in-law? Helloooo?"
Finally, he acknowledged me. Specifically, he signaled to security to have me removed immediately. I figured he wanted to spirit me off to a secure location so we could chat about writing without interruption.
Unfortunately, the police were too good at their job, and hid me too well. They secured me in a urine-soaked cell in downtown Hartford with the words "eat me" written in feces on the wall. Much to my shock, it was not Stephen King, but my husband Jason who finally arrived to bail me out.
"I'm not letting you out in public anymore," Jason muttered. I can empathize. He's probably embarrassed by all of the attention I get from fans and fellow writers.
Next week: my evening with Judge Joe Brown, when he hears the state's case against me on stalking charges.