Border Crossing

Last weekend, I attended the Bloody Words crime fiction conference in Toronto. I decided to drive, which meant crossing the border into Canada near Alexandria Bay. The border guard, who had an impressive mustache and a heavy accent, provided an extraordinary welcome. Here’s how our conversation went.

GUARD
What is your destination?

WRITER
Toronto, for two days. I’m attending a conference.

GUARD
What kind of conference?

WRITER
It’s for mystery fiction.

GUARD
Ah. What is your favorite kind?

WRITER
My favorite wine?

GUARD
No, your favorite kind. Kind of mystery. You like murder mysteries? Ghosts?

WRITER
Yes, the weird kind. Ghosts are good.

GUARD
And you write mysteries? Have you printed anything?

WRITER
Printed? My first book was published last year.

GUARD
Do you have a copy?

(At this point, a little terrified as I dug out a Manual of Detection paperback, I was beginning to think of the final scene of Cronenberg’s adaptation of Naked Lunch. But the guard only took the book and set it down in his booth.)

GUARD
OK, how much?

WRITER
You want to buy the book?

GUARD
Well, it’s mine now. How much should I pay you for it?

WRITER
Alright. Ten dollars.

GUARD
This is a used copy. Do you have a new one?

WRITER
No, I’m sorry.

GUARD
Then you’ll have to sign this. Sign it to Sophie.

(The guard gave me ten dollars Canadian, returned the book, and handed me a pen. I started to sign.)

GUARD
Can’t you write bigger than that?

WRITER
Yes, sir.

(I have small handwriting but I did my best. The guard took back the book and the pen.)

GUARD
Do you have any firearms, weapons, mace, or pepper spray?

WRITER
No, sir. Who’s Sophie?

GUARD
She is my wife. Me, I like to support the arts. But this better be a good book.

WRITER
I hope she enjoys it.

GUARD
I hope so too. OK, you move along.

On the way home, I decided to cross at Niagara instead. Getting back into the U.S. turned out to be a different kind of experience. The American guard took the keys to my car, opened the back hatch, and searched through everything there—leaving clothes out and bags unzipped, as my traveling companion and I later discovered.

The Hammett Prize thin man, pictured (for purposes of scale) next to one of Small Beer Press's World Fantasy Awards.

He also discovered some apparent contraband: copies of the five free books given to everyone who attended the conference, which I’d completely forgotten about and hadn’t thought to declare. He wanted to know why I hadn’t told him about these books, and threatened to fine me, and to confiscate everything I’d acquired in Canada.

If he’d gone through with his threat, he’d now have some great reading material, as well as a shiny new Dashiell Hammett Prize. But in the end he let us go, and the thin man sculpture is safe at home.

I often feel like a border-crossing nomad in my writing life. Mostly I try to pretend that the borders—between genres, between forms—don’t exist, or can be redrawn as needed. So far, thanks to the many wonderful readers and writers of various communities, as well as organizations like the International Association of Crime Writers and the International Association for the Fantastic in the Arts, that experience has been more like the former border crossing and not at all like the latter. I’m sincerely grateful.

In other words, mystery folks, thanks for letting me be weird. And thanks, fantasy folks, for letting me smuggle in all those guns and trench coats. I’ll see you on the other side.