As noted in the previous entry's comments section, I won the Anthony for Best Novel at Bouchercon. I _never_ expect to win an award, but I usually have some comments semi-prepared. This time, I was really caught off guard and neglected to thank -- well, just about everyone. My publisher, Lisa Gallagher, who was at the dinner. (D'oh). My editor and agent. Two reps from my UK publisher, who were at the conference -- and treated me to a bike ride on the coastal trail, where we saw a moose. I was really stunned. (By the award, not so much by the moose.) Hey, I was so sure that I wasn't going to win that I had rebooked myself on a red-eye for that very night, confident I wouldn't be tempted to stay up late.

So if I had lost my coat that night, it would have made perfect sense. Instead, I left it in the hotel bar the previous night -- and never saw it again. The coat is four or five years old, and it probably had no more than a few seasons left. The pockets are ripped to shreds, the lining has been (poorly) repaired by me in one spot, the thin wool is beginning to pill.

The coat has been "immortalized" in at least two photographs -- the black-and-white Marion Ettlinger that once served as my author photo, and a photo in the Washington Post. It was flattering to my long frame, a coat made for a tall person, reaching to my ankles. And its lightweight wool was perfect for Baltimore's mild winters.

Losing it, I felt like a panicky child again. I lost a lot of things as a kid. And I continue to lose things as an adult. Evidently. I thought that might change, despite the fact that I knew plenty of adults who lost things. (Well, one, my father, a champion mis-placer of keys.) I know that if I push just a bit at the edges of my memory, something will come back. Even without a specific memory, the emotions come rushing back -- shame, anger, foolishness.

So share your stories of lost things, and maybe I won't mourn my coat too much.