MEET THE AUTHOR
Jumping Elvis on a crutch if I don't find something out about how to be a successful writer every time I leave the house for even ten whole minutes.
Kate and Marc invited me to go see this author read at the 92nd Street Y tonight. You might have heard of him, but if not, it doesn't matter. My friend Viviane turned me on to him by systematically buying me his books for my birthday, and I really like them: the craft is excellent, the tone is even and burns gently from page to page. Not spectacular, there's no Now that's a great passage moments, but a solid writer with impeccable chops with some interesting stories, many of which are about New York. I figured I could watch him do his thing and learn a thing or two. So I was all stoked to head on down there (actually, up there - 92nd Street is North of here).
I've never been to the theater there before, and it's gorgeous. Lots of dark paneling adding some gravitas to the proceedings. (Very NPR.) A bearded man appears as the lights dim, and he reads a paragraph more or less off a card (his extemporaneousnesses are stammered and forced), introducing the person who shall introduce the Author.
The introducer is a professor of somethingology who one might think would know a thing or two about the Author. He doesn't, really - he reads the titles of the Author's books (and screen credit) off a card (maybe the back of the card the first fellow used, who's to say), and then on he comes, to huge applause.
He sits down, adjusts the mike, and says (I paraphrase, but this was quite it) "I'm sitting down because my leg hurts, and I'm told sitting is good for a hurt leg. Now, I'm not going to say anything about what I'm going to read, I'm just going to read the first chapter of my new novel, here we go."
And he opens his latest book to page one and begins to read.
Forty minutes later, he's wheezing and gulping his water, but he finishes his reading, slaps the book closed, mumbles "Thank you" and scampers off the stage.
We all file out, and Kate and Marc and I decide after some fatal hesitation to get into the autograph line. It's always nice when you're last in line, and someone else then gets in behind you, and you're no longer last. That's a nice feeling, kind of a validation.
Anyway, the line snakes through, and suddenly people are moving a lot faster, and this is great, suddenly there he is, I bought a copy of the new book which I wanted to give to Viviane as a thank you for turning me on to him, and he grabs the book and signs it under the title, and I look at him and ask, "Um, could you make it out to..."
"No. "
I swear to god, I backed right off. "Oh, okay, Sorry... "
"Look, there's just too many people, okay?"
"Sorry to have bothered you, never mind."
I had now picked up my book and left of the line. He turned to me and shrugged. I pointed at the next person in line (there were like ten people left), who happened to be Kate, a bigger fan of this guy than anyone I know. She got her three books signed without incident, and we left.
I learned a lot about what to do when touring behind a book tonight. Don't be afraid to put on a bit of a show. With admission and a book, the average punter is out 40 clams for this kind of knees-up with your favorite author, and I understand that for misanthropes (which most novelists are, true) doing the little pooch-and-pony is the worst part of the job, but fergawdsake, paint on a happy face and pretend you're grateful for all these people shelling out good coin to hear you tell a story for the better part of an hour.
I have some ideas, as does Kate. We have to finish our books, sure, but then, then we're going to kick ass on the reading circuit. Even if we tour separately. Which would probably be the case. Still. Given tonight's alarming display of apathy by the Author and the organizers, it clearly won't take much showpersonship to blow the Hah Klee-ass litteratty types out of their padded seats in feeling they got their forty clams' worth.
All I need is something to sell. I'm still all over that one.
