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Book Tour Confidential
By Carol Dawson
MAY 24, 1999:
In these latter days of the 20th century, as we see the economy bursting upon
itself with prosperity, and the enjoyment of all luxurious and enlightening things
becomes a moral duty, nay, a pursuit even unto the likes of an African safari -- yea,
at such affluent times our thoughts often turn to leisure activities. The most gracious
of these being the acquiring of merit through reading. The reading of many books,
both fiction and nonfiction. And lo, I say unto thee, not only the reading, but even
the validation of the book itself as object, and the making of the book thereon,
its writing and manufacture, and in particular, the authentication of the book with
an AUTHOR'S SIGNATURE, and perforce a peppy personal message to the book's new owner,
coupled with mayhaps the experience of hearing the author read a snippet of the text
therein. And I say, let it be so.
Thus at every book's advent come also much ritual and ceremonial, launch parties,
merry-making, and reviews, and the greatest of these is THE QUEST, also known as
THE BOOK TOUR. Whereupon the hosts of writers descend from their eyries upon the
land, as locusts unto the verdant fields, and swarm thereupon to meet with the PUBLIC
and have a little chin-wag. And the publishers arrange schedules for presentation
to the pilgrims seeking the SIGNATURE in bookstores and literary festivals throughout
the nation, spending their vast wealth and publicity budgets on plane fares for the
writers' conveyance, for lo, the writers bring entertainment to the hungry, and toss
their wares upon the waters in hopes that these many meetings of minds will result
in souls' upliftings everywhere, i.e., sales.
Herein lies the publisher's first dictum: "Go ye forth and hit the road."
When my latest novel, The Mother-in-Law Diaries, came out in January, my
publisher presented me with a detailed itinerary comprising six faxed pages of cities,
dates, and hotel reservations. "We prepareth the fields," they said. "The
way is made ready for thee. Now get out there and pack light." "Yes, ma'ams,"
I said, since the staff is mainly female. "You'll start on the West Coast and
work your way east. First stop, L.A."
So I boarded a flight to Hollywood, having the night before come down with a 'flu
so virulent that even nuns and drunk lechers avoided me the minute they saw the pistachio
of my damp complexion. Landing at LAX, I rented a car after phone calls from my publisher
(a three-hour process) persuaded the rental attendant that the charge plate they'd
faxed was valid, although not in my name. Released at last into the freeway system,
I forged through rush hour traffic to the Brentwood/Bel-air Holiday Inn, a circular
tower planted like a toilet paper roll on the suburban cusp of one of the "nicest"
parts of Los Angeles, where, I had been told, I could order room service, but no
movies. The desk clerk took one look at my sweating brow, listened to the dead frog
giving mediumistic utterance from my throat, and gingerly handed me the plastic key,
averting his mouth and nasal areas. "Seventh floor," he said.
illustration by Nathan Jensen
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My first reading was scheduled for 7pm at a pleasant independent bookstore in
Brentwood. I straggled in early, concerned that I might not maintain consciousness
for the length of time it would take to rev up the crowd with my pithy prose. Imagine
my relief when it turned out that, other than the calendar sent out by the bookstore
naming the 30-odd readings they were hosting that month alone, there had been no
advertising whatsoever -- not even the display my publisher had sent -- and that therefore
the crowd consisted of my West Coast film agent, a movie star's producer's assistant,
an avid collector, three unidentified listeners, and the bookstore staff. Whew! It
proved easy enough to remain conscious for them. I read a lively little passage about
the narrator's first labor and childbirth, which they were hip enough to laugh at.
Then my agent, the lovely bookstore manager, herself an accomplished short story
writer, and I went out to dinner, where I fell asleep.
The next morning I lay semi-comatose in bed contemplating the term "wake-up
call" and the larger meaning it has accrued ("time to realize you are screwing
up and change your ways"). Truly, we have turned into a hotel culture. National
mobility aside, I was having trouble mobilizing myself from the sheets to the bathroom.
I took two Motrin, five echinacea tablets, and a handful of Vitamin C. Next stop,
Pasadena!
Pasadena was okay. I only got lost three times on the way from Vroman's Bookstore
to LAX. All three times involved circling the airport looking for the rental car
return. Onward to San Francisco.
I used to live in The City myself, and also the Bay Area. This was a great antidote
to getting lost. I arrived on time at the well-lighted, clean bookstore where I was
to read (a place where I used to shop myself) to find a total of nine people waiting
in the crowd. The manager apologized. "This is Wednesday night," she said,
"and we've already had four readings so far this week. I guess people kind of
want to stay home for a while." Well, I could certainly endorse that sentiment.
I coughed up my thanks, and then went on to read a rather trenchant section about
the narrator's labor and childbirth, which everyone seemed to enjoy. Afterward I
went out to dinner with friends, who by the way had not made it to the reading due
to prior commitments. You get that in The City.
The next day it was on to Berkeley for a radio interview. By then my temperature
was about 101, simmering along respectably -- I wondered if it correlated with the
station's call number. The young man who interviewed me was very thoughtful, penetrating,
and best of all, he'd read my book. No doubt the audience was wondering why he'd
resurrected the corpse of an old man to impersonate a woman author, but he kindly
waived my concerns. "This is taped. They won't hear it for a month," he
said, as if by then my 'flu would be over and so the voice on tape would have magically
healed. I drove across the Bay Bridge to the airport in a hurricane rainstorm that
delayed flights for five hours. Hello, Denver!
(Note to authors: On book tours, always pack only carry-on luggage. You can wear
the same thing over and over. Believe me, no one will notice except when you're on
TV.)
In the Denver hotel, getting out of bed seemed impossible. I was waiting for an
elevator when I heard the unmistakable approaching sounds of a violently abusive
episode rising up through the shaft to my floor. The elevator door opened just as
the shouts and screaming stopped, and inside, instead of a bloodied person lying
on the floor with his throat cut, stood a pair of placid-faced women who smiled and
nodded as I got on. Once we descended, however, the taller of the women let courtesy
drop. "Fuck! Fuck shit! Fuck you!" she yelled, turning her head politely
and masking her mouth with a hand as if shielding a sneeze. "Sorry," she
said, turning back to me, "I've got Tourette's." I felt an ingenuous surge
of pride at having already figured this out. She cussed us down to the ground floor,
and I went to find breakfast. I must say, her eloquence certainly outshone mine at
the Barnes & Noble that afternoon, where I read an amusing morsel of text recounting
my narrator's labor and childbirth.
(Note: The new Denver airport is very, very far from most parts of town. Count
on 50 bucks for a cab ride, and save that receipt. The publicity department will
sure want to see it.)
One magazine interview, two stores: This time the turnout was different. It was
Sunday afternoon, there was football in town. Need I say more?
I got to go home for a week and recuperate. Then it was back on the highway to
Louisville, Kentucky, and a blessedly full audience at Hawley-Cooke Bookstore, which
I have discovered has the best desserts of any coffee shop café in any city
in the South. May I recommend the meltingly moist Red Velvet Cake in situ? Or, follow
my example and take two lemon squares, some cherry pie, a rhubarb pastry, and a chocolate
hazelnut torte back with you to your hotel room. They won't be there by morning.
On this leg of my tour I had an author escort, or rather a rotation of three women
with the same firm. One drove me to Lexington, where we passed beautiful green horse
farms and I felt quite Derbyish. The second relay picked me up to do the first TV
interview of the day; then she drove me to my next three -- count them -- three
radio interviews. Then the head boss lady caught me for one more TV interview, and
afterward straight into the bookstore for the night signing. If the Lexington and
Louisville metro areas were not by that time saturated with mother-in-law media,
they never will be. To my immense delight I discovered that I had just hit the John
Grisham trail, preceding him and his 10 million fans by less than one week in a pattern
that would continue throughout the majority of the South. So much for the virtues
of literary fiction. I got back to my hotel at 12:30pm, just in time to catch a few
z's before my 4am wake-up call to catch the 6:00 flight to Jacksonville, Florida.
Come to me, Sunshine State!
Jacksonville's literary festival, Much Ado About Books, was just about perfect.
I chose to read an excerpt regarding my narrator Lulu's initial contractions and
her ensuing childbirth. Packed auditoriums, swell audiences, lots of books signed,
good company. Therefore nothing funny happened except at the Elizabethan dinner,
where one romance-mystery author thought fancy dress was de rigueur and wore
a headdress copied from the portrait of Anne Boleyn. Fortunately she kept her head.
(Note to authors: If at all possible, make your publicist book you at literary
festivals. They're a blast, you get to hobnob with masses of your readers, and chat
contracts and agents with other authors, meanwhile partying at splendid homes and
eating yummy food.)
From Jacksonville I moved onto one of my favorite legs of the tour: Memphis and
Arkansas. Here I did more radio and TV spots and, in Memphis, hooked up with the
flower of the Memphis intelligentsia, Shirleen Cobb. Shirleen and I first met several
years ago when I was speaking at the Peabody Hotel for a library benefit. Her remarkable
family joined us when she took me to meet her book club and we all sat around drinking
Lynchburg lemonade and listening to Shirleen's sister Yvonne's hilarious anecdotes
about Memphis adultery. Next stop, Graceland? Rats, no.
At the signing at Burke's (a decent turnout, thank God), I got to hear all about
the line that went around the building and down five blocks four days earlier for
John Grisham. Poor thing, he must get all worn out. I performed a scintillating tidbit
about my main character's labor and childbirth, complete with sound effects.
The day after, more TV spots. Anchorwomen have the most superbly groomed hair!
It's a good thing my own hair responds so predictably to humidity. Then, on to the
Arkansas Queen of All Independent Booksellers, the marketing genius of the publishing
world, Mary Gay Shipley, who owns an extraordinary store called That Bookstore in
Blytheville. Mary Gay had arranged a potluck supper for the reading -- bring your
mother-in-law's best recipe. For John Grisham's visit three days before, she'd given
out carefully timed tickets so there was no long wait in line. That must be why he
always signs at Mary Gay's; he only has to deal with writer's cramp there. I read
a little number about labor pains and giving birth, at which the audience chuckled
appreciatively, especially the men.
Returning to tour Texas for a while after that -- San Antonio, Dallas -- I then
flew to Indianapolis, where I and four other authors were feted in the wonderfully
restored arts and crafts Governor's Mansion, met the gov and his first lady (they
sure as heck can't outdo our Laura's bookly hospitality), and got to stay in the
hotel where Mike Tyson committed rape. We spoke to 800 people at a luncheon the next
day. Great sales, total exhaustion. I'll bet you're exhausted too, by now, aren't
you?
There were other venues here and there, the most memorable being the Tennessee
Williams Festival in New Orleans. But they're all beginning to fade into the golden
sunset of memory. My day is over for a while. I've been home just long enough to
finish my next novel. Suffice it to say that when someone suggested yesterday that
I go out to look at the new airport, I ran screaming from the room.
Carol Dawson is the author of four novels and a collection of poetry, Job.
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