A Beautiful Day

I’ve woken up early today to call-in to a Providence radio show called Reading With Robin and discuss my new anthology, Everything I Needed To Know About Being A Girl I Learned From Judy Blume. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get through tot he station, but I enjoyed listening to Jennifer O’Connell, Stephanie Lessing, and the aforementioned Robin discussing the book.

Ah, well. You win some, you lose some.

Speaking of, by the resounding silence on yesterday’s post, not to mention the several comments disagreeing with me, it’s clear that no one’s with me about the futility of these on-the-spot critique sessions. (Ah, well. You win some, you lose some.) I stand corrected. Maybe it’s just me. I guess what I was really trying to say is though I do learn things at these presentations (an editor’s tastes, what NOT to do), that I’m not sure the writers themselves are receiving the “magic ticket” (which, as discussed before on this blog, does not exist) that makes the potential public mortification worth it. But if it works for you, keep going. I’m glad they do it. Whatever helps, right?

So yesterday, I was chatting with the wife of an acquaintance, and she was telling me that during their last trip to Barnes & Noble, her husband had picked up a copy of my book and said, “I know the person who wrote this.” And then she said, “It was a great cover! It looked like a real book.”

And then I made some hologram joke that fell completely flat. (Ah, well, you win some, you lose some.) Upon reflection I decided that such a comment, coming from an admitted McSweeney’s devotee, was actually a high compliment. And no, I won’t explain that. Trying to unravel McSweenical flourishes always makes me wonder why I found them amusing to start with. Or maybe my vocab’s just not hip enough. Does Dave Eggers make hologram jokes, I wonder?

Of course, as I sit here, sipping ginger peach (republic of) tea, I’m getting all contemplative on the subject. I think I’ve gotten complacent, since I do know dozens of authors, and I’m always somewhat taken aback when people say, “You can get this at a bookstore? It’s just there on the shelf at Waldenbooks?” I met my first novelist when I was ten. She was my fifth grade English teacher, and she wrote young adult romances for… I don’t know which publisher, but I read them. I think because I knew her under such prosaic circumstances as elementary school, I always understood that authors were people, in society. Doctors, lawyers, firefighters, architects, nurses, teachers, hairstylists, and authors.

And yet, and yet, and yet… I still get a thrill every time I see my book on a shelf in a bookstore. My book. I wrote it. It’s real.