Tomorrow I will be speaking about my memoir with Ann Bocock at the Sun Sentinel’s PRIME Expo. It is a day of talks and seminars for people over the age of 50, which is to say: my typical audience. Even though my book is a coming-of-age story, about a young man’s quest to become a travel writer, most of the people who come to hear me talk about it are Boomers like myself. Even when I attend readings by other, younger writers, the audience is usually made up of seniors. They are, to a large extent, keeping book readings, bookstores, the book business alive.
What if on Valentine’s Day, instead of flowers, people gave books with the word “love” in their subtitles?
Another lovely custom at Midtown Reader in Tallahassee: The downstairs bathroom is lined with wallpaper patterned with bookshelves filled with nameless books. Authors, after their readings, are given a pen and asked to write the title of their book, along with their name, on one of the blank spines. So now women getting up from the toilet can look to their right – and men standing at the toilet can look to their left – and see the words “Falling into Place: A Story of Love, Poland, and the Making of a Travel Writer.” Though I was tempted to write: "The Art of Sitting Brokenhearted."
While away, I did an event at the Midtown Reader in Tallahassee. A few days before the event, I received an email from the program coordinator informing me of the schedule – intro, conversation, Q&A – and of the flavors of the pies that would be available in the café: tollhouse, triple berry, and buttermilk.
Yesterday, I received another email from the coordinator, requesting my home address so she could send me a thank you card.
This was the first Christmas in years when I didn’t receive a single book, despite the fact that my Wish List consisted of nothing but book titles. Perhaps the family we exchange presents with had heard Hania’s complaints about the growing piles of books in our living room and decided they didn’t want to contribute to my habit. I did receive two gift cards for Barnes & Noble, but maybe the donors hoped I was going to buy calendars and stuffed animals instead. Fat chance.
Last week we stopped by the Barnes & Noble on Federal Highway and, as I expected, they didn’t carry any of the books I wanted. I gave the woman at the information desk the titles – Father and Son by Jonathan Raban, Homelands by Timothy Garton Ash, Glowing Still by Sara Wheeler – and she located each on her computer, took my address, and said they would be delivered to my home in five to seven days. That was it, much easier than I had anticipated. Before leaving, Hania spotted the new biography of Larry McMurtry and suggested I buy it. (Her concern for my mental state overrides, usually, her penchant for domestic order.) So I walked out with a new book to end the old year with.
When your book is published in November you watch as the lists of the year’s best books – which you don’t expect to be on because yours came out too late – are quickly followed by lists of the new year’s most anticipated books.