"This is the loudest book fair yet," I yelled across the table to David. We had miraculously scored two seats at a table in the food court, but our conversation was being superseded by a band playing Latin jazz. Though this allowed me to give full attention to the worst gyro I had ever eaten, a lavishly but hideously constructed sandwich which, minutes before I threw it away, dripped cooked onion juice - cooked onion juice! - on my jeans.
It was so loud I couldn't tell David my favorite George Bernard Shaw story. Sitting near a band at an outdoor cafe, he was asked by the bandleader what he would like them to play. "Chess," he replied.
David headed off to work and I wandered over to hear Roger Rosenblatt in the Presentation Pavilion. There was a constant hum of air-conditioning vents, and strains of music - not Latin jazz - occasionally penetrated the tent. The previous panel - on the Port Huron Statement - was still going on, and when told they had to wrap it up, Tom Hayden insisted they had five more minutes. He jokingly told the crowd to link arms and sit in.
Instead of reading, Rosenblatt talked. ("Never read at a reading," Julian Barnes once advised a fellow author. "People would rather hear what you had for breakfast.") His topic was writing. "Imagination is more important than invention," he said. "Mr. Ed was an invention."
At 3:30 I made a rare appearance in the auditorium to hear a friend read with three other novelists. Without exception, the introductions to their readings were more interesting than their readings. Wouldn't it be more rewarding, I thought, to hear a moderator lead them all in a discussion of fiction writing?
Sunday I arrived in the Authors' Lounge a little before noon and grabbed some hummus and wraps. Sitting at a table with Lyn Millner and Lynne Barrett, I threw out my proposal that authors should talk and not read. Lynne vehemently disagreed, saying people won't buy a book if they don't know what's in it. She said she went to a reading once where the author went on and on until someone in the audience called out for her to cut the chatter and read her book.
I found Peter Godwin, whom I was to introduce, and we found two chairs near the entrance. During our chat, Susan Orlean walked by and started a conversation with Peter. She apologized for interrupting; we introduced ourselves; my name didn't ring a bell. Though she had read at least one of my stories, "Heaven to Bavarians," when she was guest editor of The Best American Travel Writing 2007. She didn't include it; I didn't mention it.
Peter and I walked over to the Batten building. His book was The Fear: Robert Mugabe and the Martyrdom of Zimbabwe, and I feared a low turnout. But over 100 people were gathered in Room 2106. Peter gave a succinct and riveting overview of the country's tragic fate, artfully weaving in personal history (he was born in the country) and harrowing tales of bearing witness (he has worked there as a journalist). After he read a short passage from the book (giving the crowd a small, perfect taste of the work, an amuse-oreille), he answered questions, which were appreciative, well-informed and numerous. I felt proud of South Florida.
We headed over, with a few eager listeners in tow, to the signing area, where Peter sat for the next half hour, autographing books and talking to interested readers. Waiting, I complimented a young woman on her Granta bag.
"They had a booth here last year," she explained, then introduced me to her friends. They were all from Missouri, now living in Miami, working (with the exception of Hannah) for New Times.
I said goodbye to Peter and headed up to hear Sean Sexton, a rancher-poet whom I met a few years ago while writing a story about Vero Beach. After two days of listening to authors it was extremely pleasant to hear one get up and read: "In my life, there have always been cattle." I also liked the poem about pulling from the womb a stillborn calf. Mud is to Sexton what daffodils were to Wordsworth.
There was one more friend to see, T.M. Shine, so I took the escalator down to the first floor, arriving too late. Though I did hear one of Terry's co-readers read of flying to Miami and gazing down from the plane and seeing people on the beach who looked "like ants." At the signing, a line formed for her autograph, while no one bought Terry's book. Watching mediocrity get rewarded and originality ignored is, sadly, another part of book fairs.
