Anatomy of a Book Tour

I hate going to readings. Usually they are boring, lifeless and rather pointless. Unless the author is famous, nobody shows up, and often that's just embarrassing. All those damn empty seats. And I’ve had work ruined for me because I can no longer read an author without hearing his or her voice in my head. The things that make many authors good- their anti-social nature and introverted characters that lend themselves to the long silent hours of writing and reading- are the same things that make them horrible entertainers. If a writer is also a good performer, this is largely a coincidence. A pleasant surprise. But usually it’s just me staring at the pages, wondering which one will be the last one, wondering when are they going to merciful end it. My own readings, I hate less. Not because I’m any better than any other reader, but because since I’m the one reading I’m at least pre-occupied. And I have something to read.

The first time I went out on tour, with Drop, I was filled with romantic notions about the long wished for book tour and eager to give life to my work by pushing it to the world. I felt like a boy with a kite, running with it to get it off the ground. Every fruit and vegetable stand that would have me, did. What I found on the road though was the same as what almost every writer does: empty chairs. Invariable, every reading started with the store apologizing for the largely non-existent turnout: it was raining, it was finals time, there’s lot going on in town tonight. At a B&N in Atlanta, my relief at having a crowd of eight was quickly squashed when, during my introduction, six got up to read their newspapers elsewhere. At a well known black bookstore in LA, I read to a somewhat sour faced handful of elderly women. At the end of my reading, I asked if there were any questions. The first one was not to me, but to the bookstore owner. “Are you going unlock the door so we can leave now?” And I’m one of the lucky ones.

Why do we still have book tours, if hardly anyone shows up for them? So that we can tempt the local media into offering free coverage of the book since the author is in town, so we can get onto the email list for the store in question and hopefully reach hundreds, so we can get that big poster ad in the store for a month. All the things that don't have anything to do with the actually reading, which makes the whole thing appear rather inefficient and indirect.

The rise of commercial fiction, with its legion of savvy self-promoters, led many of the newer small bookstores to look at visiting writers like freelance employees. Gone was the respect for the accomplishment, the appreciation for the time taken for the visit. At several bookstores I was greeted with a blank nod from the clerk on duty, and simply instructed to park myself at whatever bare fold out table I was expected to be stationed at for up to three hours. One time, at a now closed book store, I was instructed on where the fold-out table was in the back, and where I should set it up. It's not that I'm too good to slug furniture, it's just common courtesy. It took me two hours to get to the airport, two hours to wait for my plane, three hours on the plane, an hour finding my hotel and another hour finding the store, where I've come to hawk full priced books that will go directly into the bookstore's pocket. If I do all that, you can take 45 seconds to set up your own table.

In the cities that are hard to navigate, the publisher hires a "literary escort," who drives you around from store to press event. Usually they are white, and not used to Negroes, and this creates an awkwardness that I'm forced to negotiate. Last time I was in Atlanta, I was assigned a black escort who was unused to literary fiction writers, and in the face of a nearly vacant reading said to me, "You know, maybe on the next book you could write something people want to read." She meant this in a good way, and that is why I did not attempt to strangle her.

Still, there are great things about being on the road. I love the hotels, their anonymous silence, and their hours away from my normal responsibilities that allow me to nap and abuse the room service and pay-per-view (covered!). Most of all, though, I like seeing the people. The bookstore operators and librarians who fight to keep lit alive. The old lost friends who just reappear in your life out of nowhere because they saw an ad in the paper. The fellow writers who are in the area, who take the time to stop through and say hi, support. And of course, and by far most of all, the actual readers. The fact that they exist at all, and that they take time to come out on a random night to say hi, is a miracle. Even when it is just one or two at a reading, they make all of it worthwhile, the whole traveling circus mess that can overshadow the point of why you're even there. The readers, each one, let you know you are not just throwing pages into the void, that there is someone out there catching them, and responding.

Thank you, all you people who came out on this last little mini-mini tour. Thanks also to those who sent notes that you wish they could have. It was absolutely great to see everybody. It was absolutely amazing to have an audience to see.

Sincerely,

Mat Johnson

PS- The Great Negro Plot thing went well. Here is a rave review that ran in the Chicago Sun-Times. By contrast, here's a nasty, bile filled review in the Toronto Star by a critic who bizarrely seemed to think this was supposed to be a history book and not an historical, which is an established genre that mixes fictional storytelling elements with historical facts. Together, these articles show the ups and downs of the writer's life. And here is my interview on New York & Company (The Leonard Lopate Show), which I've always aspired to appear on.

There, I am officially tired of tooting my own horn.