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Book Tour Diary written for PW Daily (Publisher's Weekly)

by AKR

INSTALLMENT ONE

My name is Amy. My friends call me Amy Krouse Rosenthal. I’ve written a book titled Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life. It is a sort of alphabetized memoir. It is 221 pages long, and there is an umbrella on the cover. I wrote the book to the best of my ability. I think the spine looks really cool. (Thank you, designer Dan Rembert of Crown Publishing whose email is Drembert@randomhouse.com.) Now that I’ve written this book and titled it so, it’s funny for me to simply see the word encyclopedia used in other contexts (e.g. Encyclopedia Britannica, or Encyclopedia of Household Appliances), funny in a good way, like I’m cousins with the word, like maybe how you feel when you see the name of your college or favorite band mentioned in an article—oh, that’s me, that’s my college/that’s my band. I wonder if I’ll always feel this encyclopedia affinity, or if it will wear off.

I have just embarked on my book tour. It feels like a big deal to me—I’ll be gone a whole week!—though I know in the scope of Malcom Gladwell/David Sedaris/U2 world tours, this is like a quaint little weekend getaway. The tour I’m on has a name: Wine and Words. It is in conjunction with independent bookstores, wine merchants, and of course the publishers. I say publishers plural because there are three of us traveling around together: Karen Spears Zacharias, who is the author of Hero Mama (William Morrow) and Steven Sorrentino, the author of Luncheonette (Regan Books). PW has asked me to keep a near-daily diary of the journey.

Karen, Steve and I met for the first time Wednesday night, right before our kick-off event at Barbara’s Bookstore in Chicago. Karen showed up with cards and gifts (handsome signing pen) for Steve and me. How nice was that? I immediately felt bad that I hadn’t thought to bring something. I said I would be in charge of making friendship go-team bracelets. They both are clearly at the top of their game, very polished and savvy, and traveling way lighter than me.

In no time the talk led to media stuff. Between the two of them, I casually heard “Good Morning America,” “Fox News, and “People Magazine” tossed about. It was all very cordial and cool and not at all braggy, but I felt like Alice, shrinking and shrinking with each national press mention.** It was kind of how I felt with other new mothers after my first son was born. Jacob is sitting up by himself now, and he’s only five months old! I’d think, shit, my kid’s not sitting up, and he’s seven months old. Or: Little Jonny has been sleeping through the night since he was three weeks old! Not the most joyous news to hear when your kid is still getting up at 2:00 am every night. I eventually (slowly eventually, not quickly eventually) learned that for me, the only way I could refrain from hyperventilating and maintain whatever sliver of parenting confidence I had mustered, was to just sort of take a deep breath, sit back, and avoid comparing myself.

Highlights from Night One of Wine and Words tour, at Barbara’s Bookstore:
--Enthusiastic crowd—people who were there seemed happy to be there.

--Lovely spread catered by Whole Foods (recommend the artichoke dip.)

--Discovered they made special fancy coasters for the tour with our names, book titles and tour cities/dates on them. I’ve never been the subject of a personalized coaster before, and I have to say I rather dig it. I am not being factitious.

-One audience member complimented me on my sweater.

--On way out saw a new book called “The Proust Project,” a book that contains two of my favorite words. I have a thing for books about Proust; I’ve never read Proust mind you, but I like reading about him. (See also: page 190 of my book). This editor of this book asked 28 writers to cite their favorite Proust passage and then write an essay about it. Didn’t even have to see who the 28 writers were, I was sold. At the hotel later I found that one of the contributors is Alain de Botton, which was something like finding silk sheets in your box of cracker jacks.

Lowlights:
Crowd would have fit at a busstop, with room to spare.

The store manager told us 1500 people showed up for Bill Clinton and that the signing line wrapped around the block and took four hours. And next he’ll tell me that Chelsea slept through the night at three weeks.

_______________


INSTALLMENT TWO

Let’s start with:
What I’ve learned from the American Way magazine:

1. That there is a word that changes from plural to singular, and from male to female, by (oddly enough) adding an “s” on the end. Do you know what it is? I sure as hell didn’t. If you want to think about it for a second then look away because I’m about to type the answer. It’s “princes.” Love that. How do those Mensa Quiz folks come up with these questions? My favorite questions on their quizes follow the Goldilocks formula: not too hard that I self-implode from confusion (this month’s Questions 7 and 10), not too easy that I resent them for thinking that just because we’re not super geniuses that we’re dumb (Question 5), but just medium-enough hard that I can revel in the tidy feeling of mastery for six seconds.

2. That today’s legible, single, successful men and women turn to America’s Top Matchmaking Specialist, [advertisement] Valentini International.

3. That Adrian Brody always travels with a guitar, and that he recently ate banana and bacon pancakes (country specialty) in New Zealand.

*

The guy next to me on the plane to Kansas City was a high school senior with a passion for jazz. We talked about his music, his hopes after graduation, and what it is he loves most about jazz. “There’s all this freedom, but it’s also very structured.” That’s cool, I thought. And isn’t that balance, that juxtaposition, true for so many things? Parenting. Democracy. Road trips. Solipsistically speaking, I think it also summarizes what jived and what was comforting to me about writing in an encyclopedic format.

*

I would like to have a slumber party at “Rainy Day Books.” I loved walking around the place, wanted to linger, curl up in it, and thought, the only thing that would make this better for me would be if the store was closed and I was in my pajamas. (There’s a tour idea: The Slumber Party Tour. “Come join us and Joyce Carol Oates for an after-hours evening of book signing, back tickling, and séances.”) I was distracted at the beginning of the night, didn’t know where to look first: an inspiring collection of author-signed posters; book displays thoughtfully arranged; a spinning rack of “Believers.” (I wish Jonathan Lethem’s interview with Paul Auster in the last issue was 100 pages longer). What a night it was at “Rainy Day.” (Thank you, Steve, thank you, Maureen, thank you, Michael-their-apparently-most-loyal-customer-who-stayed-and-put-away-chairs.)

*
Karen, Steve and I are becoming a unit. As I have mentioned, we met for the first time just minutes before our first reading. We’ve been feeling our way in terms of what works best at the readings, what order we should go in (Karen’s great last), when to do the Q & A (after each individual reading, not all together at end), and how long we should talk (Steve’s been coaching me on that). When one of us is up there, the other two are quietly cheering, like it’s a sibling up there. “He really nailed that dialogue today,” or “That’s a new passage she just read, good choice choosing that for this crowd.” It’s nice to walk away from the podium, and have one of them do the double-slap good job thing on my leg. We’re learning a lot about each other over coffee--and over-hearing cell phone conversations. Grabbing our bags off the carousel today Steve said, “My bag didn’t use to be green; I think our suitcases are mutating into the same color.” In other words, we three are melding.

*

The Miami airport is monstrously big. I’ve been there before but somehow managed to forget how crowded it is with travelers trying to maneuver overstuffed luggage carts, and how elaborate and unpleasant the labyrinth of check-in points and security lines and concourses is. Trying to get to your gate feels like one of those nightmares where you spend the whole night, the whole dream, trying to get somewhere simple, but the journey keeps expanding, and with it, your anxiety, you keep thinking you’re almost home—“yes, there’s the neighbor’s red brick house, the Big Wheel in the front yard”--but then a weird, unfamiliar road appears in a place it doesn’t belong and prolongs, yet again, reaching your ever-elusive destination. That’s the Miami airport.

*
If “Rainy Day” is the place for a slumber party, “Books and Books” in Coral Cables is where I want to have a dinner party. They have this one alcove-y room on the right (your left) with books layered up and down every wall, and the most perfect country wooden table holding court in the middle of the room. I told Mitchell, the owner, how fabulous the table was, and that is when he told me that people do in fact rent out the room for private dinners.
I’ve actually never seen a bookstore quite like this. And bookstore isn’t even the right word, it’s more like a magical book kingdom. Different rooms and sections and hallways with showcasing local artists and a coffee bar and a library-esque event room, all centered around—like any good kingdom—a lovely courtyard. In this case, it’s a courtyard café complete with full menu, and live music on Friday’s. Lucky for us, our gig was on that day, so after the reading (full house—thank you, God), a few of us who couldn’t pry ourselves away from the place just yet sat at a table with Mitchell, chatting books, listening to music, and sipping honestly the best chai tea any of us had ever had.
My parents were there that night (then staying the week to visit my mom’s brother) and were mesmerized by the place as well. As we were leaving, and after hearing the whole story of how Mitchell started the place 20 years ago, my dad said in that distinctly fatherly way, “Mitchell, my boy, you done good.”

I loved and loved “Books and Books.”

*

On the plane ride to Miami, feeling alive, hyper alive, on a journey alive. Music spilling through my headphones. Notebook in my lap, backpack at my feet. Sugar wrappers all over the tray table. Images of books and more books and posters of books and towers of galleys in the back rooms. My daughter’s parting words before I left—“Good luck, Mom”-- playing over and over in my mind like a sweet refrain. My eyes thick with tired, my fingertips prickly with the salt of mixed nuts. A magnificent, wide-awake sun busting through the small airplane window, sliding in with outstretched arms like a star in a tux, “I’m here, I’m here.”

________________


INSTALLMENT THREE

Encyclopedia of a Book Tour

Agent
I’m going to say a couple things about Amy Rennert, my agent, because I don’t know when I’ll ever have the chance to say this again, in front of you all, and she’s the reason I’m even here in the first place. Many of you know Amy, and so know this first-hand: she is so much more than an agent. In fact, I don’t even like calling her that, “my agent”--it feels so stiff and business-like. If she were a guy, which I’m fairly certain she is not, I could futz with the word, open up the space between the a and g, and make it “a gent,” a much more satisfying title. Cause that’s what she is—wise, classy, kind—a real gent.

“Book Passage”
Saturday night’s event was at “Book Passage” in San Francisco. We had a very nice turn-out (euphemism for “full house, people even standing in aisles, but not lines out the door”), and Carol (from their Marin store) could not have been more gracious. It was an especially bittersweet night for me because in the audience were, in order of height, my oldest friend in the world that I’ve known since nursery school; one of my best friends from college; the editor I’m working with on my very first children’s book; the aforementioned agent; and artist pal Sherry Olsen who I’m mentioning by name because I just found out last night that her aunt is in publishing and has been forwarding Sherry these diaries. (hi, Sherry.)

“Lost and Found Project”
The week my book came out (end of January/beginning of February) we launched something in Chicago called “The Lost and Found Project.” This literary game of hide’n’seek was born out of a phone conversation with my editor, Annik, a couple months prior. Here’s the gist. I gather up 20 or so friends and family members (“book hiding specialists”) to help hide/leave 150 copies of the book around the city. Taped to the front of each book is a note that says, “This book was intentionally left here for you to find. We hope you find some meaning in it. 149 other people are currently finding copies around the city. If you want to share when and where you found the book, stop by http://www.encyclopediaofanordinarylife.com and click on Lost and Found.” People emailed in some rather serendipitous stories of how they found the book; it was really cool. We always knew San Francisco was going to be one of the next Lost and Found cities, it was just a matter of when. “When” turned out to be just before the “Book Passage” event Saturday night. A reporter from the San Francisco Weekly tagged along as Amy Rennert and I hid the first 10 books. Hiding spots included: inside newspaper box; inside the cooler at a Peet’s Coffee; on the seat of a trolley car; on the windshield of a car. The best though was this: we left one at a bus stop, and then watched two photographer-types (they looked more like artists than tourists) pass by the bus stop. They back-track a second later, this lone book apparently catching their eye. They’re behind the glass so they walk around in front and closely examine the book. We’re across the street watching as they read the note and keep looking at one another. Of course we’re dying, thinking, “Take it, take it!” (I always leave after I’ve hidden a book so I’ve actually never seen someone walk away with it.) All of a sudden she opens up her fancy camera and starts taking pictures of it. After a few seconds of this, my mind catches up to the reality of it, and I quickly scramble in my bag, grab my digital camera, and take a picture of THEM taking a picture of my book. It was all very Charlie Kaufmann-esque.

Pants
My dear friend Marie-Claude made me a pair of groovy pants for my book release party in Chicago. I was wearing them again in San Francisco Saturday. We were being interviewed about the tour at this cute little outdoor café, and the journalist and I were chatting about the pants. I looked up and noticed the street sign: Claude Street.

Sun Magazine, sitting in San Francisco airport reading the
Sunday morning we get to the San Francisco airport uncharacteristically early. There are only a few people sitting at the gate. We find ourselves with something we’ve had little of this trip: time. I see a man quietly playing his guitar. I want to sit near him, to score this scene (INT. SFO AIRPORT -DAY- ) with his music, to sip this hour. There is something uniquely lovely about seeing/listening to someone play a guitar at an airport, their guitar case open at their feet, such a display of self-confidence, contentment and grace. I have a hot cup of coffee, The Sun Magazine, and his acoustic guitar coating my belly, mind and being.

“Tattered Cover,” two good number stories at Denver’s legendary

1. Heather at “Tattered Cover” told us that by her count (and I hear she’s a very good counter) there were well over 100 people. Steve, Karen and I were very happy.

Here’s Steve telling you how he happy he was:
“I haven’t played a room like that since my high school musicals. It was as if I’d papered the house with my friends and Italian relatives!”

Here’s Karen telling you how happy she was:
“Having my father’s assistant gunner drive from Nebraska to meet me, my cousin who I hadn’t seen in 20 years, and a gaggle of veterans turn out, made it my purple flower moment.”

2. A fellow named Christopher had emailed me when my book first came out. He told me he worked at a Barnes and Noble in Denver (am I allowed to say that, in light of this independent bookstore tour? Should we just call it Acme Booksellers?) and he wanted to tell me he really liked the copy on the back cover of the book. I emailed him back to thank him, and tell him I was especially thrilled to hear that since that piece of text was the very last thing I wrote for the book, and it took one extended deadline after another for me to get it right. Well, he showed up at the reading Sunday night and came over to me during the signing.

“Hi, I’m Christopher—we emailed, remember?”

“Of course I remember—your email address is Christopher Denver. That’s cause you live here, right? What’s your real name?

“No, that’s my real name--Christopher Denver.”

“Oh, cool.”

“Actually, here’s the even weirder thing. I only figured this out a couple years ago. So I’m from Denver, the mile high city, right? A mile is 5,280 feet. And get this: my birthday is 5/2/80.”

Christopher, here’s to you.