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On the road to rejection
A tale of a California book tour
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I've been doing readings, taking my weathered face in front of small crowds and reading from my novel, "The Altar of the Body." I don't do it for fame. Fame scares me. I do it for mercenary reasons, because I want to sell my books. I want to sell enough of them so that my publisher will want to publish me again. I've written four novels, but so far I haven't made anyone any money except a publisher in Germany, where my books sell better than they do here. I'm told my work is odd, quirky, character-driven and sometimes too literary, all attributes that German readers seem to love and most American readers seem to hate. I could argue with such an assessment, but it doesn't really matter what I say. It never matters what an author says about his own work or his readers. Once a book is published, the author is helpless and at the mercy of others who make their assessments and tell the rest of us what to think. I'm talking about book "critics," many of whom have fetal alcohol syndrome. There are some good critics. The good ones get the subtleties of your book. The bad ones don't. Like Ross Perot once said, it's just that simple.
I don't like crowds. I don't even much like people, unless they come in ones, twos and threes and will sit down and talk and have a drink and let me do most of the listening. If those at my readings buy a book, I like them for a while, especially if they don't ask me for the formula for becoming a writer. I'm not selfish. I would tell them if I could. But I don't know any answer, other than write and don't forget to read. Read only the best writers you can find. If you make a habit of reading bad writing, you'll get infected and write badly yourself. This does not mean, however, that if you only read good writers, you will be like them and write good stuff. Reading starts the process. Remorseless labor does the rest. It also helps if you have some sort of innate talent for using words.
If I had my druthers, I'd never read from my own work again. But the book tour is what writers do these days. No one can think of any other way to sell a few books by unknown writers, so you've got to do it. Basically you're up there selling whatever personality you might have and hawking your wares and making a little whore of yourself. There are too many writers and too many books and too few readers, so you've got to do what you can to get attention. It helps if you're young and cute. It helps if you're handsome and have white teeth and a close-cut beard that enhances your cheekbones. I have none of these attributes. If you're a woman it helps to be an ex-model, be beautiful and sexy. Get a nose job if you have to. Do something with your hair. If you're a wonderful writer, but physically just can't cut it, you might consider consulting a plastic surgeon. I understand that plastic surgeons have a book of illustrations, like tattoo artists, from which you can choose the look you want. Choose the one that says "struggling artist with ironic mouth and fire of genius in his/her eyes."
Those who used to read would rather watch television now, slip a movie in the VCR or DVD and stay home. Kick back with feet on coffee table and mind on passive receive. The world is too much with us. We have to keep our horizons narrow. Unfortunately, good books are known for broadening horizons and giving people too much to think about. We have to escape.
TV might put you in a borrowed-sitcom mood after a horrid, suicidal day. The mood won't last, but for at least an hour or two you won't be the jerk who walked in with a chip on your shoulder. "Between the bridge and the brook, the knife and the throat," there is TV.
The first reading I did for "The Altar of the Body" was with the bassist/guitarist Gunnar Biggs. He played music while I read five passages from my book about the weightlifter, Buck Root, and Miss Las Vegas Legs, Joy Faust, and senile Livia Miles and laid-back George McLeod. There were probably sixty or seventy people in the audience and at least half of them were forced to be there. Thank the muse for professors who show up with their students in hand. The crowd got into the story and the music and they applauded loudly and bought a lot of books. As far as these things go, it was a mild success. But I didn't trust it. I went home in a bad mood.
The next night, Gunnar had another gig, so I went to Grossmont College alone. The professors there made sure I had a good crowd again. I put on my author mask and read to them, and again it was a success. The bookstore sold every copy of "Altar" that they had. But I wasn't happy. I knew the good times were over. When on reading tour, keep you expectations low and you won't be disappointed. Although, actually, you will be disappointed, but you'll be able to say, "I told you so. I knew no one would come. Can't fool me."
The next Friday I went to DG Wills. My sister and brother-in-law showed up at the reading. They wanted to make sure there would be at least two people to read to. I had been through it before, when I was touring with my second novel, "The Holy Book of the Beard," and two people showed up at a store in Beaverton, Oregon. I read to them. They were my Aunt Marge and my Uncle Dean. My uncle bought a book.
At DG Wills five other people showed up. With Dennis Wills and Gunnar and Bonnie Biggs, plus moi we had eleven. For some reason I was very nervous and it was hard to do the voices of each character as I changed sections. I think maybe it was because my sister was there. I hate having relatives watching me bomb. When it comes to readings, I want them to stay home and let me endure my failure by myself. Gunnar and I did our act and sold a few books and Dennis, being the soul of kindness and wanting us to feel good, said that Gunnar and I should be on TV. Between "Friends" and The Star-Spangled Banner, I'm sure we could find somewhere to fit.
My next reading was in Los Angeles, at the famous, highly respected, much touted store called Dutton's. My editor was thrilled I had been invited there. I wasn't thrilled. I had bad vibes. The producer, Denise Shaw, who optioned the film rights for my novel "Too Cool," lives in Santa Monica and she picked me up at the Brentwood Motel, a charming little place with creaking floors and lumpy beds. Denise and I went out to dinner, then to the bookstore. No one was there. Not one fan showed up to hear me read. This has happened before. In fact, it was just last year when the hardback of "Altar" was out and I toured the Midwest. Again, the colleges were fine, but the bookstores sucked big time. So at Dutton's I signed some of the stock, waited half an hour and left with the producer. She bought a bottle Coppolo's red table wine and we went over to Michael Convertino's house. He's a musician and a screenwriter. He wrote the screenplay for "Too Cool." Denise kept filling my glass as soon as it was empty and I started feeling less depressed about Dutton's and the other empty bookstores waiting for me up the road. Denise, Michael and I sat and talked for hours about screenwriting and actors and "Too Cool" as a movie and about movies in general.
I have to admit that the pain in the ass of driving in L.A. traffic, with its schools of sharks nosing along trying to nip each other, was mitigated by my evening with Denise and Michael. But the distrust I have of bookstores and readings was powerfully reinforced. If bookstores are not going to work to get an audience, they shouldn't invite unknowns like myself. Stick to the big shots, the Greshams and Sheldons and whoever else is on, or near, the bestseller lists. Critically acclaimed but unread authors like Who? Huh? and What? don't need anymore humiliation, rejection or self-doubt. They don't need to be shown again and again what nothings they are. A book tour seems designed to castrate struggling writers, put them in their place. It does the job extremely well.
In a few days, I head north. Next stop Corte Madera, a place called Book Passage, where I expect I'll be embarrassed once more. But maybe not, who knows, who can say? When I toured San Francisco with "The Holy Book of the Beard" in 1995, I was pleasantly surprised by how many people came to the readings. Frisco was like a little island of culture and learning back then. An impressive number of people actually seemed to like literature and did not see it as a dusty, archaic drudgery waiting to waste their life, a common attitude among southern Californians. We'll see how it goes in S.F. and in Portland and Seattle. Bellingham is the last stop.
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