The Etiquette of Autographing, or, Public Appearances in the Absence of Coffee

When I got home from California a week and a half ago, I had two messages on my answering machine, an interesting testimonial to how I have trained most people to use email. One of them was from Don Blyly, who was planning Uncle Hugo's Science Fiction Bookstore's 30th anniversary, and wanted to know if I'd sign books from one to two p.m. with Patricia Wrede, Caroline Stevermer, and Lois Bujold. Since the company offered would have made the trip worthwhile even if nobody asked me to sign a single book, and since I am sentimentally attached to Hugo's, and was flattered, too, I said yes.

One p.m. seemed quite reasonable, even if I have been sleeping badly and dragging myself out of bed at noon. Then there was a bus strike, so I asked David if he'd give me a ride, and of course he said he would, and bring the camera, too. When the signing was planned he thought he might be teaching that weekend, but he wasn't. However, when I checked with him last night about precise scheduling, he had the notion that going out to lunch first would be good. He suggested Taco Bell, which is cheap and which, if you ask for no cheese, has vegan offerings here and there. I said that was okay, but pretty boring, and I could make myself something better at home. David said he could make himself something at home, but not better, with current ingredients, and I said that was because he got to have cheese at Taco Bell, and maybe I could bring a bag of soy cheese with me. He said he'd see if Lydy wanted to come too, remarking that she would not be thrilled by the notion of Taco Bell either.

In the end we went to Baja California, which has fish tacos. I slept poorly, stumbled through my morning routine, had to leave giving Minou his medication until later, and remembered my keys and medicine but forgot a pen. There was certainly no time to make coffee The fish tacos were nott as good as the ones Eric and I had in San Francisco, but they made a very nice breakfast, and were still tolerably cheap. The place had coffee, but since I hadn't brought soy creamer and don't like it black, I had Coke, and got Cherry Coke by mistake. Urgh. I thought the sugar rush might substitute for caffeine, but it really didn't.

I'm not really good at these things anyway. The fine balance between continuing a fascinating conversation with somebody in front of you and noticing when somebody else wants a book signed, the not-so-fine balance between babbling of yourself and asking about the other person, figuring out how to indicate that you were very glad to see people while rushing out the door, and perhaps most of all, knowing what to do about the next slate of autographers, whom one doesn't know personally, really pretty much defeated me. If we had had money, I'd have just gone down the row and bought a book from each of them, and introduced myself, but we couldn't buy the books. I also called one of Marissa's partners by the wrong name, and discovered on the way home that Lydy had found out more about Stella in half the time than I had, by the simple expedient of actually asking standard questions.

Everybody else seemed quite cheerful. I am very grateful to everybody who came and asked me to sign a book. I had a grand time talking to Caroline, who was sitting next to me, and made arrangements to make arrangements to see Pat and Lois. David doesn't know if he had a good time yet, because he's still looking at the pictures. Lydy enjoyed herself.

The hell with rules for writing, I want the secrets of etiquette.

Pamela

Footnotes to the Autographing

Caroline lent me a pen, which I forgot to give back.

Stella and I talked about tofu. Marissa and Pat and Caroline talked about copy-editing. Don had a huge stack of the reprints and got me to sign them all; this means they can't be returned. He doesn't return much stuff anyway, but it was nice, as it always is.

My mother's friend Helen came in and bought the first two books of the trilogy for her granddaughter, who is eleven.

Instead of buying books by the next slate of autographers, I bought Ursula LeGuin's new collection of essays and John M. Ford's new collection of stories and poetry. I looked for the third Riddle-master book, having discovered when I was assembling reading for California that ours has vanished; but like us, Hugo's had the first two. I know what happens, but I want the third one anyway.

In the car on the way to the restaurant, we were discussing why the bass line of music that Lydy plays in her bedroom can be heard quite so insistently in my room. I suggested that the waterbed might transmit sound into the wall, might even amplify it. David said the amplification wasn't possible since energy wasn't being added. "It's a heated waterbed," I said facetiously. He gave me the hairy eyeball and said, "Heat can't pass from the cooler to the hotter," and then he and Lydy did the whole routine, ending up with a rousing, "And that's a physical law!" Then they talked about less-successful Flanders and Swann routines. In the restaurant we had a little gossip and talked about The Book of the New Sun, via Gene Wolfe's rules for writing.

It's a gray sloppy day, but not very cold. This is the time of year when winter and spring have a kind of shoving contest.

Pamela