Last weekend, I participated in the King County Library System Foundation Literary Lions Gala to raise money for the county library system.
What a great event — very nicely managed, kind and courteous staff and volunteers, interesting speakers who didn’t speak too long, and a flattering focus on writers (most of us blinking like little owls in the glare of the attention). The wine flowed freely and the food was excellent, which is not so easy when you are serving a three-course meal to 300 people on the main floor of a public library.
I was struck by several things:
The event was set up to treat the “performers” (writers, speakers, etc.) very humanely. We arrived early and ate our dinner in a separate room (same food, same wine). Then we were released into the wild to mingle for 30 minutes with the patrons before their dinner was served (I took the path of long-term wisdom at that point and switched to water, on the assumption that they didn’t want me to be too entertaining…). During the patrons’ dinner, each writer joined a pre-assigned table for salad, another for the entree, and a final table for dessert and coffee (which we got to eat along with the big kids). That meant we each got to engage with 25 or so patrons. After the speeches, there was more circulating, book-buying, etc. with Young People In Black roaming the crowd with trays of champagne and chocolates.
I was there to perform. I was the dinner entertainment for book-loving, widely-read people who paid $150 a plate, or $2,500 a table, to eat chicken cordon bleu with “real writers.” The skill with which the event was managed made it much easier for me to do my part. And they had name tags with magnets on them so no one’s clothes got mangled. And I got a free copy of Tim Egan’s The Worst Hard Time. And a pretty maroon ribbon that said “Author”!
Hanging out with other writers is a real crap shoot. I’ve written before about the hierarchical pee-up-the-wall behavior that can happen when you get more than one writer in a room (see the little story at the end of that post). And I’m really not interested in spending conversational time with people whose primary need is to figure out whether they are above or below me on the success / prestige / who’s-your-publisher / how-important-are-you ladder. Especially given that Tim Egan is in the room, and he clearly wins whatever contest we’re running here, so everyone else is simply getting spun up on whether they get to stand on letter “D” or letter “J” in the alphabet line. For Christ’s sake, are we grownups?
Tonight was no exception. The first people I met were Writer and Writer’s Wife. He wouldn’t talk to me. His wife asked me what I had published. A novel and a short story collection, I said. Her next question, delivered with the satisfied smile of someone who already knows the answer and has figured out where you fit in her spectrum, was, “I see. Well, have you been at your craft long?”
I refrained from saying something ugly like Go patronize someone dumber than you, and just said, Why yes, about 20 years.
In the immortal words of Arlo Guthrie, Then they all moved away from me on the bench.
I think what puzzles people is that I will answer the questions but not play the game. Apparently, I am supposed to be embarrassed, ashamed or somehow diminished by the fact that I have not published as much as someone else, or that they have sold more books, or that I know their name but they don’t know mine. Apparently, I am supposed to accept that these issues of career are inextricably linked to the worth of my work and to my self-esteem as a writer. I should at least have the good grace to explain at length in conciliatory tones exactly why I’m not keeping up with the Writerjoneses, as some of the writers at the event did (completely unsolicited) with me. Apparently, this is part of the throat-baring that helps us accord each other the proper number of points so that we know who to talk up or down to. Or something.
I find the whole thing both quite funny and extremely sad. What a way to live. The fact is, I’m wicked proud of my work, and I feel no need to explain what I do with my time when I’m not out promoting something new. But it’s irritating as hell to have that be the basis for social interaction at these things.
Happily, not all writers are like this. I had a particularly interesting talk with Nancy Horan, whose book is doing very well, and who couldn’t be nicer to hang with at an event. I also met Kevin Horan, a photographer and photojournalist, who was kind enough to go take a look at my book in the bookseller’s area so he could find me again and talk to me about it. Nice people. And we never once talked about who could pee higher. Who cares? It’s a big, big wall, there’s room for everyone to pee up, down or sideways if they want.
It doesn’t matter what we read. Nancy Pearl, who emceed the event, said something that struck me so strongly I had to find her afterwards and thank her. She told a story about a group recently where she mentioned Sunshine by Robin McKinley, and a teenage girl in the back of the room gasped audibly and said, “Have you read that book? It’s my favorite book in the whole world!” And Nancy Pearl was able to enthuse with her about what they liked about the book. The point was that she wasn’t telling the girl what she “should” read — she was telling her that anything she read and loved was good. We talked afterwards about what a crime it is to puncture someone’s joy in a book just because you don’t think it’s “good enough” or “real literature.” Book snobs should all go to the moon and leave the job of promoting reading to people who actually think that reading is a lifelong adventure, not a barometer of social worth.
Reading isn’t dead. Tim Egan said so in his speech (he did a nice job and was very funny about politics, including pointing out that Rudy Guiliani spent 60 million dollars to win one delegate). But I know it’s true because of the patrons at the event. It was a treat to spend time at the tables with people who care so much about reading that they are willing to pony up for the library so that other people can read too. It was cool to see the plans for so many new libraries in the next few years — one of the new libraries will have apartments over it and a coffee shop next door! How cool is that, living over the library? It was wonderful to hear so many “library stories” from patrons — how libraries had changed their lives, or a library book had affected their career choice.
And I forget sometimes how many people are curious about writers. I enjoyed answering questions, telling stories, and hearing their stories in return. I enjoyed being reminded that what I do matters sometimes to some people. That there are moments when it’s important. That it’s not just about me, it’s about the power of story in human experience, and that I am fucking blessed to get to be a part of that.
Libraries matter. They are repositories of story and knowledge. They are havens for kids and adults. They build community. They offer the lifeline of books to anyone, for free. Libraries are good. And I am very glad that I got to help support some.
