Win Big With the Ladies

I arrived in Raleigh after flying over the vast wetlands of the North Carolina coast. A car was waiting for me. When the driver heard I was on an author tour he began to describe enthusiastically the book he was writing, a sort of manual on how to Win Big With the Ladies, based on chess strategy, a dash of the Bible, and the remembered advice of a mentor from his teenage years. He had a look of Steve Buscemi about him, and since he was wearing a black suit I felt like I was being driven by Mr Pink from Reservoir Dogs. I asked him if his strategy had worked for him, and he shrugged. 'Sure' he said. A couple of miles later he added 'Sometimes.'

I was dropped off at the bookshop that was organising the day's events - three school presentations in a row. The manager was a bit surprised to see me. 'You're here Friday, right?' she said. My schedule said Wednesday. 'Oh my lord,' she said, and got on the phone to the schools to ask them if they could make a Friday into a Wednesday.

The presentation consists of me rambling on for fifteen minutes about why and how I write, after which I read a chapter of the book. Out loud, that is. Then come questions from the floor, literally, as that's where the kids are seated. I point to each child and say 'you in the green T-shirt,' or 'there, with the flowery dress,' and every child without exception glances down at themselves for a quick check - Am I wearing green? Yep, that's me. Later that day one of the teachers caught up with me in the bookshop and presented me with an envelope of beautifully written letters from her entire class, complete with illustrations of characters from the book. A boy named Nicholas writes 'you have a big imagination. Like that vortex of lightning. Write to me if I am wrong about the lightning vortex.'

The booksellers and the teachers are unfailingly polite, and say nice things about my book. There are two levels of hyperbole in the US. Level one is 'Ossum.' Level two is 'it blew me away.' This always makes me think of Vito Corleone's unfortunate mother in the Godfather II, when she pleads to the local don for her son's life, and receives a blast from a shotgun in reply. When people tell me my book 'blew them away' I picture them flying backwards through a Sicilian olive grove in widow's weeds, a copy of the book clutched in one hand. Maybe I watch too many movies.