In the world of book writing, there is this urban legend that, back in the olden times, publishers used to have big budgets to send writers on “book tours,” flying them from city to city to give readings to adoring crowds at bookstores from coast to coast. I know there is at least a grain of truth to this, because some older writers have confirmed it for me; there were even freelance “author handlers” in some cities, book lovers who somehow got hired to pick up writers at the airport, drive them to their hotels, and from there to the bookstores. For one version of this mythology, check out the 2015 movie The End of the Tour, based on a David Foster Wallace book tour.
I have written five books, and I have never before been sent on a book tour; among my author friends, even more successful writers have sometimes been sent to three or four cities. But for my latest, a biography of the mega-selling children’s author Judy Blume, my publisher is sending me all over the place—to about 15 cities, with more dates still getting added. I understand this ain’t about me—the book has gotten good reviews, I am chuffed as can be, but the widespread interest in this book has more to do with the subject, one of the world’s most beloved authors, than with her biographer.
When the New Haven Independent learned that I would be crisscrossing the country to meet my readers, they asked me to keep a tour diary. After three weeks, I have landed at the end of the first leg of the tour, and, as I type in a hotel in St. Louis, I am ready to file this report from the road. Here is my highly illustrated tour diary:
March 8: Two days before my book is published, The New York Times publishes a photo of me in my unshod feet.
March 10: Book is published. I have an opening-night event at R.J. Julia bookstore in Madison, Conn. Nice turnout, boosted by many loyal Westville neighbors.
March 11: Maplewood, N.J., at [words] bookstore. First time I see this book in a front-window display.
March 12: Southern Pines, N.C. I read at the Country Bookshop, a charming place owned by the local daily newspaper. After reading, I get myself some local ice cream, at a store named Local Ice Cream. I buy the tee shirt:
Also on the main drag—a nifty God/chocolate combo:
March 13: Gainesville, Fla. I read at the Lynx, which is owned by novelist Lauren Graff. One of the clerks has a Virginia Woolf tattoo:
March 16: Plainville, Mass. I read at An Unlikely Story, the bookstore owned by Diary of a Wimpy Kid author Jeff Kinney, who has himself sold 300 million books (more than three times as many as Judy Blume has sold). Kinney shows up to my reading and gives me a tour of his studio. He draws his books in an old English phone booth:
On the way home, I stop to charge my car and get fries and a drink; I drink Mello Yello for the first time in decades:
March 17: Winnetka, Ill. I read at the Book Stall. My sister comes to see me read. The hotel where I stay, The Graduate, in Evanston, is Chicago-themed, hence this copy of a Saul Bellow novel on a stand in my room:
March 18: Milwaukee. I read at the Milwaukee Public Library, with books sold by Boswell’s, their terrific local indie. In the hotel room, I have the creepy experience, now common, of having the TV greet me by name:
En route home, I see my book in an airport bookstore—the real test of success.
Airports get weirder all the time:
March 24: South Hadley, Mass. I read at the Odyssey Bookstore. My mom and dad come.
March 25: St. Louis. I read and sign at the public library. I am interviewed onstage by former Westville resident, novelist Gavriel Savit. But first, on deplaning in the airport, I see the saddest ad ever:
Then I stay at the Cheshire, a roadside motel that has been converted into a baronial English-themed manor lodge, with rooms named for British authors. (I stayed in Arthur Conan Doyle.)
The highlight of the tour? Meeting a guy with a name that is almost mine. I hereby give you, from St. Louis, Mark Oppenheim:
