Every writer dreams of touring. I know I did. After a long mid-list career, I felt I’d climbed the Mount Everest of writing privilege when Penguin offered me a tour. Oh, the places I’d see! The people I’d meet!
I did get to see places and meet people. I got to see the inside of many hotels, airports, and bookstores: The people who came to the signings were about ninety-seven percent delightful. It was the three percent you had to be braced for. I had a code word I gave whoever was accompanying me to the bookstore. If I used it, it meant, “Please get me out of this conversation.”
Of course, when you arrive at a store and see a line of people waiting, it’s a huge ego boost . . . if there’s a line. Sometimes the store is empty, and even the employees are not excited to see you come in. I had a signing in Kansas where literally I was the only person in the bookstore besides the owner for two long, long, hours.
Robert Dugoni shared an experience he had on his first tour. When he arrived at the Houston Barnes & Noble, he was directed to a table that the staff assured him had been set up for him.
There was a huge banner hanging over the table. It read, “Welcome Serena Williams.”
Bob says he did not sell many books at that stop.
Touring can be a lonely business, though you’re always surrounded by people. Sometimes the publisher will send a publicist with you, sometimes a writer escort will meet you at the airport and be responsible for your transportation from there on out. But often, you’re on your own.
Lisa Unger solved that problem by taking her baby (then four months old) on tour. She also took her husband and parents. She says that was “bonkers,” but at the time, it worked: for twelve cities in fourteen days, which is a typical tour schedule.
On such a schedule, it’s not always possible to have meals when you’re used to eating. I remember vividly checking into a hotel with the knowledge that I had an hour to eat before I had to leave for the bookstore, and had not had anything since breakfast. But there was a race starting outside, and a lot of runners had clustered around the check-in desk to ask questions. Despite the best efforts of my stalwart publicist, I don’t think I got my meal that day.
One tour, I ate French onion soup at every stop, trying to pick the best bowl of the trip. It gave me a goal.
Most people who take the trouble to come to a book signing are great readers, and they buy the book. There are always some who come to book signings because there’s often a snack, and there’s a chair to sit in, and free entertainment in the form of the question-and-answer segment of the evening or the writer’s prepared remarks. Lisa recalls a man who listened to her whole speech and then rose to tell her he never read books written by women.
People have asked me: how much money I make, if I’d ever consider non-violent alternatives in writing mysteries and urban fantasy, if I would give them Alexander Skarsgard’s telephone number.
But for everyone that has an agenda way out in left field, there are many, many readers who are marvelous people who make you feel wonderful about your chosen profession. Sometimes I get weepy when readers tell me I’ve made a difference in their lives. That’s something you can’t get when you’re sitting alone in your office working. That’s why touring can be incredibly valuable.
As Lisa said, after telling me about her baby book tour, “A tour is like life. Wild, messy, uncomfortable, truly wonderful, so much fun . . . and occasionally miserable.” It’s a privilege, a burden, a puffer-up, and a deflater.
