Book party
My friend J. and I are at a party in an ugly but expensive house in one of the tonier parts of town. It’s a book release for a writer we both know slightly and love a lot; J.’s garnered an invitation based one of her many volunteer connections, and I’ve wangled my way in as her guest. We’ve expected a crowd, but nothing like this; people spill out of the house and into the street, cocktails in hand.
After hoofing it from a parking space two blocks away, we belly up to a table in the front yard and purchase our books for the author to sign. As I hand over my cash, I remark to J. that Author X. has probably sold more books tonight than I have in my whole career. J. tells me not to be so negative.
Inside, pandemonium. A conga line of people with X.’s book in hand snakes its way loosely from the front door toward the dining room where, we assume, X. is stationed. It’s hard to tell whether the house is just small or if it’s really that crowded. In any case, the A/C isn’t sufficient to handle all these bodies plus the 98-degree Texas heat outside, and within minutes we’re sweating heavily. Fortunately, waiters are circulating with trays of liquid refreshment. We nab the last two Shiner Lights, remarking that our friend L., the Queen of Shiner Bock, would kill us if she saw us drinking wussy beer. J. and I gossip about the ghastly art on the walls and try to identify faces we know: our host, an editor; a reporter J. loathes from a local paper; an agent; the writer in front of us in line.
By the time we finally attain the summit – the table where X. is sitting, looking serene and happy, chatting and signing books – I’m light-headed from the beer and the heat. J. and I make our oblations, get our books signed, and move into the kitchen, where we nab real Shiners from the bar and start to scout around for food, but all we see is wilted fruit and sweaty cheese.
So we station ourselves against a wall and eventually find people we know and others we don’t to talk to. Conversations swirl like wisps of smoke, and what strikes me is that they’re all about writing: about the process, the business, the grit and the glory.
And it’s just possible, with two Shiners under my belt, to dismiss the notion that books don’t matter anymore. Here we are, in the (sticky) flesh, a couple of hundred people whose lives revolve around words. For a few hours, at least, reality falls away, and we can tell ourselves that what we do – weaving worlds out of memory and imagination – is the most honorable and rewarding job on the planet. I drive J. back to her car and head home daydreaming of a wall-to-wall crowd of friends and fans with my book in their hands, at a fabulous party of my own.
