This is the first time that I do this kind of thing: I paid $25 to see a writer talk and have my book signed. Why did I do it, if I never do it, especially not for $25? I heard him on an interview with Terry Gross while driving, and I found myself saying “yeah” to every thing he said. He was describing the some times tortuous process of writing, the process of getting into people’s heads, and other juicy writer’s stories, and I fell in love. I felt I had found my soul mate, because all that he was saying resonated with me so clearly and loudly.
I’ve been in the process of writing a novel for quite some time now. You see, this book has been trying to be born for more than 10 years now, a very slow and painful birth. Maybe it is because I am a primeriza, a first time mother. This will be my first novel, if I ever finish it, and if it becomes a novel, because at this point, I don’t know anymore what it is. So, it made me feel good to know that I wasn’t the only one that suffered through the writing process.
Why suffer? Am I a masochist perhaps? Don’t let me answer that question. But yes, it is a hard process when you are revising some painful periods of your life, not all painful, some stupid, some dull, and drawing conclusions and lessons from them. Hurtful truths some times come to surface. Even when we though, oh, this is safe.
So, when I heard that he was going to be in LA, I looked it up and got the ticket, and, of course, I went to buy the book.
I hadn’t read Franzen before. I wasn’t here when all the controversy of “The Corrections” happened. That was in 2001 before 9/11, and I was in Holland then, getting my fiancée visa to come here. So those kind of news were out my radar. I heard about him when I was in the MFA, but I didn’t put much attention to what people were saying. I didn’t read bestsellers authors then, you know. I didn’t consider them “literary” enough. Of course, I was talking only from my arrogance, since I didn’t really know Franzen’s writing.
I started reading “Freedom” before going to the library event, of course. I imagined in my head that I would have an opportunity to talk to him, one on one, to let him know how much I liked what he said in Fresh Air, how much his interview made me feel that I was not alone in the world, that out there, there was someone who also felt like I did about people, who felt how I felt about writing. And as I started reading the book, I also wanted to tell him that I too like to write about people, about relationships, about what happens to us through life, how life change us.
My yeah yeah situation in the car started when he got to talk about depression and being stuck, and working your conflicts, instead of going to therapy, though writing. Self-psychoanalysis. “When I start to crash, I know I am getting something there.” Maybe I am at that point, but I am a bit paralyzed.
When the big day arrived, I didn’t feel like going, driving to downtown LA… but, I had the ticket so I went.
It was in Little Tokyo, at the Japanese American theater, which was much bigger than I thought. It was a full size theater! For an author! It was really full, a lot of people. I sat somewhere in the back, on the left side.
Somebody came out and introduced him, flowers coming out of her mouth as she praised him, and then, he came out, tall, a lot of hair, walked to the podium on the other side of the stage and read an excerpt of the novel that I hadn’t read yet. When he finished, he walked over to the center of the stage where the chairs were set with the microphones, and then the interviewer came and sat down on the other chair.
I didn’t like the interviewer. I thought her questions and opinions were not interesting, and it seemed that he wasn’t connecting with her either, but his answers were still interesting. Overall, I liked the Fresh Air interview better. Then people lined up to ask him questions, some interesting, some not, about Oprah and all that again, so I decided to go out and line up for the signing since it looked like it was going to be a long line.
And then I felt it. Cholula! It was screaming my voice inside, “You are like those people fascinated by fame, following the figure of your adoration like a thirsty puppy!” How cruel. My internal voices are always so nice to me. They have no compassion, they don’t care a bit about my feelings. They just scream out at me their most hurtful criticisms expecting me to take it, and bleed, and feel sorry for myself.
So I made sure to go to the bathroom first, to hush them, and then I moved timidly through the lobby and was relieved when I saw that I was not the only Cholula trying to get one of the first places in line. I was happy to see that there were at least another 10 people before me. And what was even more comforting was that they were even more Cholulos than me! Because they had bags full of books for him to sign. Every book he had written was there, some times multiple copies. Churn out some signatures Mr. Franzen!
But here is when the best part started. Once the talk ended, people were coming out of the theater in masses and lining up behind. I don’t know how long the line was, but I imagine it went around the whole theater, that’s why they set the signing table at the end of the lobby, so they will have the whole length of the circumference of the theater for the line.
Franzen came, sat down at the table and started signing. From my post in the line I could see two people standing next to him, two people that looked like librarians, with their thick glasses and dressed with their last century correctness. And also, there were other two women going through the line making sure that the books were open on the right page. I opened my book and chose a page, a white page for him to sign. The woman came to me, looked at my open book, and corrected my choice: not this page, this one, with the title. Aha. I guess it will upset him to sign his book on a different page. Will it slow him down, throw him off to see a different page in front of him? Will that cause a debacle in the line?
I don’t know. I obeyed.
The guy before me had a bag full of books. He told me he loved his writing. I asked him which book he liked the most, since it seemed that he had read them all, and he said, “The Corrections.” I will have to read it, I thought.
When his turn came up, he approached the table with all his books, the guy standing to the left of Franzen took the books and hand them to him, one by one, and the woman to the right was just looking, making sure he didn’t spend too much time with each, perhaps, keeping the clock. He was flanked by the soldiers of the Queen of Hearts. I was in Alice in Wonderland.
He was not even looking up to see whose book it was. Everything had to be done so fast and expedient. He was the Rock Star of the publishing industry. He had to keep his fans happy, but it had to be done a certain way, everything under control.
I felt sorry for him. Such a long line. His wrist will hurt afterwards.
When my turn came, the guy on the left took my book while Franzen was still signing the previous guy’s books. It was all so fast. He took my book that was handed by the thick glasses guy, without looking at me, and I thought, this is it? Not time to talk? Not nothing? But then it just came out of me: “This is crazy, all these people.” He lifted his eyes from the book, looked at me, smiled. I said, “Thank you,” and he stretched his hand for me to shake it, while looking at me on the eyes.
I left happy, because in just those 20 seconds I felt there was a connection. I got through to him, and he got through to me, but he had already done so before, with his book and his thoughts.
I wanted to write you an email, Mr Franzen, but I cant find your address anywhere, not even an address to write you a letter. I guess I have to go through your publisher. It is sad that good writers seem so unapproachable. Maybe not, maybe it is just me, that I am afraid. I never tried to write to a writer that I admire before. I never thought I would get a response. But this time I will try, just to get it out, and why not, maybe you’ll answer.
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