POSTS

I lived in Winston-Salem from 1978 to 1986. Aside from a short visit after graduating from college and another due to a wedding I attended about ten years ago, I had not been back to Winston-Salem since about 1986 until my book tour.

My family moved to Raintree Court when I was 8 years old. It is a short cul-de-sac of six houses, with mine located at the end of the street. It was green and had a pool in the back and beyond that a ravine that led to a trickling creek and woods where I played with the neighborhood kids.

The day after my book tour event in Winston-Salem, I had nothing to do until 7 p.m. that evening in Charlotte, a little over an hour away, so after having a great breakfast biscuit and coffee at Krankies downtown, I pulled up Google Maps on my phone and looked for my old neighborhood. Although I was 16 when we moved away to Asheville, I never learned to drive a car in Winston-Salem, in part because I attended boarding school starting in ninth grade and we weren’t allowed to have cars on campus. That means the only streets I really knew in Winston-Salem were ones I had ridden on my bike, and I’d never been on my bike downtown. Driving slowly west through downtown and toward Robinhood Road, I was struck by how much was familiar.  There was the curving, downward slope of the road as I approached Hanes Park and Reynolda Road. And on the far side of the park was Wiley Junior High, now Wiley Middle School, where I had attended in seventh and eighth grades. It was my eighth-grade teacher Mrs. Corpening who had launched me on my path toward writing fiction (see this previous post). I had never thanked her for that, and Mrs. Corpening had long since passed away, but I drove to Wiley to see if I could go inside and say hello to some memories.

I parked in the almost deserted parking lot just across the street and took a look. Like any place from childhood, Wiley seemed much smaller than I remembered it. I got out of my rental car and crossed the street, pulling out my phone to take a few pictures. The doors I had always gone in from the back were locked, so I walked around to the front to see if the school was opened. I recalled that my art teacher, an excitable man named Mr. Garibaldi or Mr. Grimaldi, had once thrown a chair out of a third-story window right above the spot where I was on the sidewalk, and I glanced up as if I would see a desk rotating through the sky on its way to the ground.

The front door was opened, and I stepped into a narrow foyer and then a larger entrance hall. The black-and-white tile was the same, but the paint was new, as was the library across the hall. There were a few signs in Spanish as well, another sign of change. But then I saw the picture of Mr. Wise, the principal of Wiley from 1968 to 1990, and remembered him immediately. I walked down one hallway, my footsteps echoing off the empty floor–aside from some murmuring in an office down another hallway, the building seemed empty. I stopped and retraced my steps, suddenly unwilling to try and visit an old classroom. I’d seen enough and was more interested in finding my old neighborhood.

Driving back to Reynolda Road and then turning onto Robinhood, I was bothered by a half-glimpsed memory. Finally I coaxed that memory out into the light, suddenly recalling what Winston-Salem reminded me of. It reminded me of Maycomb, the fictitious town in To Kill a Mockingbird. True, Winston-Salem is much bigger–even as a child I had known that. And I had never known anything like the Great Depression in Winston-Salem. But Maycomb is what I thought of as I drove up Robinhood past Coliseum Drive, which led to Wake Forest University. Perhaps it was because I had been the same age in Winston as Scout had been in Maycomb, or maybe it was because I read To Kill a Mockingbird when I lived there.

And then I hit the light at Buena Vista and turned right, and then I had to pull over. I wasn’t overcome with emotion, exactly. I just needed to pause, awash in memory. I had ridden my bike on these streets, knocked on these doors for candy at Halloween, talked here with the other neighborhood kids about the seminal movies of my generation’s childhood: Star Wars and Raiders of the Lost Ark and E.T. and Jaws.  Chip Shealey, my next-door neighbor, was the first to get HBO, and we would go into his basement and watch Jaws on his big cabinet TV, an experience that kept me from swimming alone in my pool from then on, convinced the shark would swim up the drain and eat me.  This was where my childhood was.

I drove down the street and then turned right onto Raintree Court. There was Hartley’s ranch house. And Hank and Anna Willis’ white house, and Worth and Caroline Mitchell’s, and Chip Shealey’s, and the Wilsons’ up on the hill. And that was mine at the end of the street. The same green house.

I didn’t get out of the car, just pulled over to the side of the circle and took a picture of my old house and sat there for a minute. Worth Mitchell’s basketball goal was still up on the side of his house above the garage door. How many hours had I played Horse there? How many weekends had I ridden my bike around the cul-de-sac, listening to Casey’s Top Forty on my paperback-sized Walkman? How many days had I spent playing Chase and Army and all sorts of other games in the sprawling woods behind our houses?  How many nights had I had friends over and played Dungeons & Dragons and Top Secret and Traveller in my basement or on the patio?

Where had all those things gone?

I drove slowly out of the cul-de-sac, taking a right down Buena Vista for a final pass through the neighborhood. Then I turned around, gave a salute to Raintree Court as I passed it again, and then continued down Buena Vista. I didn’t need to glance at my phone to know that my old elementary school was down this road. And then I came up on it, and when I saw the sign I nearly bumped into the car in front of me. I’d forgotten the name of the school where I’d gone for third and maybe fourth grades, where I’d run the three-legged race in field days and played soccer games and won a quarter betting that the Steelers would beat the Cowboys in Super Bowl XIII.

The school’s name was Whitaker Elementary School. Almost twenty-five years after I left that school, my wife and I would name our firstborn son Whitaker. As the Police would sing in a popular album when I was a kid growing up in Winston-Salem: synchronicity.

I snapped a picture of the school sign, then tooled around the streets for another minute or so. I hadn’t gone past Brunson Elementary, where I’d attended for the rest of elementary school before junior high. I hadn’t gone looking for the house where a cute girl in my grade named Sally had lived. I hadn’t gone looking for the candy store where we used to go to buy candy bars and bubblegum with collectible NFL football helmets. But the morning was getting on. So, without fanfare or any sort of gesture of farewell, I went down Buena Vista and turned right onto North Stratford, seeking the highway. It was time to head to Charlotte.

Late on Tuesday morning I got to visit Algonquin’s Chapel Hill office to sign some books and meet some of the staff. The editors and some of the other staff were in New York for the spring sales conference, so I didn’t get to meet them, but I did get to meet my copy editor–who made sure the novel was free of grammatical and mechanical errors–and the art department, which came up with the gorgeous cover. They were all incredibly busy but took the time to say hello and ask me to think about what I might like on the paperback cover. I also met some very nice–and very young–interns. I signed something like three hundred books, then my publicist Brooke and Algonquin’s social media whiz Debra took me out to lunch and then to Flyleaf Books, where I signed their remaining stock and bought some thank-you notes.

Between the ages of 8 and 16, I lived in Winston-Salem, so driving into the small city was nostalgic in a strange way. As a kid, I had my own suburban neighborhood memorized, but I had not gone downtown very much, and I had not learned how to drive in Winston-Salem, so while some street names were familiar, I didn’t have a good internal map. Downtown Winston-Salem has also undergone a significant renaissance in the past thirty years–now there is a vibrant arts district and a general sense of growth and prosperity. (More on nostalgia and childhood in a subsequent post.)

Bookmarks is another interesting independent bookstore. For several years, Bookmarks has been a literary arts organization that puts on a yearly books festival, but this summer they opened a new brick-and-mortar bookstore. It’s non-profit, and Bookmarks supports a variety of things, including an authors in schools program.

The store looks a bit like an industrial loft, with concrete floors and bookshelves on casters so they can be wheeled away to make space for events. Charlie Lovett, an author and president of the board of directors of Bookmarks, interviewed me for a new podcast series he was creating, “Inside the Writer’s Studio.” I was to be the first author interviewed for the series. We sat in a pair of leather club chairs on a small stage in front of a small crowd of fifteen folks, including a few Woodberry grads, one current and one future Woodberry Tiger, and my old next-door neighbors in Winston-Salem.  Charlie, himself a Woodberry grad (class of ’80), brought his Woodberry letter jacket and draped it over the back of his chair for our interview. I enjoyed the conversation, although as usual, despite Charlie’s assurances to the contrary, I maybe went on a bit too long in my answers. What was just as enjoyable was talking with folks before and afterwards. Jule Banzet, another Woodberry grad, brought his two sons, one a current fourth or fifth former and the other a hopeful future Tiger. His youngest son approached me afterward as I was signing books and asked me very politely why I had called my book Shadow of the Lions. Not sure I would have been able to do that at his age.

Next stop–Charlotte!

Monday morning I’m back at the Atlanta airport, this time flying to Raleigh. I don’t know how my friends who travel for work every week manage to do this, but for me the novelty hasn’t yet worn off.

Every independent bookstore is unique in its own way. Some are the size of a Foot Locker store, packed to the rafters with books. Others are more sprawling affairs. Some are messy, others organized. What they don’t look like is one of several such stores in a chain.

That said, Quail Ridge Books looks like a Borders bookstore, if a.) Borders were still in business and b.) Borders only had a single location. It’s virtually brand-new (they recently moved to this new location) and open and cheerful, with wooden floors and low bookshelves divided into various categories: Fiction and Nonfiction, naturally, but also Southern Fiction, Biography, Award Winners, etc.

I arrived about fifteen minutes ahead of my event with my cousin Will and his family after we had all gone out for an early dinner. His son and daughter did their best to help sell their dad’s cousin’s book.

Julia, the nice lady in charge of my event, showed me where I would be and said she would introduce me and then let me do whatever I wanted to do. “I was a boarding school teacher for ten years,” she added, then gestured at my book. “You really got that part right.”

There were a few people sitting in the fold-out chairs, but before I could really pay attention to them, several people approached. Thankfully I recognized them all: Keith, a former HIES student; Jay, a classmate from Woodberry Forest, who introduced his parents; Dave, another Woodberry classmate; and Lynette, a W&L classmate and old girlfriend, with her teenage daughter in tow. I had already expected to see these folks due to exchanged e-mails and phone calls over the past few days. My publicist Brooke and Algonquin’s social media expert Debra also came, and it was good to finally meet these two in the flesh, as I had exchanged many, many e-mails with them over the past several months. I had expected them to come, too. It was the other folks I did not expect to see: Bo, H.H., and T, all Woodberry boys in my class, now grown men. I had not seen any of them in almost thirty years. “Jimbo’s tied up with family stuff,” Bo told me, referring to a sixth Woodberry classmate, “otherwise he’d be here, too.”

Then I was standing at a microphone in front of a crowd of twenty-five people, all of whom wanted to hear about my book. I read from the prologue, talked a bit about the origins of the story, and said of my protagonist Matthias, “I like characters who make mistakes.” (That last bit got tweeted out by Algonquin via my publicist.) I tried not to ramble, probably did a little bit anyway, but then got into a groove and spoke for maybe half an hour. The Q&A with the audience was interesting. A gentleman asked how I saw the difference between redemption–which I had said my protagonist Matthias was searching for–and salvation. Lynette raised her hand and asked if I had any advice for aspiring authors, which caused her teenage daughter to nearly die from mortification. A lovely young woman who I realized was a former student of mine, Meredith, asked if I had ever, in the middle of teaching class, been struck with an idea to put in my novel. 

Then I signed books and spoke to everyone in line. Belinda, a Quail Ridge bookseller, had chosen my book as a staff pick, and I grinned up at her as she said lots of wonderful things about my book. My Woodberry classmates all lined up behind me for a picture. Meredith gave me a hug and had someone take a picture of us. My classmate Jay had to leave with his parents, but the remaining five of us Woodberry boys went across the street for a beer. And Jimbo joined us half an hour later. I wish I’d gotten a picture of all of us, beers in our hands, copies of my book scattered across our table. We told some stories and laughed a lot. It seemed like none of us had changed a bit since high school, at least in our personalities. Sure, we were perhaps more mature, a little wiser, but otherwise it felt like we were seventeen again.

Next stop–Bookmarks in Winston-Salem!

Friday morning I checked out of my hotel in Nashville and drove to Parnassus Books to pick up my signed copy of Bel Canto. (See my previous post for details.) Out of gratitude and solidarity, I purchased a copy of Ann Patchett’s Run, which Niki at Parnassus had recommended. Before I could pay for it, a cashier waved me over to a customer.  “This lady is buying a copy of your book,” she said.  The customer, who had her young grandson with her, was as delighted to meet the author as the author was to meet her. “I read about this book in the paper,” she said, “and I’m getting it for my book club!” She turned to her grandson and said, “Andrew, this man is the author of this book!” The boy grinned and shook my hand.  The copy she had purchased was one I had already signed, but I added a personal note to it. When the customer left, the cashier and I looked at each other and smiled, as if sharing a delightful little secret.

After meeting for coffee with my friend Ed and soaking up some more stories about publishing and book fairs and just being an author in general, I hit the highway for Birmingham. It’s a straight shot due south, and I spent the time listening to music, talking on the phone through the hands-off car system to my wife Kathy, and wondering when I was going to find time to get back to writing book number two.

Algonquin had put me up in two neat boutique hotels so far, and the one in Birmingham, Aloft, did not disappoint either. Imagine a modernist, industrial-looking loft, and that’s what my room looked like, sort of like what I imagine a hotel room in SoHo designed by IKEA would look like. Alabama Booksmith was only an eight-minute walk away, but as it was really hot and humid, I cheated and drove the third of a mile.

Alabama Booksmith is the most unique bookstore I’ve visited yet, starting with Jake, the owner.

Jake is almost completely bald, his remaining hair pulled back into a frazzled ponytail, but he’s got a lively spirit and a compassionate sense of humor. He met me in the parking lot. “I’m going to ask you the strangest question you’ve ever been asked at a bookstore,” he said. “Is your father’s name David?” Seeing my look of surprise, he continued, “A woman called the store and asked if your father’s name was David, because if so, and if your mother’s name is Nancy, she was in their wedding fifty years ago. She might come in and buy a copy of your book.” We walked up the steps to the front door. “Now, all independent bookstores are weird,” Jake said, “but this is probably the weirdest one you’ve ever been to.”

Inside, the store didn’t look weird, although it was empty except for the staff. Every single title faces outward from the shelves so you can see the front cover, and every single copy for sale has been signed by the author. Alabama Booksmith’s big gig is selling signed first editions, which they mail to their enrolled customers. “People don’t really visit this store,” Jake said. “Ninety percent of our customers buy the signed first editions, which we mail to them.”

“So they might come in to the store once, sign up for your program, and they don’t come back?” I asked.

“Exactly!” Jake said, beaming as if he were my teacher and I had just solved a difficult puzzle. “But that one woman in your parents’ wedding called, so we’ll probably get one. If we get two people, that’s wonderful. We don’t really get people who come in to listen to an author.”

Jake led me to a back room where around three hundred copies of my novel sat in stacks on a table. This was why I had come–not to speak with a group of readers, but to sign copies of my book. Alabama Booksmith had selected me as their August choice for their Signed First Edition club. These three hundred books had basically all been sold already–I would sign them, and then the store would ship them out to the members of their club.

Mike, another bookseller, shot a thirty-second video of me talking about my book, which they assured me was perfectly fine and that I didn’t sound like an idiot. Then, just before the book signing started, Jake placed a thin, narrow box on the table in front of me. “Huh,” he said, faking surprise. I opened the box and found a pen inside. Not just any pen, but one with my name and the day’s date engraved in it. “Well, isn’t that a coincidence?” Jake said, breaking into a smile.

I started signing books. Jake would hand me a book open to the title page, I would sign it, and his partner would take the book from me and place it in a stack, while a fourth staffer would whisk the stack away. About fifty or so copies in, Jake said, “He’s doing pretty good.”

Mike nodded. “Moving right along,” he said.

“He’s no Jimmy Carter, but he’s not bad,” Jake said, then added, “Jimmy Carter can sign a book in four seconds.”

There was an electronic chime–someone had entered the store. Mike raised his eyebrows. “We’ve got a live one,” he said. Another staffer left to greet the visitor. I kept signing books. A minute later, the young staffer returned. “Live one,” he confirmed. Several books later, another chime. Now Jake and Mike looked at each other and then at me. “Two live customers!” Jake said as if he had never seen the like.

I went out into the store and sat at the table set up for me. The table was next to a shelf of signed first editions that were true collector’s items, including a set of Pat Conroy novels, which I felt was a good sign. And it was, because in all, six people came into the store to purchase one or more copies of my book. They all came in separately over the course of the next hour, but they came. Jake was astonished. “This is some kind of record,” he said. Of the six, Jake knew four of them by name. The woman who had been in my parents’ wedding never came, but another friend of my mother’s did.

At the end, Jake took down the poster advertising my visit and promised to mail it to me. Behind the front counter, staff were stacking newly-packaged copies of my book, ready to be mailed out into the world.

Back home to Atlanta for the weekend.  Next stop – Raleigh, N.C.!

The story of Parnassus Books and its origins is already legendary. (Read it here if you haven’t already.) Yes, I hoped to walk into the store and meet Ann Patchett, who would then happily sign my worn copy of Bel Canto. I had also hoped to meet Mary Laura Philpott, editor of Parnassus’ online magazine, and see if she is as funny and delightful in person as she is online. (I had previously learned that she would be out of town.) But more than that, I simply wanted to walk into the store and find that special something that bookstores–real bookstores–have.

Parnassus has that. In spades. And no, it’s not because they had a big old display of my novel right at the front.

I have long lamented to anyone who wants to listen — and probably to several who did not — the loss of Oxford Books in Atlanta, the last unique independent bookstore in Buckhead. Oxford Books has been gone for several years now. Walking into Parnassus was like walking into Oxford Books 2.0. The floor plan is open and brightly lit without being drenched in harsh fluorescents. The shelves are packed with books and dotted with handwritten notes from the staff highlighting certain texts. Books cover a series of tables without being messy and are organized without seeming arranged by a fascist.

A young woman behind the cash register saw me wandering around the shelves. “You’re tonight’s author!” she said brightly. She took me to the back office to introduce me to Niki Coffman, who was in charge of the evening’s event. Niki wore a lovely sweater with some sort of shawl or scarf. It wasn’t until about fifteen minutes later that I realized the shawl was actually a sling holding a very mature long-haired dachshund. “This is Mary Todd Lincoln,” Niki told me. Mary Todd Lincoln glanced at me and snuggled closer to Niki.

I’m not sure if there is some sort of magical hiring process at Parnassus, or if the store just draws the right people in. Regardless, Niki was everything you would want in a bookseller: warm, friendly, passionate about books, a good asker of questions and a good listener, and wearing a dachshund in a sling. She asked about my tour and whether or not I was driving a lot, which led to a conversation about audiobooks. When I confessed that I had not yet read Ann Patchett’s novel Commonwealth, Niki dug around on a shelf and found a CD audiobook version of Commonwealth narrated by Hope Davis. She handed it to me. A gift, she said, “for all the driving you’ll be doing on your book tour.” Feeling like a stalker, I asked if Ann Patchett were around, and held up my worn copy of Bel Canto which I had brought from Atlanta for the sole purpose of looking like a fanboy desperately hoping to get his favorite band to sign his album cover. Nope, Niki said, she’s heading to the beach tomorrow morning. “But just leave it with me and I’ll get her to sign it at some point,” she said. “Oh, and if you want to buy anything in the store, you get the author discount.”

There was still time before the event, so I went back out into the store, determined to make good on the author discount. Staffers were setting up folding chairs; it looked like they were setting up a lot of them. I picked up a copy of Colson Whitehead’s The Underground Railroad and Kate Quinn’s The Alice Network, then saw another Algonquin debut novel, When the English Fall by David Williams, and put The Underground Railroad back on the shelf for another day in favor of David Williams’ book. At the sales desk, I bumped into HI alum Avery Robinson, who had come straight from work for my event. As always when I see a former student after a few years, I was stunned by how grown up Avery seemed. I don’t mean she had been immature and could now be trusted to use the right dinner fork; I mean she had transformed from a teenage girl into a young, confident woman. She had the same bright smile and engaging air she had always had, and we chatted for a minute before I went to get a drink of water.  Fifteen minutes until show time.

Ed Tarkington appeared, along with his wife Elizabeth-Lee and their two young daughters. Ed and I shared an editor, Andra Miller, before Ballantine hired Andra away from Algonquin. Ed is also a high school English teacher and had his first novel published by Algonquin last year, and since then we had become friends. Tonight we would be having a conversation about my book in front of however many people would come. We sat down in the back to talk about what Ed would ask me and if I should read a short passage aloud or not. Niki came back and said we had about five minutes until go time. She paused and looked at me. “I think you are going to like the crowd size,” she said.

We then stepped out of the back office and through the kids’ books section to the center of the store, where there was a small stage with two leather club chairs in front of a signing table. There were easily twenty people in the seats, with more straggling in. I keep reading stories about debut authors going to bookstores and speaking to groups of five, or three, or sometimes two, counting the salesclerk. Ed had clearly spread the word for me, and I had also had some good press. Then I saw Maryanne Stumb McWhirter, another HI alum, with a group of friends. Go Bears!

Niki introduced Ed, who introduced me, all to a nice round of applause. We had microphones but elected to ditch them, using our teacher voices to project to the back of the audience. Ed was the quintessential interviewer, displaying his knowledge and understanding of my book but leaving me plenty of room to answer his questions and to elaborate. People laughed politely but sincerely at my jokes. I read the opening two-and-a-half pages of my novel and Ed led the audience in another round of applause. I’ve grown more comfortable talking about my book in the past few days, so it was more than okay. It was fun. The audience asked lots of questions: did I plot out the mystery of Fritz’s disappearance beforehand or let it develop organically as I wrote; do I write for a particular reader or kind of reader in mind; how did I find time to write (short answer: my butt goes in the writing chair for an hour or so after the boys go to bed).  Afterwards people bought copies of my book and I signed them, an activity that I still find delightful. Maryanne bought four copies. A third HI alum, Ashley Bahl-Binder, appeared with a hug and a book for me to sign. Never in my life had I thought about how deep and wide the social net of HI alums would be, nor how beneficial it would be for a book-touring English teacher.

Finally, the customers were all gone, and the Parnassus staff told me it had been a fabulous turnout. Then they asked me almost hesitantly if I would mind signing the rest of their copies. “Gladly,” I said. Ed and Elizabeth-Lee left with their daughters amid promises for Ed and I to get together tomorrow morning for coffee. I really didn’t want to leave, but I knew the staff needed to get home, so I finished signing the books. They also brought me a Moleskine notebook the size of a flatscreen TV as a sort of guest book that visiting authors sign. Their most recent book was full, so I got to be the first to sign in a brand-new one.

That’s when Niki approached with Mary Todd Lincoln. “Okay, I have a strange request,” she said, “and feel free to say no. Would you like to have a picture of your signed books with Mary Todd Lincoln?” She smiled. “She’s famous on social media.”

“You want to put a cute dachshund on top of a stack of my books?” I said. “Wait until I get my phone.” And so I present you with this picture.

I went back to the office to collect the two books I had bought, along with the audiobook of Commonwealth and my old copy of Bel Canto. Niki held her hand out. “You can leave that here,” she said, meaning Bel Canto. “I’ll get Ann to sign it. You can come pick it up tomorrow morning. We open at ten.”

“Tomorrow?” I said. “But you said Ann is going to the beach tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” she said. She picked up her phone. “I’ll call her and see if she can sign it tonight.”

“Seriously?”

Niki shrugged and smiled, as if to say This is what we do.

[Update: Ann Patchett did sign my copy of Bel Canto.  Wrote a really nice note, too.  Achievement unlocked.]

Next stop – Alabama Booksmith in Homewood, AL!

The day after my launch party, I catch a flight from Atlanta to Richmond.  By the time I check into my hotel, only a block away from Fountain Bookstore, I’m fading fast.  A quick check of social media turns into an hour of replying to well wishes, kind notes, and new posts.  A Twitter message from the wonderfully named Kelly Justice at Fountain Bookstore pops up, informing me they don’t really do readings but have conversations and Q&As and that she will look out for me around 5:30 or so.  Then another message from Beverly, an old friend who lives in town, wanting to know if we are still on for dinner after the event.  I message her back “Absolutely,” then yawn.  Time for a quick nap.

At 5:00 I get an avocado BLT and a latte from Shockoe Espresso and Roastery.  Best late lunch/early dinner sandwich ever.  I’m carrying around a copy of my book and I’m not sure why.  Back to the hotel to brush my teeth–my wife told me I shouldn’t show up for events with food in my teeth–and then to Fountain Bookstore.  Which is where, for the first time, I see copies of my book on display in an honest-to-God bookstore.

Kelly welcomes me and we chat for several minutes as I walk around the bookstore.  It’s small and cozy rather than cramped, with hand-written notes on particular shelved books.  There are several wooden folding chairs set up at the back of the store, facing a card table with a tablecloth bearing the store’s logo.  Kelly is alone that evening as the rest of her staff are on vacation, so she warns me that she may have to interrupt our scheduled conversation and Q&A if customers enter the store and get too loud. 

The first person to arrive is Aiden, a classmate from Woodberry, and his wife Mary Jo.  Aiden now works at Woodberry and tells me he is the school’s official photographer for the evening.  More members of Aiden’s family arrive, including his niece who suggests a few books my sons might like.  A young woman approaches, smiling, and I realize it’s Katie, a former student and fellow English teacher.  While Kelly rearranges some chairs and glances at the clock, Katie and I quickly catch up.  I mention I still teach Moby-Dick, and Katie sighs.  “I loved Moby-Dick,” she says.  I knew I had always enjoyed teaching this one.

Kelly and I sit down in front of an audience of eight to ten people.  It’s a far cry from the launch party the night before, and yet this feels right, more intimate.  The customers are attentive and listen as Kelly asks me questions and I try to respond without babbling or wandering off-track.  Another former Woodberry classmate, Mike, arrives and waves from the back row.  I’m asked about the title, about working under an honor code, how long it took to write the book, did I always assume I was writing a “literary thriller” and what does that mean, which authors inspire me.  My former student Katie asks me if being an English teacher helped me in the writing of my own book or if it got in the way.  (Yeah, she’s smart.)  I answer everyone’s questions and then sign books.  My friend Beverly arrives near the end and waits until the store empties.  Before everyone leaves I get a picture with the Woodberry folks, and then Kelly has me sign all her remaining copies of my book.  Seeing them stacked afterwards with “Autographed Copy” labels on them is yet another realization that this book thing is really happening. 

Beverly and I walk up the street to a restaurant and have a light dinner, chatting and reminiscing.  Afterward, as we are about to leave, a woman approaches.  “Excuse me,” she says, “but are you the author of Shadow of the Lions?”  I manage not to have a big, dopey grin on my face as I answer yes.  The woman says she had walked by the bookstore earlier and saw the sign for my visit, but she and her husband had lost track of time.  “Do you have a copy on you that I can buy now?” she says.  She’s disappointed that I do not, but Beverly tells her there is a big stack of them at Fountain Bookstore, all signed, and that they open at 10am.

Now it’s midnight and I’m going to bed.  Next stop–Parnassus Books in Nashville!