My author story

Since a girl I went to grad school with is celebrating the release of her new novel, "An Off Year," http://search.barnesandnoble.com/An-off-Year/Claire-Zulkey/e/9780525421597/?itm=1&usri=1, I have been thinking about book tours. I assume her publishers are going to send her off into the bookstore world, scheduling readings after readings, and signings after signings, in hopes that people will come and buy the book. It's going to be her own little rock star life, complete with groupies and people who will want things from her, including her signature on the book, and strange hotel rooms in strange cities. I'm envious of her.

Whenever an author I like comes out with a new book, and a reading is scheduled in my area, I try to make the effort to attend. I love hearing writers read, I love meeting writers, talking to them, and gaining inspiration. I've got hundreds of books on my shelves (so it seems), and the ones that mean the most to me, are inscribed.

I've written about my David Sedaris obsession http://ayeartill40.blogspot.com/2009/04/stalking-sedaris.html, but there are other stories that hold a special place in my memory. One more than others.

It happened in 1998, and it was a total surprise. Sometimes when I read, I go in a phase. If I discover a new writer (not necessarily in the literal sense, but new to me), and I actually like his/her work, I sometimes have to read all of their stuff. It happened with Carver, and Tobias Wolff, it happened with Bukowski and Murakami, and it happened with Stephen Dixon. Although Dixon has published over 20 books, and has written hundreds of short stories, not many people know about him. Not many people I know, at least. I was turned on to Stephen Dixon in the early 90's when my very first boss--and friend--Steve Trahan, gave me a copy of Dixon's book, "Movies." It's a book of short stories, and it remains my favorite of the Dixon library. I didn't really pick him back up until later in the decade, right around the 97-98 time frame. I was obsessed with finding his work. I'd scour libraries and bookstores, and I used the Internet to locate booksellers who were interested in unloading their stock.

During that time, Cyndi was home recovering from major eye surgery, that kept her housebound for 16 weeks. She was going out of her mind with boredom. She had to sit a special way, she had to lay down in a specific angle. She couldn't see to watch TV, and books on tape did not seem to sit well with her. Mostly, while I was off at work, she had her thoughts.

I was about to turn 28, so Cyndi must have been using her time to think about a gift. We've never been very big on buying each other major presents for holidays. Our thing has always been finding unique or special gifts that outlast gadgets and fads. So, she came up with a plan; something she was able to keep from me, until a little less than a week from my actual birthday.

One night after dinner, I was cleaning up the dishes, when the phone rang, interrupting a conversation I was having with Cyndi. During the conversation, I was telling her about this Dixon story I was reading that day at lunch. It's called, "The Book Review" In the story, the narrator--a writer--is lamenting about having to write a book review. The review he has to write is for a book written by a person he considers his contemporary. The narrator is bitter about the success this author has experienced. He believes his writing is better, yet the other person is much more widely read. The book reviewer goes on to express how he wishes a person would write to him, and ask permission to mail a copy of his book for a personal inscription. This situation happened to the book reviewers colleague, and it makes him mad and jealous that it's never happened to him.

At that very moment, the phone rang. This was before we had caller ID, so I had no idea who would be on the other end. When I answered the phone, this man's deep voice said, "Is Cyndi there." Intrigued that some dude would be calling my wife, I simply asked, "Who's calling, please?" Imagine my surprise when the voice declared, "Stephen Dixon."

It was as if the phone suddenly burst into flames. I wanted to throw it right there. My mouth dropped open, literally, and I held the phone out toward Cyndi. "Stephen Dixon's on the phone for you," I said, shaking.

"Oh, my god!" she shouted, quickly grabbing the phone from me.

I started looking around the room for cameras. I was certain I was on a practical joke TV show. At any moment, I expected Alan Funt to spring out from a closet and into the kitchen saying, "You're on candid camera!"

Instead, I listened, as Cyndi tried to cover her tracks. I could only hear her side of the conversation, but it had a lot of simple phrases like"yes" and "thank you" and "no problem". The last thing I heard her say, before this weird event got even more strange was, "Would you mind talking to my husband?" I couldn't believe my ears, I was about to have a real conversation with Stephen Dixon. I cautiously took the phone from Cyndi and said hello. He immediately went into damage control.

"I just want you to know," he said, "there's nothing going on between your wife and me. Nothing." My mind hadn't gone there, but I thought about how sweet it was that he was concerned. "She just asked me for something," he continued, "and it will all make sense soon. Trust me. Now...tell me about yourself."

For the next ten minutes, we chatted. I told him about the story of his I was reading and relaying to Cyndi at that moment, he told me about his writing process ("the money's in novels"), he asked me about my writing.

And I thanked him. Thanked him for whatever he was doing with Cyndi. Thanked him for taking the time to talk to me. Thanked him for providing me with a wealth of books to enjoy. He was appreciative and modest; most writers--that I've met at least, are.

The following week, on my birthday, a package arrived. I can close my eyes right now and remember what it looked like on my front porch. It was snowing outside, and the brown package was sticking out of a mound of white. I rushed it inside and tore it open. Inside were two books: "Frog" and "Quite Contrary: The Mary and Newt Story." Cyndi knew about the first one, the second was a surprise to us both. There are two inscriptions. Inside "Frog" he wrote: "To Cory--on your 28th birthday--my best wishes always Stephen Dixon 1/98" Inside "Quite Contrary" he wrote: "To Cory--Good luck with your writing--the act itself of writing was always enough for me Stephen Dixon 1.8.98"

I now understand.

Congratulations, Claire...enjoy the tour...