The Line
My Dog Knows More About Literary Readings Than I Do
“That… is not my dog.” — Inspector Clouseau
A couple of months ago I purchased two tickets to a reading by a celebrated author in a small, coastal New England town.
I hadn't read the author's work; I knew practically nothing about him. But I recalled, from somewhere, that his books were set in East Africa and the Indian Ocean, places that long interested me.
Time passed, and I forgot about the tickets.
An email on the day of the event reminded me. I happened to be nearby, walking my dog. I didn't have time to drive home and back, so I put my dog in a tote, and walked to the venue: a Colonies-era church.
I arrived half an hour early and picked a seat in a remote pew - lest my dog decide in the middle of the reading to opine.
I'd never been in a church with a dog, incognito or not, and wasn't completely sure of the etiquette. But this wasn't a service, and I was confident the venue welcomed all creatures great and small.
Bodies filled the space at a quickening pace, as if summoned from beyond the neatly trimmed hedges of this well-heeled enclave. With thirty minutes to kill, I read the first two chapters of the book that came with my ticket.
I noted from the cover that it had been featured by Oprah's Book Club. Inside the cover was a nice map of Kerala, where the action took place.
"Nicely done," I thought to myself.
I overheard people asking each other if they'd read the book.
"Are you kidding? It's 700 pages!" said one, to a disapproving glare from a person behind her.
"It's about a child bride,” said another. "I normally hate books about child brides. But in this case —there's a happy ending." I almost started to giggle.
"Maybe I’ll read it. I find it very hard to concentrate these days," said yet another, mournfully.
Now there's a good reason, I thought to myself.
I wondered what drew these people here, if not the book itself.
The bookstore chaperones quieted the crowd. There was a wave of applause for the moderator (I had no idea who she was), and then even more for the author.
“I felt it was important that local names be pronounced correctly,” the author said. “My publisher made me audition for the audiobook.” The comment drew a collective laugh from the floor.
The moderator asked the usual questions authors get at these events: about the craft of writing, the publishing process, and whence he drew his inspiration.
The author did indeed speak of places in the Red Sea that featured heavily in my professional life—Djibouti, Addis, and Aden. He also told a story about treating a fracture in someone’s broken little finger – on the dominant (writing) hand.
My right hand finger had been broken in the same place recently, as I tried to defend my dog from a mugging by three much bigger dogs. It had been, and continued to be, a real pain. By now, I almost felt as if the author was speaking directly to me.
The moderator asked the author how he managed two distinguished careers: that of a physician and a writer. The author said he didn't want to talk too much about the former, as “presumably you’re here to hear about my work as a writer.”
"Maybe I really should ask him about my finger," I thought, fractionally serious.
The author mentioned he'd been invited to give the commencement speech at Harvard.
That explains some of the topicality, I reasoned.
"Editors don't care about editing like they once did," he said. "Gone are the days of the great editor-author partnerships. As an author, you're pretty much left to your own devices, and it's a lonely journey." Amen to that.
The author noted that there would quickly come a point where he'd been lost in his own narrative —too close to the action to be truly objective. I certainly related to that as well.
"This book just out — it took ten years to write. So it's strange to be suddenly met at the end by crowds."
When asked what lessons he wanted readers to take from his books, the author offered the idea that books are instruments of self-analysis. “They resonate differently with different people. It's about what speaks to you. There are no universal lessons.”
By this point, I'd grown to like the author — he was eloquent, funny, and apologetically off-color.
I had the growing sense from the audience that they — we? — had become pack animals, progressively anxiously seeking some form of absolution, or salvation. The author made it even easier to believe, as he actually had real medical credentials.
"I look at the world through the eyes of my trade," the author said, speaking of the mixed role of healer and writer. He opined that narratives were key in medicine to getting patients to trust. Often it's not the medicine, but the proximity and human touch that heals.
To illustrate the point, the author spoke of visiting a terminally ill patient in the rural South in the 1990s. “There wasn’t much he could do medically,” he said. He described the psychological impact on the patient and family of the fact that a doctor had come. The story told and received, helped heal a form of trauma.
Then the floor was turned over to a series of testimonials given by fans who had been touched my the author’s work in the past, as if out of an episode of "This Is Your Life." I didn’t have a judgement to give, having only read twenty pages.
As I was thinking, the author said, again with perfect timing, "This sounds like a setup, but it's not."
At the end, the bookstore personnel announced that the author would be signing copies, and directed those who wanted to meet him to form an enormous line. The house erupted with a standing ovation.
I hadn't intended to join the queue. The author had charmed and intrigued me, but I knew what these things were like. He seemed like someone I'd like to have coffee with and discuss writing and subjects that obviously drew us both. But I hadn't read his books, and it seemed an empty gesture to ask for a book to be signed before doing so.
My dog had had enough—he made it clear he wanted to go out, if not home.
But, despite myself, and perhaps partly because it was an effort to get physically past the massive line, I joined it. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
The young woman just behind me was carrying a heavy stack of the author's books.
"Are you a student?" I asked.
"No, I graduated a few years ago. I work in town."
"Are you a writer," I asked.
She looked pleased. "How did you know? -- actually. I've written short stories, but I'm starting a novel."
"The books in your arms. It's usually the writers who carry so many books."
"I think I'm going to go," I said to the young woman, as I turned to exit.
"No, stay," the woman urged me. "You got this far already. You'll enjoy it."
A few minutes later, I was standing in the line, and again, I wondered why. I recalled a quote from Woody Allen to the effect that one shouldn't try to meet one's idols, as it's always a disappointment. And then I thought about the provenance of that quote.
If the author had become an idol, for me it was a very quick conversion.
I'd likely be adding to the author's headache if I stayed, I thought. But I waited. Why?
Because I too had come to crave a bit of the author's time— in this case to be able to share that I, too had spent time in Djibouti and Aden, and at Stanford, and, yes, I'm an author, too.
My dog was starting to really object.
The line inched forward for another half hour.
I had given an author event at the same bookstore for a book that had done infinitely less well than the author's, which presumably sold at least a hundred thousand copies — wait, I could look at the cover. "The Two Million Copy Bestseller!" Ah, yes.
As I neared the signing table, out of earshot of anyone else, I mentioned to a bookstore chaperone who asked me how to spell my name, that I'd done an event with the bookstore a couple of years before - and joked that my event wasn't nearly as well attended.
"The vast majority aren't," she said, straight-faced.
When I finally reached the table, a photographer asked, "Do you want a picture with the author?"
"You must be exhausted," I said to the author as he struggled to find the signing page. And, I gave in to the urge to tell him I'd spent time in Djibouti, Addis, and Yemen.
He looked up from under his spectacles. "What were you doing there?"
"I was a graduate student."
"What do you do now?"
"I write books."
"Ah. I remember a book about an American traveling in Yemen,” the author said. “Quite funny. — years ago..."
"Probably Motoring With Mohammed by Eric Hansen," I said.
"Yes, hmm, I think that's right."
From the accelerating speed of the line, I had the sense he'd long since tapped out his store of proximity and shared experience.
I was mildly annoyed at myself — not the author — for wanting to believe the universal rules of signings didn’t apply to me.
Still, it was heartening to know that a book, or an author, could draw 300 people at prime time, in a small American town.
As I walked onto the grounds, my dog made a beeline for the nearest tree.
The Middle East-Told Slant offers a non-partisan, practitioner's perspective on Middle East politics, conflict, and culture. Written by a former US diplomat, Senior Middle East Analyst, and author of "Benghazi: A New History" (Hachette, 2022) and the forthcoming "Red Sea: A History of the World's Most Volatile Waterway." To receive weekly posts and support this project, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. I offer paid subscribers a complimentary copy of any of my books in print (equivalent to the cost of the subscription — DM me to redeem).