My publisher escorted me to a librarians’ convention last week. For me, that meant two ferries, two cities, and a car that would break down before the trip was over. But, as Zorba said, “Life is trouble.” Being the author of two Y.A. novels whose word-of-mouth has yet to sweep the English-speaking world, I agreed to close my computer and hit the road. After all, Zorba also said something about going outside “where God can see us better.”

Confession time – an author cares less about God’s eyesight than the ability of customers in a bookstore to clearly see his latest novel. That’s where visibility counts, isn’t it? How do librarians, who loan our books free of charge, fit into the monetary equation? Encumbered with these worn-out biases, I nevertheless agreed to attend the PNLA/WLA Convention in Victoria, BC. Their slogan instantly caught my eye:

“No library is an island.”

 My job was to hang out at the booths of my Canadian and American distributors and sign books generously donated by Tradewind Books. Accompanying my signature, I scrawled, “Life is trouble.” After all, ROXY is set on a Greek island. The librarians who stopped by for their free copy seemed universally enthusiastic about the appropriateness of Zorba’s wisdom, perhaps because all stories concern ‘trouble’ of some kind. They were equally unconcerned that my young heroine is troubled with a suspected pregnancy even as the tale begins.

Enthusiastic only begins to describe these librarians. Many embraced the book as if they were starved for a good read. Many shook my hand, keen to make a connection. I could see how lives lived with books has made them curious, accepting, fun, talkative, engaging, open, and so very eager to share with other people. A librarian, by definition, is not an island – she’s part of a network of minds. Of which mine, with luck, would be one. If they liked my book.

In any event, I am grateful for being reminded that no author is an island. And all the less likely to be an island with every librarian he gets to know.

She who must be obeyed.

I was required to deliver a short talk at a meeting early this morning. Last night my wife agreed to critique my presentation. Never one to balk at standing alone in the truth, she made no attempt – after two minutes of listening – to conceal her utter boredom. Now what? I was looking forward to bed, not returning to the drawing board.

My emotions ran the gamut between despair and gloom. And yet I knew I would show up in the morning. The social costs would otherwise be too high . I knew I would stand up and deliver…something. Thank god she’d stopped me before I bored the audience. Thank god she humiliated me in private before the same disaster befell me in front of an audience.

Truly, I agreed with my wife – she had spared the audience a heap of cryptic mentalizing on my part. Taking the path of least resistance, I envisioned a framework for my talk that saw me question why such favoured notions of mine could be so unpalatable. I could hold on to my ideas. I only had to hold then up to question.

And that’s what happened at 7:30 the next morning. It was well received. Better than I’d hoped.

It was a valuable lesson for me. Instead of posing as an illuminator, I established myself as living as much or more in the dark as anyone else in the room. I proceeded as if under the orders of ‘she who must be obeyed’.

“I might have shown up here this morning and humiliated myself…but my wife, bless her, saved me from such a fate… etc.”

And so a touch of humility was established. And with humility, belonging, which assured a rapport with my listeners. The rapport created an exchange of energies, which enabled me to savour the sentiments that were alive in the room. The sentiments embraced me, keeping me in the moment. This is all I ever want out of a public talk – a sense of timelessness. Even the faintest glimmer of this state of grace will do.

As a matter of fact, that’s all I want out of any moment.