Author events
The good, the bad, and the terrifying
I asked one of my authors, Bridget Krone, to write a guest essay about one of her (hilarious/wonderful/but also terrifying) author events. I have more to say about this and will do so in one of my next essays, but for now, let Bridget set the stage.
Author Events: The good, the bad, and the terrifying
The Uber driver dumped me on the pavement in Rockey Street, downtown Johannesburg, and sped off - exactly as he’d told me he would. It was getting dark and, apart from Rockey Street, I didn’t have a clue where I was. I was supposed to meet up at the Yeoville Dinner Club with three other South African authors and talk to an international book club doing a literary tour of South Africa. There was a huge crowd of people on the pavement, but of the authors, the book club members, and the Yeoville Dinner Club, there was no sign. Not even a flicker.
I’d had a real struggle to persuade an Uber driver to take me. “Rockey street. Too dangerous,” they all said. “We don’t go there after dark.”
Eventually someone, desperate enough to make some money that day, agreed: “I will take you, drop you, and get the hell out of there,” he warned. “I won’t hang around to make sure that you get to your destination safely.”
Honestly, I thought to myself, isn’t everyone being a bit paranoid?
The words dinner and club had me fooled: I pictured the Johannesburg Country Club, where I’d been once and there’d been a rose garden and a croquet lawn. I imagined somewhere like that but with authors and a book club.
The day had already been unexpectedly stressful. I’m not an easy-going traveler, preferring almost always to stay at home. But so far, I’d managed: I’d flown to Jo’burg and caught the Gautrain to Rosebank without mishap, until …
“Don’t stand there! Cars will drive past and rob you!” warned a security guard as I stood on a busy road trying to summon an Uber to take me the last leg of my journey to my cousin’s house where I would spend the night.
Isn’t it your job to make sure that doesn’t happen? I thought as I crouched awkwardly behind a pillar. I looped one leg through the handle of my overnight bag and watched on my cell phone screen (held furtively under my jacket) as many, many Uber drivers approach my destination and then mysteriously withdrew.
“Where do you want to go?” asked the security guard, when after about half an hour, it became apparent that no Uber driver was coming to fetch this clueless hick from the sticks.
“Melville.”
“Too close.” He flapped his hand. “Not worth it for them. But there’s an Uber driver.” He pointed. “Why don’t you ask him?”
He escorted me courteously across the busy road and told me to get in the car before I started negotiating.
But this driver wasn’t persuadable. “Melville is too close.” Then my phone rang. It was an irate Uber driver waiting for me in the designated pick-up point inside Rosebank station.
“I’m coming!” and I shot out of Car A and ran to find Car B in the bowels of Rosebank station.
It was only when I arrived at my cousin’s house in Car B that I realized I’d left my overnight bag in Car A. And had absolutely no way of tracing it because it wasn’t an authorized Uber trip.
All my fanciest clothes (for the Yeoville Dinner Club!) had been in that bag, plus copies of my books to sell, my toothbrush, pajamas, and medication. But the clock was ticking and I had to get showered and on my way. My dear cousin looked me over, insisted that we were the same size, and kitted me out with her own smart clothes: an enormous pair of black trousers that I had to do up with a safety pin, a big red tunic, and a bright yellow beaded necklace.
So I was already feeling thoroughly strung out when I and my second Uber driver eventually found ourselves in Rockey Street. Here people sauntered in the road and peered into the car with all the curiosity and swagger of (I imagined) gun packers, knife flickers, pimps, drug dealers, and human traffickers on a Friday night - while I sat in the passenger street, with the doors locked and my sweaty hands tucked nervously into my armpits. Even with the windows closed tightly, I could hear the thump of music and smell the fires that lit the set for this bad movie in which I’d somehow found myself.
Suddenly the Uber driver stopped. “You have arrived,” he said and his foot was on the accelerator revving the engine as I got out. He pulled away before I could even close the door.
So there I was, sweaty and terrified on the pavement, when three men wearing tight suits and pointy shoes approached me and one asked softly, “Are you here for the event?”
Now which event would that be? I wondered (to myself). The event where a middle-aged children’s author gets sold into slavery and has all her organs harvested?
I followed them.
They led me into an unlit shopping center. There was water on the floor, which made walking slippery. We went up a narrow staircase, down a dark corridor past many locked doors.
But there at the end of the passage was a light and a sign that read “Yeoville Dinner Club” – and lighter and brighter than anything I’d seen all day, was Futhi Ntshingila, the author, standing in the doorway beaming at me. I recognized her from Facebook, because I’d loved her book We Kiss Them with Rain. I think I fell into her arms and kissed her.
Two other traumatized authors arrived soon after: another Catalyst Press author Hannes Barnard, whose YA novel Halley’s Comet I’d also loved, and prolific children’s picture book author Refiloe Moahloli who is published by Pan Macmillan. Having survived a near death experience, I was dying to talk to them. But idle chatter was not encouraged because then the book club members were with us, having been delivered in a large airconditioned bus. It was their first day in “Africa” and they were delighted and emotional to be “home” and enchanted by the “vibey” street outside.
We authors were separated and seated at a large table and told that the evening would start with a few minutes of handholding and meditation (a bit awkward) and then proceed to “conscious conversation” – not idle chitter chatter.
The evening did improve: the Pan-African meal was delicious; the book club members had read our books and asked great questions; and I found I could adjust the waistband on my trousers by discreetly moving the safety pin when I ate too much.
But at the end of the evening, the owner of the restaurant reminded us that if any of us had arrived by Uber, we were going to have to make other plans, because no driver in Johannesburg would be collecting us after dark from this neighborhood. We authors looked at one another in alarm. It took a few beats before the book club offered us a ride on their giant bus as far as Sandton – and from there, we Ubered to our various homes.
So it all ended fairly well. But I’d learnt a lesson.
When you’re a new author and you’ve got over the shock of seeing a copy of your published book in an actual bookshop, you still have more surprises in store: people are going to invite you to talk about your book: school assemblies, book shops, literary festivals, on-line zoom panels, etc. Once I was invited to go and autograph the wheelbarrows of a book club in Herefordshire in England – but I think they were all tipsy when they phoned. Perhaps a visiting book club from overseas will ask you to meet them at the Yeoville Dinner Club for “conscious conversation.” My advice to you is don’t be too agreeable. If Uber drivers won’t go somewhere, you shouldn’t either.
School visits, however, are usually a pleasure, especially if they’re within easy distance and no Uber drivers are necessary. They are even more delightful if there’s fancy dress involved – which is often the case on World Book Day.
Last year I was invited to talk to a primary school a short 15-minute drive away. I spent a happy hour answering questions from pirates, princesses, and superheroes. Many children confuse books with movies, but no matter. I love the way they mostly ask the same questions, often many times in the same hour: How long does it take you to write a book? Where do you get your ideas? Does writing books make you very rich? Are you very rich? I also love the shy children who approach you afterwards and show you their own stories, some handwritten, some chapter books with hand drawn covers. I show them my own wobbly little books that I wrote when I was a child and I think they are very encouraged to see how bad I was.
You leave with a full heart but never sure that you will be remembered at all.
A few weeks ago, I had reason to go to the high school in that same town to listen to someone else talking for a change. As I got out of the car, a group of girls shouted: “It’s Miss Bridget!” (I have never asked to be called “Miss Bridget” but with my print dresses and little round spectacles, I only have myself to blame.)
“How do you know my name?” I asked.
“You are Miss Bridget the writer who came to speak to us last year, at Primary School,” they announced.
“Wow! You remembered! And now you’re in high school! Can you tell me where I find the media center?”
They decided to escort me.
“Miss Bridget … important lady writer coming through! Important lady coming through!” they shouted in the corridors to clear my path. The older, cooler kids looked very surprised as I trotted along, trying to keep up with my escorts.
So sometimes you’ll get an entourage of sweet girls to clear your path; more often you’ll get a shopping bag or a coffee mug emblazoned with the school crest from the school gift shop. Sometimes you’ll just be grateful to get out of something alive, with a story to tell. My honest advice is do your research and don’t be seduced by free air tickets and the words dinner club. Not worth it.
But Miss Bridget...you've got a great story to tell!
Miss Bridget... that has a good ring to it!!