Letter from the President
Summer 2008
By Roy Blount Jr.
Soon I will be out and about around the country answering questions about a book I have written, which is an author's primary mission. Not to write the book. To answer questions about it.
And what is that like? Answering questions about your book?
Good question. You know when you have guests in your home? And as you are getting more and more cobwebs on you from trying to dig up the extra tennis racket because they forgot to bring theirs, they keep coming up to you to ask, "Where do you keep your snake repellent?" And "Do you have any Sal Hepatica?" And "What is your longitude and latitude here, exactly?" And "You're still using this kind of yogurt?" And "Where's the best place to parasail around here?" And "Why didn't you redo your kitchen like you said you were going to do last year?" And "What is it about your wireless reception here that keeps me from getting trans-streaming hypervideo?" And "What is that chewing noise I hear in your walls at night?"
Yes.
So you know. You've been there. Yes, it is like that. Or rather it is like that some of the time-with questioners who act like they own the book and you are the resident handyman. The sort of questioner who reminds you of that moment when you turn on your DVD player, in your own living room, and it gives you this crawling message: "WELCOME." Except that you can respond to the DVD player by saying, "Hey! Let's get one thing straight! You can't welcome me here because I am the one who lives here. And I am not going to welcome you here either, because you are not a person, or even any sort of mammal. You are an electronic device." You can't say anything like that to an interviewer, because you want to make a good impression, so that thousands of viewers or listeners or periodical readers will say to themselves, "Oh, he sounds like a nice person. If his book doesn't cost more than $29.95, I might consider buying a copy."
But not all interviewers act like that?
Good point. No, of course not. There are other interviewers who . . . . Well, for my last book I did a taped phone interview with a radio person who began by asking, "When people meet you, do you feel like you always have to come up with something funny to say?" And I said, "No." Which is what I have said several thousand times in answer to Q's along those lines, because, if you think about it, that is one of the few A's you are ever going to hear that is so disappointing as to almost prove its sincerity. There was a pause, from which I inferred that the questioner was waiting for me to say, "But I kid. The truth is, of course, that one of the burdens of pursuing the hilarity trade is that one must keep on hand a stock of hilarious replies to that very question, and to many other questions as well, just in case no spontaneous drollery bubbles up in the moment. At night I lie awake in a cold sweat, dreading the day when I will come out with a wisecrack and the response will be . . . not even a chuckle. Can you imagine living with something like that hanging over your head?"
“You want to make a good impression, so that thousands of viewers or listeners or periodical readers will say to themselves, "Oh, he sounds like a nice person. If his book doesn't cost more than $29.95, I might consider buying a copy.”
- Roy Blount Jr.
But you didn't say the "But I kid . . ." thing.
You've got it.
You just said, "No."
Precisely.
So then what happened?
Thank you. That is the kind of question I like to hear. It comes from a questioner who is also a listener. Here's what happened then: the radio guy said, "Was that not a good question?" And I said, "Frankly, no, it wasn't." And he said, "Has your writing style always been this flowery and descriptive, or did it gradually grow into being that way?" That was a new one on me. I answered as follows: "My writing style is not flowery." There was another pause. Then the radio guy said, "Was that not a good question?" I was about to say, "Frankly, no . . ." when he said, "Wait, hold up a minute." There was silence. Then he said, "We didn't get any of that, I'm afraid. Would you mind starting over?"
And did you mind?
Yes I did, but I understand that technical glitches happen, so I murmured assent. Then the phone line went dead. Now. Do they know that I'm disconnected? Should I call them back? If I do, will the line be busy because they are trying to call me? Fifteen minutes later, to make a long story short, we were connected again. Apologies all around. Then I held for 10 more minutes. Then we were up and running again. "Tell me," my questioner said, "When people meet you, do you feel like you always have to come up with something funny to say?" "Uh . . . no," I said. "Was that not a good question?" he said. "Uh, no . . . ," I said. "Well, has your writing style always been this flowery and descriptive, or . . ."
Those are the two basic kinds of questioners?
Glad you asked me that. No, indeed, there are as many kinds of questioners as there are stars in the sky. Some of them have, of course, become my closest friends over the years, and we do Q's and A's frequently for sheer companionship's sake.
And what is the name of your book?
Good question.
