Next appearance: BookExpo America, Los Angeles, CA, Friday, May 30th at 2:00 p.m. and Sunday, June 1st at 11:00 a.m.

I should point out that the whole Martha thing wouldn't have happened without the gracious assistance of Katharine Weber, who passed her ARC of the book to Martha's producers and gave them an occasional prodding. By way of thanks, all of you can rush out and buy one of her books: Objects in the Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear, The Music Lesson, and the forthcoming The Little Women (due in September).

I'm lately returned from the wilds of Chapel Hill, NC, my hometown, where I was fortunate enough to have a reading at McIntyre's Books that approached being the perfect author experience. The store itself is intriguing, with dozens of staff recommendations appearing on every wall, with cushy chairs deposited in strategic places throughout, and with a large and varied inventory to explore. Better yet, there's a room upstairs that's specially set up for readings (though it's lined with shelves, too, so you don't feel as if you're reading in a hotel.)

At 2:00 on Saturday, this room began to fill with people from just about every walk of my life on the Hill: my aunt, who'd brought along a posse of her friends; my brother's godmother, a dear family friend since I was in nursery school, with her camera in one hand and a stack of books to be signed in the other; no fewer than three ex-housemates, along with their spouses and children; performing partners from Transactors Improv Co., the John Santa Band, and Terminal Mouse, as well as the owners of the club where the latter group played most of its shows; several of my family's closest friends; a knot of drama rats from Chapel Hill High School; the former mayor of Chapel Hill and his wife; the parents of several of my CHHS classmates; one of my Culbreth Jr. High soccer teammates; and Kelly and the boys. Three of the people in the room had been members of our wedding; Kelly and I had been in a couple of theirs. I used to date one of them, too. Knowing this assemblage to be unique, I started the reading off by taking two photos of the audience.

The reading itself went very smoothly. I had picked out a couple of sections to share, giving the nod to bits where audience members and I had common experiences, but I left room to read others based on the audience's questions. I've been running my readings with the philosophy that my voice, uninterrupted, can keep an audience entertained for only so long. I'll read a short section--no more than five minutes--and then answer questions, which may or may not be based on what I've read. The questions at McIntyre's were good ones--and many of the best ones were asked by complete strangers, of whom there were perhaps 20 in the room. When one of the questions addressed an issue that I covered in the book, I tried to find the section where I covered it and read it aloud, and then it would be time for more questions. The format seems to work, and it keeps the audience more involved in the event, which is after all the purpose of having them there. In this case, the evidence that it worked is contained in the fact that I signed a bunch of books for the complete strangers in the audience, and in the fact that McIntyre's sold out of The Verb 'To Bird'; the event organizer informed me that mine was the first sellout of 2003. I felt a little proud of that.

My proudest moment, however, would be the one just after I'd finished reading the end of chapter four, where I explain at some length that my bird feeder was stolen by squirrels. Though the story is absolutely true and the information provided is accurate, it's a very silly section, played mostly for laughs. And it got 'em. When I reached the concluding sentence, there was applause. It was very sweet applause.

I should note that I've gotten applause before, particularly as a member of the abovementioned bands, troupes, casts, and teams, but this felt different. For one thing, it was spontaneous. It hadn't come when I concluded the other sections. And it's not like there's any kind of convention dictating that there should be applause at the end of a piece of reading; when you finish a song, or a scene, or a play, the audience members know they're supposed to clap for you, but this they came up with on their own. And I must admit that it felt good to get applause for something of my very own. I've played my own songs for crowds, yes, but I've almost always shared the resulting applause with other musicians; they deserved it, mind you, in some cases more than I did, but being part of a group gives the interaction with the audience a different dynamic--not better, not worse, but inevitably different. The applause on Saturday came because I had read aloud words that I had composed about an experience that happened to me; I hadn't relied on the interpretive talents of anyone else to make my words connect with the audience--and they did connect. It's an enormously gratifying feeling, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a rush of Sally Field-like validation.

I won't have the deck stacked in my favor like that when I go to Los Angeles or Brooklyn, but I think it'll be somewhat easier to face the road games now that I've played in front of the home fans. They're very forgiving when you clang one off the rim. But man, when you actually sink a basket in front of them--well, all I can say is "I love this game."
9:32 PM

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