You are wondering, “What the hell has gotten into Munger that he’s displaying a package of licorice gum on his blog?” Am I right? Well, there’s a story behind that package, one I’m gonna tell you right now.
A few months back, my mom called me.
“Mark, my book club is OK with doing Laman’s River as one of our books. How about August 21st, around 6:30? At Barb Forbert’s house. I’ll get you the details as the date gets closer.”
“Sure,” I said, always willing to share my work with a group of women, no matter what age. “Just make sure you get me directions.”
The truth of the book business is this: Women buy and read novels. 80% of books sold in America, someone once claimed, are bought by women. 80%. And the percentage is higher if we’re talking about fiction. Oh sure, men buy the occasional John Sanford or John Grisham novel. And there a few outliers like me, men who love fiction and devour it, well, like a woman. But, generally, if a man buys a book, it’s usually non-fiction: a biography, a how-to, a political tome. So any opportunity for me to connect with female writers is like gold. Even if the sponsor of the connection is my mom. So, after Mom called, I wrote the date and time on my events calendar (and on the calendar for this blog). I was set.
Almost.
The night before the event, Mom called again.
“You remember we’re doing book club tomorrow?”
“Yup.”
“It’s at 6:30.”
“I’ll be there by 6:00,” I said.
“See you then.”
Tuesday, I rushed home from work, grabbed some copies of my books, printed out the first chapter of my novel-in-progress, Sukulaiset: The Kindred, changed into my author clothes, and sped off after saying a quick goodbye to my wife and son. There was no time for dinner in the equation if I wanted to make it to Mom’s by six.
You see the problem already, don’t you? I’d forgotten that the book club was meeting somewhere other than Mom’s house out in West Duluth. I’ve done her book club twice over the years and it’s always been at her house. And, truth be told, when she called to remind me of the event, she never mentioned the event’s location. I just assumed that it was at her house. And she assumed I knew otherwise. I think the blame falls squarely on Mom, don’t you?
“Rene’,” I said, calling my wife at home after I arrived at Mom’s to a locked house and no cars in the driveway, “I think there’s a problem. Mom’s not home, there’s nobody here, and she’s not answering the phone. Can you get me her cell phone number?”
Rene’ found the number. I called, and, like so many older folks who own a cell phone, Mom didn’t deign to answer.
I was stuck. I was sitting in my mom’s driveway in my Pacifica with boxes of books and no book club to talk to. Inspiration struck. I called a husband of one of the women in Mom’s book club. When I explained why I’d called, he laughed.
“Oh, Mark,” Carl (that’s the guy’s name) said. “They’re at Barb’s waiting for you.”
He gave me his wife’s cell phone number.
“Call me back if she doesn’t answer.”
Of course, being that she’s an older person, Carl’s wife never picked up.
“How about I just give you directions?” Carl said once he stopped laughing again.
Carl gave me directions and I found the place. But the surprises didn’t end.
See, my mom’s book club is typical in the way of book clubs: eight or nine women get together to chew on lettuce, sip wine, and occasionally talk about the assigned book. Some women, I’ve found through the years, never even buy or read the books their club is reading. For those women, book club is just a night away from the mister, an excuse to get out and gab. Other book clubs are deadly serious about reading and discussing literature. Those women can be pretty intense, and at times, have offered daunting critiques of my work. Mom’s book club falls somewhere in between these extremes. I was prepared to read a passage or two from Laman’s River; answer some tough questions about the plot, characters, and the writing process; read from Sukulaiset; and enjoy a glass of wine (preferably not poured from a cardboard box!) all in a cozy setting. When I walked into the community room of the Coffee Creek Apartments, I was shocked. The room was full of folks: Barb had invited anyone with an interest in reading to attend. There were over forty men and women sitting patiently for the very late author.
Shit I thought as I carried boxes of books into the room. I don’t have anything really prepared for a big group like this.
Luckily, as folks chatted and drank coffee and ate bars, I had time to collect my thoughts, jot down a few notes, and steel myself against panic. And you know what? In the end, once I made sure everyone knew I was late because Mom didn’t remind me of where the book club was meeting, the night turned out just fine. There were succinct and well thought out questions. There was praise (something authors always welcome). And I sold a few books. The only downside? There wasn’t any wine.
Oh. You’re wondering about the gum? Well, one of the ladies in attendance handed it to me during my talk as a small gift. Black Jack chewing gum is a clue to the killer in Laman’s River. You’ll have to buy a copy of the book and read it to find out what that’s all about.
Peace.
Mark
