Here's me presenting T. Jefferson Parker with the key to the city at Octavia Books last night:



TJP is one of my favorite modern writers, which caused me to do dorky things like call one of his novels by the wrong title (Where Serpents Lie; I called it The Shapes of Snakes, which is the title of a very different mystery by British author Minette Walter) and, after giving him my card, loudly announce "BUT I'M NOT TRYING TO HIT ON YOU!!!" He couldn't have been nicer, but I was still smacking myself in the forehead by the time the signing ended. Chris was busy with restaurant stuff (see chefcdb for news of his upcoming project) and didn't go with me, but when I told him about it later, he asked me, in a nicer way than I am currently able to phrase it, why I still geek out around writers I like when I know perfectly well that most writers are just boring dweebs like me. (And I say that with the utmost love for my boring dweeb writer friends, who know the truth of this all too well.)

It took me until this morning to come up with an answer that satisfied me: Even though I'm aware that writers are just regular folks, words are still the best magic I know about. Put in the right order, they can excite me, comfort me, and take me out of myself like nothing else can. Without the books by the writers I love -- hell, without books in general -- I have no idea how I would maintain even a vestige of sanity. I could live without music, visual art, dramatic performance of any type, or even sports if I had to, but life without books is totally out of the question. The people behind the books are just people, but they impress me because I know how much I owe them. On some level I must have already known this, since I've always tried to be kind to the people who geeked out, cried, or otherwise seemed embarrassed by their own behavior at my signings, even though I privately thought they must be, you know, a few noodles short of a casserole to get so worked up over a boring dweeb like me.

(On the other hand, it's always fun when I get to be good enough friends with a wonderful writer that they are just human to me. "Oh, Gaiman? He's a great guy, but he really needs to learn to keep his sunglasses away from my flamingo." But they, too, turn into magicians when I read their books. It's said among writers that the highest compliment you can give to a book by a friend is that you became so immersed in the writing, you forgot your friend wrote it. I don't entirely agree, but I understand what it means.)