Meeting an admired person often brings out the inner idiot. This affliction is particularly potent in people like me, whose inner idiot comes charging out in full force during the most commonplace encounters. Add the element of celebrity, and my voice becomes higher, gestures more animated. My face grows warm. The celebrity grows wary.
For example, when we met Bruce Campbell, my friend Robin blurted out, “We’re all left handed!” while I stood next to her, head bobbing in enthusiastic agreement and waving my left hand in the air. I blabbed on and on about Dave Matthews when I met Kate DiCamillo. I grabbed Betty White’s hand when we had our photo taken at a veterinary conference.
Bruce doesn’t care that I’m left-handed
Determined not to repeat those mortifying moments, I stood in line and vowed that only the words “Thank you” would cross my lips. I even forced Husband out of the line when he threatened to say, “I thought my wife said we had tickets to Peter Cetera.” It was necessary to avoid the awkward pause, the cautious nod, the hand reaching insistently toward the next person in line, a silent prod to move along, move along.
Cetera does not equal Sedaris
Dozens of fans in front of me gabbed with David like old friends. Laughter rose at regular intervals. The thought of being the one person out of hundreds who left the table in silence was unsettling but preferable to the painful interaction that marks my usual brush with celebrity.
My turn came. I towered before him and offered my two books. He shifted in his seat and refused to meet my eye. I could tell the lack of jocularity weighed upon us both.
“Who’s Colleen?” he asked, his eyes darting to some spot just past my right hip.
I made a concerted effort to keep my voice two octaves lower than its usual speaking level. “Me,” I grunted. The left hand rose reflexively in a small wave. I wrestled it back down.
He carefully wrote out the first letters of my name. C-O-L. “And what do you do, Colleen?” he asked.
“I’m trying to be a writer.” It flew out before I could stop myself. His hand paused at the first L. I detected a flinch, the flash of dread in his eyes. And I knew exactly what he was thinking. Oh God. A writer. He would have to proffer his next comment with great delicacy, otherwise he’d risk the barrage of another wannabe droning on and on about her art.
His pen returned to the page. Another L appeared. Then came an E, and another E. He still refused to meet my eyes. “And what do you write?”
I forced myself to keep it short and vague. “I’ve written a middle grade werewolf novel.”
His hand paused above the N. His eyes met mine. “It has werewolves in it?” he asked. I nodded.
“And it’s for teenagers, you said?”
“Middle grade, for the tween set.” I caught myself wanting to describe it and stopped at “The main character is 12.”
His eyes returned to the book. I knelt in front of his table so we could be face to face instead of me hovering over him. He wrote “I’m so happy you’re alive” and looked me in the eyes again. ”Do you have kids that age?”
I told him I had two and their ages. He nodded and murmured, “That’s great.” He signed his name. “Do you have an agent?”
I replied, “I’m shopping it right now.” I blurted out that an editor at a big house asked to see some pages, then reined myself in once more. He reached for the second book and wrote “To Colleen.” Then he stopped and put his pen to his chin. After a few seconds, he said, “I don’t think my agent handles children’s books.”
Somewhere around here the conversation took a sharp turn into a talk about science fiction. I don’t recall the exact segue, but it felt smooth and natural at the time so I’m hoping it wasn’t the inner idiot taking over. I mentioned I appear in a Star Trek book (“Summon the Thunder, page 63 if you ever want to read it.”).
“So you’re actually in the book?” he asked.
“Just my name,” I said. “I’m an ensign on an archeology team.”
“What do you do there?”
I recited my one line, then added that everyone at the station dies in a violent attack about twenty or so pages later. He smiled in delight. Then he wrote the line in the above photo and wished me luck.
I returned to my husband, who gamely stood off to the side in silence. He was a little disappointed that he didn’t get to use his Peter Cetera line, but I think he’ll get over it.
I will post more about the fun weekend later. Now I’m off to sleep!
