If you come here to regularly peruse the crisp dialogue of the lackadaisical Leviathan firstly, congratulations you have impeccable taste, and secondly you will know that I have (on occasion) embarrassed myself in the presence of authors (so far we have Charlie Higson, Gary Crew, Shaun Tan, Natasha Solomon, Michael Robotham and Morris Gleitzman - but the list is always growing).
The problem is I have the best job in the world. I work at a bookshop (and general hub of reading) in Brisbane where I regularly have to "liaise" with authors and publishing people. This is all very well and good (I have more than enough pencil skirts to make me seem eminently sensible) but I have this habit of freaking them out.
Last night my boss asked me to run an event with Richard Newsome, a Brisbane based author with a swag of awards and two books under his belt. Now, as I mentioned in my previous blog I am still somewhat under the weather and my voice has been dropping in and out like a radio channel in Dolby. So when I realised it was going to have to be a Q and A I had a mild panic (which was then somewhat nullified by a friend giving me a small plastic fox - long story, don’t ask).
Richard arrived and (having already image searched him, learning from my mistaken identity bungle with Morris Gleitzman) I introduced myself, he signed some posters and books and we waited for the guests to arrive. It was a pretty good turn out for a Tuesday night and my pal and colleague Rosie Blum was at my side providing much needed backup and apple pie. There were a few precocious kids with well worn copies of The Billionaire’s Curse and The Emerald Casket cradled in their laps and some star struck mums to boot.
I delivered my prepared speech (where I forgot to mention his swag of awards) and we got into it. I felt like Andrew Denton or worse (and maybe because I was wearing a pencil skirt) Jana Wendt. I found myself nodding knowingly at his comments and anecdotes, leaning against my palm in an act of profound numpty-ness and laughing like a banshee in need of a lozenge.
Occasionally my voice would break or a joke would fall a little flat (my jokes of course; his were hilarious) and I realised how much of my humor relies on a plosive delivery and emphatic hand gestures (because of the plague I could barely keep my head up let alone flail my hands about). I felt like the only joke that was going to work was, “I once caught a cold this big…” and I only thought of that one this morning.
Despite my cold, my squeaky voice and occasional omission of important information, it was a great event and Richard was a truly lovely guy (not to mention a talented writer). After the event he and his lovely little daughter Ella grabbed a copy of the Clementine Novels (a recommend from the leviathan), signed my book and disappeared into the night (well, okay not really. In fact we approached the Bastian of all great modern friendships ad came up trumps- we are now facebook friends).
So maybe I have broken my embarrassment streak (here's hoping) and am now being ushered into the glorious light of adulthood... nah, I doubt it.
On the way home I opened my copy of The Billionaire's Curse to read his inscription...
To Sarah, my great inquisitor. Richard.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
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