Wednesday was travel day—up before 5 to catch a 7:00 flight to New York, which meant I didn’t have time to check my email, much less post a blog. But it got on eventually, and I figure you’ll either forgive me or stop reading entirely, and in either case it’s not my responsibility.
So, the plane flew and Laurie King slept and the people around her read and watched the Jim Carrey movie and occasionally some mischief-minded God grabbed the plane and shook it hard for a few minutes, and then put it down and we flew for a while longer until His cousin over Duluth spotted us and gave us a few shakes.
And eventually a nice polite Bangladeshi driver, who had spent a great deal of effort to avoid having a series of pedestrians fling themselves under his tires, delivered me to the hotel, where I flung off one set of clothes, restored my hair to something like order, and set off again for the bookstore where a group of Dedicated Readers were gathered and waiting for me. Along with Jenny Sterlin, who has read the Russell books since the beginning.
We had a nice chat, and Les Klinger came and my super Bantam publicist Sharon with her adorable belly, the inhabitant of which is due to meet the world in two months.
Events with Les are always interesting, since he comes at the Sherlockian oeuvre from that of a commentator, instead of an unrepentant adaptor and thief like yours truly. And although I don’t think it’s actually true that, as my daughter told me on Tuesday, I never answer the questions I’m asked, it is true that I manage to turn most questions around into something I’m interested in talking about, or the person I’m with can answer as well.
But no one stomped out in protest when I didn’t address the main point of their question, and I signed a lot of books for Borders and they had a number of Les’s books to sign as well, which is nice and optimistic of them considering the books cost a lot of money and the economy is pounding at Borders rather hard. But a good time was had by all, and New York is treating me gently.
Except for the lobby at some ungodly hour this morning. Well, it was actually nine o’clock (which I suppose would mean that I slept in until 6, West Coast time, except I don’t do the whole jet lag thing, so it simply means I slept in until nearly nine) but it was hugely uncivilized to have to take an elevator down and venture through the bright, noisy lobby overly filled with men and women in their office clothes with their hair done in order to get a cup of tea. Why is there a law that the fancier the hotel, the less likely they will have a plebian object like a coffee maker in the room? The Grand Hyatt doesn’t even have mini bars. And with the way I’m travelling at the moment, I don’t check a bag, which means one suitcase without a corner for a the miniature coffee-maker (and tea brewer) that I sometimes bring. Grumble grumble.
However, I had an extraordinarily lovely dinner last night with Les Klinger and Neil Gaiman, whom I hadn’t met before and who proved every bit as perfect as the platter of sushi we three politely fought over.
And now to start the day, with a latte gone cold and some plastic-flavored fruit from the lobby coffee cart.
Thank you to everyone who commented that they were loving the book, but I have to say, you people are insatiable—“When is the next one out?” (For the answer, take a look at the Green Man tab, I’m sure it’s there somewhere. And if not, then the answer is a year from now.)