I never go to other writers’ book signings, never have, not even when I was young and impressionable. Except for one rainy afternoon during my Mad Men days—before I’d actually published anything.
Newspaper columnist and novelist Jimmy Breslin was appearing at the Barnes & Noble on Fifth Avenue, not far from J. Walter Thompson’s offices in the Graybar Building on Lexington Avenue. I loved Breslin’s writing, his very New York, very Queens voice. So I braved the monsoon raging outside and went to see if maybe whatever he had was contagious.
While Breslin was signing his new book for me, I mumbled something like “I just finished a first novel.”
Breslin didn’t even bother to look up. He said, “Yeah, so?”
Yeah, so?
I don’t think he was trying to be funny, but maybe he was. I mean, the line could have been very funny. At the time, I thought, Oh, man, thanks a lot, Breslin, you fuck.
I figured he wasn’t really a bad person, but…what a prick.
Or, hell, maybe he was just very funny. I mean, I know he was funny—as a writer, anyway. He’d proven that with The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight.
So when I sign books for people, I’m really kind. Always. I learned that from Jimmy Breslin.