‘Abuse is often of service. There is nothing so dangerous to an author as silence.’ Samuel Johnson
My favourite signing story is about Stephen King, who one time signed books in Seattle until his fingers cracked and started to bleed. The publicist who watched this says how she had to hold an ice pack to King’s shoulder the whole time, and the moment he asked for a bandage, a fan in line shouted for some of the blood. At that, all the fans shouted for some of Stephen King’s blood on their books. The bandage never arrived, and after hours of bleeding, King left the event pale and flanked by bodyguards.
My point is, I always thought: ‘What a pussy …’
On tour for my book, Lullaby, in September 2002 I had to rethink all that. In Chicago, while I signed books, mobbed for five hours, a young black man stood in my face and shouted, ‘Every generation has to have its Dolph Lundgren …!’
In Austin, Texas, where they give out free beer while you sign, I did my job while a woman stood a foot away from me, asking the bookstore staff, ‘Why should I wait in this long line to get my books signed by that dickwad?’
In Phoenix, a stunning transgender woman handed out Vicodins in the crowd. Her name was Margo, but her friends called her ‘the Margo Monster’. She heckled – which was fine and cool – until the college guys around her started yelling for the ‘… fucking bitch to fucking shut the fuck up’.
In Ann Arbor, Michigan, where people slept outside the bookstore to get good seats, I signed books for hours while someone trashed my room at the Sheraton, throwing food all over the bed.
In Washington DC, an angry woman pounded the outside of the store windows. She and her sons couldn’t get inside because of over-crowding. Halfway through the signing, the manager leaned close to say the woman had called the fire marshal for revenge. At that, the police shut down the store.
In Boston, a small mob of people chased the car while my escort drove backwards down an alley, trying to escape. The whole time, as people banged on the car roof with their hands, the escort kept saying, ‘This never happens with John Grisham …’
But in San Francisco …
I’d drunk two Red Bulls and swallowed four Advil, and still I could barely hold a pen. The room was packed with people, everyone sweating in the heat. As the event started, even more people forced their way in. Dressed as waiters, they each had a towel folded over one arm. They each had black eyes, bruised cheeks and split lips. As I started to read, they started throwing dinner rolls at each other. The store assumed I’d hired them for extra drama. I thought the store had.
The first ten minutes, I didn’t acknowledge them because I thought I might be hallucinating from the Advil and Red Bull. Then a waiter vomited clam chowder down the front of the lectern. It was the local Cacophony Society, God bless them.
In Providence, Rhode Island, the bookstore manager put a bag of frozen peas on my shoulder, and it felt like heaven.
At that, Mr Stephen King, I apologize.