Tonight I drove to Kansas City to meet David Sedaris and get my copy of his new book signed. After five hours of waiting, I was face to face with one of my major writing influences, one of my favorite writers. During the five hours prior to this moment, I envisioned what the encounter would be like. I knew he was spending a few minutes with each and every person who came to the book signing, which explains how I was still there past midnight. This amount of time with each reader left me with high expectations of the encounter. Two or three minutes was ample time to impress Mr. Sedaris. And a few extra minutes more, after I’d earned his special interest, would be all it’d take for me to get his address, and send him a manuscript. He’d ask me about the other books I had cradled in my arms, and I’d explain how I’m an avid reader, how I have to lie to my parents about where my money goes, often sarcastically claiming that I’m spending it on hard drugs. We’d laugh over my lies and his truths. Then I’d slip in how I’m also an aspiring author, an essayist in fact How I find him incredibly influential in my writing, and how I’m in debt to him for opening the door for essays into the minds of the common reader. “People now know about real essays because of you,” I’d say emphatically. He’d respond something like “You’re really passionate about this, my dear.” He’d ask me about my work, and I’d casually mention that I’m a published writer, not just some overexcited youngster. At this point the people left behind me in line would start to shift on their feet and grumble, but David (we’d already be on first name basis) wouldn’t mind. He’d be excited about discovering a diamond in the rough, his young female protégé. He’d understand that we are kindred spirits, we are both writers, we have a deeper understanding of each other than these other overgrown bookish fangirls. I’d give him my thoughts on his writing style, and he’d be impressed at my intuition. He’d offer to read my work, and I’d be coy, saying it’s nowhere near ready for his prestigious eyes. But he’d insist. He’d give me his home address, insisting I self-address the envelopes to be sure that he’d actually open them, rather than pass them off to Hugh to deal with. I’d walk off, books signed, with an even more important handwritten note than the rest of the wannabes lined up at Rainy Day Books. I would be the next best thing.
Instead I nervously approached the table, handed Mr. Sedaris my books, and waited for him to open up the cover of the first one and ask, “So you’re Cara, right?” He asked about the books I was cradling, and I gave a shitty description of Anne Fadiman’s Rereadings, not even mentioning that she was my other favorite essayist, or even that I am an essayist, until he got to Katie’s copy, and I explained how we are both writers. We talk about Miranda July, another one of the author’s I’m holding. “Did you get that book because of my recommendation?” he asked. “No?” I wow him with my knowledge of his every word. He explains that he’s been informally promoting the book. He tells me his favorite story, and I’m not even familiar with the book enough to remember what he said. I just nod my head, and say “yeah,” like the eloquent young intellectual I am. “Have you seen her movie?” Another yeah. “All other movies don’t get art right, but that one does,” he explains, talking about the choosing of the pictures of emails for the art gallery. I deeply wish I had bought a copy of the DVD this weekend at Hastings and prepared myself for this discussion. Unimpressed with my ability to discuss a. literature and b. movies by author/artist/actresses, David Sedaris smiles, tells me it was nice to meet me, and pushes the books back across the table.
I get in the car and look in the insides of the books. In Katie’s he wrote “I’ve heard such good things about you.” In mine, “I’m so happy you can walk.”
