Butte, Montana to Cairo, Egypt — in one great leap.
So, the table is set up at Evel Knievel Days. This is a surreal experience. Thousands of folks I’d never run across on the standard book tour. And I have to take a deep breath every time someone walks up to the table and asks what I’m doing: “I’m selling my novel,” I say. It’s surprisingly difficult to do this. I think it’s in part because I somehow feel guilty for having written a novel. Not sure exactly how to unpack this feeling. Any ideas? Guilt over writing — on the part of a writer?
Questions so far: “Why did you write it?” And, jokingly (I think): “Are there any pictures in it.” And, prosaically: “Where’s the beer booth at?” And then, my favorite, after explaining the plot summary: “What were you smoking when you wrote that?”
I did have a man who’d read the book come up to the table and pose for a photograph with me.
Here are a few more photos. Things blow up here, a lot.