I forgot to mention, in the account of my little shopping trip on Queen Street yesterday, that I browsed in one of my favourite bookstores, Pages. I always find something I desperately need there, and did: the latest “Event” magazine with details about their Creative Non-fiction competition, and the latest about writing memoir from Natalie Goldberg. (Why write when you can read about writing?) And some hilarious postcards, including one I have on my desk now, of a young girl from the Sixties looking at us over a history book. “I’m not cynical,” says the caption. “I’ve just been taking notes.”
As I was paying, I asked, casually, about my own book. And they had it! I was floored. “Yes, it’s here,” he said, looking at his computer screen. “In Performance or Biography.” I scoured both sections but couldn’t see it; the nice man came over and we scoured together, and then a nice young woman was called in. She finally found it. It was on the Returns table, about to be sent back to the publisher. The one copy they’d brought in had languished for a year.
The nice young lady kept saying, “I’m so sorry.” She held my book tenderly in her hands, like a baby seal, but was about to club it into oblivion. I begged the store to hold it for a week, and sent out an email to my students, telling them that if they intended at some time to buy my book, now was the time.
By the way, the book is also available at Theatrebooks, and more than one copy is on the shelves at the beautiful Nicholas Hoare bookstore on Front Street. I think they might actually have two.
