Michael Perry, author of Coop, reports from his road trip:
As I have been pulling some long hours behind the wheel over the last 48 hours, today's entry will be composed of snippets and catch-up. Story of my life, really, snippets and catch-up.
Archie from Lift Bridge Book Shop e-mailed a gentle correction to one of my previous posts, informing me that the pre-reading bagel-based event in Brockport was held not in the book store basement (as I reported) but rather in the Lower Level. Archie says this is a critical distinction as his office is down there and he could never get any work done in a basement. Not only do I accept the correction, but upon my return home, I shall no longer trudge across the lawn to write in that room above the garage, but will instead ensconce myself in what will henceforth be known as the Sky Parlor.
Remind me never again to buy coconut water. If you like the stuff, carry on, don't send remonstrative e-mails or take it personally. Having gone for a run, I was feeling thirsty but nutritionally virtuous and so rather than the doughnut shop of my dreams, I stopped at an organic health food store. When I saw the lovely pale green bottle (full marks on presentation), I recalled all the wonderful things I had heard about this miraculous nectar, and so I bought it and tipped it to my lips in anticipation of I'm not sure what, but I believe the look that surely overtook my face was similar to that of the kid who discovers that not only is his chocolate Easter bunny hollow, it is made of melted carob chips.
In the preface to Off Main Street I wrote about self-propelled book tours and how in fairly short order laundry becomes a civic obligation. I'm not quite there yet but have begun to hoard quarters for the not-so-far-off day when I will be writing my next blog post within sight of tumbling underwear.
I believe that's the first time I've ever written the words, "tumbling underwear."
Yesterday I had the opportunity to yap about my books before a group of some 25 booksellers at the New Atlantic Independent Booksellers Association's Trunk Show in Syracuse, N.Y. I was there mainly to discuss Coop, but in an attempt to expand the regional relevance of my books, I took the opportunity to point out that:
• On page 50 of my first memoir, Population 485, I trace the name of my hometown--New Auburn, Wis.--back to Cayuga County, N.Y.
• In Truck: A Love Story, I describe a trip to New York City to view Edward Hopper's Seven A.M. in part because the piece reminds me of how I feel when I look at old advertisements for International Harvester pickup trucks. I also describe what happens when an unknown writer gets in a limousine that is longer than he is important. The ride didn't last long.
• Off Main Street may or may not contain any material of East Coast relevance, but it does contain an essay about my first-ever kidney stone. I fought the inclusion of this piece in the collection but my editor prevailed, and it has become one of my most popular "live" pieces, which shows how much I know. The point is (as I told the booksellers), 10% of all Americans have passed a kidney stone and so therefore 10% of all bookstore customers will have an interest in this book. And frankly, 10% is good enough for me.
The evening reading was at Colgate Bookstore in Hamilton, N.Y. Prior to the event, I had a nice 10-minute window of time during which I enjoyed a glass of water and a miniature zucchini pancake (topped with "frazzled" basil) (that's a new favorite culinary term, right up there with chiffonade) (I like to sneak these terms into conversation down at the fire hall) while chatting with Carl Lennertz of HarperCollins (Carl has been providing security for the tour for the past 48 hours) (that thing in his holster looks like a BlackBerry, but it is actually a SlimLine Taser) and overlooking the gorgeous green town square. The reading was held in one of downtown Hamilton's many vintage buildings, and the weather was so lovely we left the windows open. I read a few of my old standards but also diverted to read a section from Coop about my first visit to the midwife who would eventually deliver our baby upstairs in the slantways dead-end farmhouse in which we live. That's her on the cover of Coop, with our chickens. Her, meaning my daughter, not the midwife, although the midwife definitely deserves the cover after dealing with me.
Okey-doke. In 15 minutes I leave the motel room (the carpet here evidently rinsed in Eau-de-Wet-Cigar, but it's cheap and peaceable, with sparrows chip-chipping just outside the screen) (in defense of my publisher, they quite willingly put me up wherever I wish and indeed sometimes I reside in lovely accommodations indeed--last night it was a bed & breakfast owned by a woman who gave me the gift of a horse print for my daughter--but by and large I prefer the hotel money be spent on more miles and more bookstores) and make my way across the Hudson to Rhinebeck and Oblong Books, where I understand last night Judy Collins gave a reading. Perhaps I shall sing a few bars of "Farewell to Tarwathie."