Authors are the WEIRDEST. If you know one, you can attest. We tend to be solitary creatures, highly sensitive, hard-wired for dashing off when inspiration strikes. Social skills go out the window when an author is knee-deep in creation. When we emerge and change out of our pajamas, we must face our readers. It is great luck to become a published author, and even better luck when you find an audience. My luck is outrageous these days, and I’m the first to admit it. I’m still plagued by self-doubt, because I’m a neurotic bastard. Thankfully, I have a squad, one that Taylor Swift would envy. Book Club For Mayor is every author’s dream–a book club of fiercely intelligent women who live loudly and celebrate the written word with meticulously-planned events a marketing department would envy. I knew one member from my short-lived punk rock days in Missoula, and auctioned myself for the Zootown Arts Community Center’s yearly fundraiser. Simon & Schuster were kind enough to donate a carton of books, and the always selfless John Runkle at the Yaak River Lodge donated a weekend stay. I showed up without expectations, and I am grateful. The weekend was BEYOND. The women re-enacted my novel: they dressed as the characters, cooked the food, shotgunned beers, thriftstore shopped, barhopped and played softball. It was absolutely thrilling to see the book come to life, and even more thrilling to know that ten women loved the book that much. Waiting for your book to be published is like being pregnant, only worse, because anonymous strangers on the internet will eventually tell you that your baby SUCKS. Nobody likes an ugly baby. The wait has been torture, and has given me time to create all sorts of doomsday scenarios in my head, but these women renewed my faith in the process. I drove home singing at the top of my lungs, which is the ultimate litmus test. Fast forward two months. On December 5th, I returned home from solitary writing time in the wilderness, bearded and crazy-eyed. I needed some cheerleaders. I got so, so much more. Book Club For Mayor secretly built the parade float that is featured in my novel, and entered it in the Missoula Parade Of Lights. It was the most delicious surprise, and I was honored to hoist my big ass on the back of that pick-up truck and don a gown of feathers, play a harp, pretend to be angelic for an hour. The parade was a blur–I was concentrating too much on not crying. Nobody likes a weepy gay. After the parade, when we parked that beautiful float, I stood in the crisp dark illuminated only by the giant flashing FLOOD GIRLS across the grill of the pickup. In the glow of those sparkling lights, I looked at those incredible women, and it only seemed appropriate that they were dressed as angels. I owe many thanks to these ladies, but most importantly, I owe them for renewing my faith, again and again. If you are an author, you could not find a better book club. If you are a human being, you could not find better friends.
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