BookExpo America (BEA) is the spring fashion show of the printed word. My publisher, Small Beer Press, has cunningly contrived to have my novel Hound available at this annual convention in the bound proofs (‘advance reading copy’ also known as ARCs) to gain some needed attention before the actual publication date in September.

You fall in love. You get married. Your first child is born. Your second child. Your third. These are the common blessings and the greatest thrills of life. I am not saying that this is in that order of magnitude, but still better than your first kiss, first home, or first car. On a par with your first crop perhaps, after a season of struggle and all that comes before that to make the struggle possible.

I have seen the bound ‘advance uncorrected proof’ of the Hound.

On Saturday morning, after a fitful sleep, I was awake at 4:30 and out the door at 5:30 to catch a 6:30 bus from Boston to New York. Buses have changed little in the last forty years, so I needn’t describe the experience. But it was all of that, though made a bit more acceptable by the hundred times I have survived nearly the same journey. Familiar journeys conjure fine ghosts and generally reclaim more good than bad from the past. The difference now is that I am no longer the flexible and resilient youth of my youth. I ache easily.

Around 10:30 I was on 42nd Street and asking for directions to the Javits Center. I’ve never been there before. It’s not part of the New York I grew up with. I was quickly directed down Eighth Avenue.

My shoulder bag is weighted by my worries–I might need this–and that–and my camera too–What if I spill coffee on my pants–and an extra shirt–etc. Much etc. And a 33.8 oz product of Poland Spring. And some fig newtons. You know the deal. By the time I saw the great and inspiring edifice of the old General Post Office building, I knew I was wrongly sent. One shoulder is sore and I switch my bag strap to the other. Perhaps my first informant had mistaken the Javits Center for Madison Square Garden? A man with a bagel and coffee loitering in a shadow directed me over to Eleventh Street. I found a good coffee shop first and got my own bagel. Fortified, I was in the door of the Javits center by 11:30.

Four city blocks of what was once Hell’s Kitchen have been transformed into a Zeppelin hanger built by a committee. I see room for several professional sports to be played here at great savings and convenience to fans who must now go to the Meadowlands. Multiple soccer matches could be kept to the lower floors where they would not be a bother. Exaggeration is not necessary.

A kind person at the ‘correct’ check-in counter several hundred yards from my point of entry (check-in is mysteriously divided into numerous multi-adjectival tribes) directs me up an escalator and to my left. I should have naturally assumed she meant my other left, but I was tired.

After a circuit of the floor beneath an understandable confusion of banners and signs I ask another likely guide. They direct me out the door I entered to a well placed information booth created just for fools. There are two informants there. I am told I am told where to go. I soon find I find the aisle occupied by Consortium and I consort.

My publishers, Small Beer, are there–both halves, lesser and better–that is Gavin and Kelly. I am suddenly excited and re-energized. Elated. Ecstatic. Other e-words. There it is, face out on a shelf! Lettered in black on white in wraps, just as uncorrected galleys often are, it seems so very small. A premature baby of sorts. But then I thankfully think not to say this because it does not truly fall into that league and might lead someone sensitive to the subject to think I had lost all proportion again, as I can do.

Oh, I must be polite. I will be.

By twelve thirty I am sensate again. I worry about what I might have said in the interim, but bury this like a bone among a flowering of dreads. What was the name of that person whose hand I just shook? Shouldn’t I know this woman? They seem to know me.

They all have name tags, but I cannot read them without changing my glasses. At least then I have a chance of recognizing anyone within a few feet. The others will hopefully not mind my staring at their chests.

I am reassured by Jed, my editor and guide, that all is well. I think him fortunate for not knowing the truth. A delusion of importance is called for, but I have not thought to bring any whiskey.

I have time before my moment to wander the floor. This is a great mistake for an author wanting of self-importance. Of the tens of thousands of newly minted books on display among many hundreds of publishers’ booths, at least ten and a quarter million are mysteries. There is a bumper crop of crime and a surfeit of sleuths. Where did I get the idea that writing a mystery was an idea worth pursuing? More precisely, why is my effort better than any of these others? Any others? How did Gavin and Kelly delude themselves into this project?

I restrict my browse to titles offered by other independent publishers. That narrows my competition by half–over five million at least. Oh joy.

I wander. I stop at the sight of beauty. An ornithologist and artist engages me in the peculiar challenges of bird books. I have the brains for that and relax to a tale of avian woe.

My moment is 3:30 to 4:30–that time assigned for me to sit and sign proof copies for anyone interested at a table which appears to stretch from one end of Manhattan to the other. Bibliomaniacs must stand in lines on this broad field of battle like Wallace’s men, with bags and not bagpipes, pens raised mightier than swords, and choose which author to bother with. What perplexes me–no–worries me, for I am wont to worry about almost anything–is that after I sign several–a few–maybe only two, pre-assigned copies to a non-profit donation–that I must work out my hour sitting at my segment of the endless table and look on longingly at the lines before other authors. Onomatopoeia! I’ll just say I have to go to the toilet–and stay there.

I look for familiar faces to occupy the last hour before my trial. Sadly, the great David Godine has gone for the day. I thankfully use up time admiring his beautifully printed efforts. I thread my way around booths clogged with fans wanting the signatures of favorites authors. Several of my own favorite small presses have closed since I was last at one of these functions, when I played the role of ‘book buyer,’ for my now lost bookshop. The struggling independent outfits which survive are all staffed here with fresh young faces.

I manage to find half a dozen more mysteries published by first-time authors and read a few pages each…How foolish I’ve been. I spent three years writing the first drafts of the three Hound novels, more than another year re-writing the first two, and a good part of another re-writing this first one in the series. I could have spent that time adding another few hundred thousand words to my endless science fiction epic. At least that way I would not have made a public spectacle of myself.

My time has come. Jed escorts me to the gibbet. But there is a mistake. People are waiting. Perhaps they are late arrivals for the author who previously occupied that assigned spot.

Through some magic I am still not aware of, I had been sought out a few weeks before by a writer for Publisher’s Weekly and interviewed. A short article has appeared in the PW Show Daily which is distributed widely throughout the BEA. This seems to have drawn some attention.

Assuming that the fire of interest in a new author may be ‘kindled’ (if I may still use that term) by talking about controversial subjects, I proffered the PW reporter my not so secret but well ignored view that the ‘book’ is being murdered right in front of our eyes and this is as great a cultural loss as it was previously a gain to humanity for some five hundred years. It was my motivation in choosing to write mysteries set within the world of books in the first place–making allegory out of human death. I had offered that to the reporter as well as about an hours’ worth of personal chatter of no possible interest to anyone but a few relatives.

The first person in line is smiling. My spirits rise again like larks in Candleford. Something like that. Another person steps forward. And another. Heads bob sideways to get a look at me from the line. I’m happy to be sitting down on my ego. In short order, I manage to sign all the copies brought for the purpose. I am excited, enthused, euphoric, exultant, and must fall back on d-words to measure the delight and delirium of the moment.

An author’s first signing is certainly as uncertain as a first sexual encounter. Pleasure is not a useful descriptive. You don’t really know these people and they don’t know you. You have taken a risk. They are taking a chance. Your motivation is, at least in part, venal. Theirs is hopefully carnal. No matter your love for the subject, the physical transmutation of emotion is sweaty and sometimes painful. Afterwards I wanted a cigarette but this much is now against the law in New York.

The denouement of the day was better than the inception. A beer or two at the Bean Books book party and conversation with some old friends. Afterward a good dinner where shrimps were sacrificed for the good. More conversation. Advice on the best coffee in New York, the best pizza, and such. And then, after dark, another party, this one appropriately for a book called Geektastic!, edited by Holly Black and Cecil Castellucci, and held at a nightclub cum bowling alley. Sweet. I’ve lived in New England for so long I have forgotten how to hold a bowling ball big enough to have holes in it. Still, I did my duty to the pins.

The weather in New York was fine and bright to the end. In that the bus trip back was after midnight, I shan’t chalk this negative up against the previous day. It was a good beginning and far better than I had hoped for.

The game is afoot!