16 December 2024
At the end of a book tour, rosy thoughts don't come naturally. You're alternating between an audience of ten or one hundred, a sense of giddiness and futility. You've searched for your novel in airport bookstores, handled reader questions about your use of the wrong car model, introduced yourself to people you've met before. You'd ideally be placed in suspended animation for the first six months to avoid wondering about sales, or to prevent futilely searching for your name on one list or another, trying to reinflate your ego for another event. You love your books but you're sick of talking about yourself.
