Terry Pratchett has just passed away, and it’s terrible. For everyone. He was dying, and that was bad, and he is died, and that is even worse. I don’t like to tell “people I have met at publishing parties” stories (for reasons that will soon become clear), but I am going to tell this one. Because Terry Pratchett is cool. He remains cool in death. He gets that forever.
The year was either 2004 or 2005. I was newly published—just one or two books out—books that had come out to pretty good reviews but really no sales. I was sent to Book Expo America, which is a very large publishing convention that happens in late May or early June each year, usually in New York. That year, it was in New York, and I went. I knew nothing of publishing. I was in it, but I knew *nothing* about any realities of it. I think things were different then, because it feels like all new authors now know a lot about publicity and sales and all sorts of things—or at least, they’ve heard enough thorough the grapevine to maybe have some sense of things.
Me? Not so much. The info wasn’t out there. I’m not sure I would have sought it out if it was, because I like to get a sense of things for myself when I can. My publisher sent me to their party—which was the Big Party of the whole event. Everyone wanted to go to this party, and I got an invitation, and my agent (who is also my best friend) said that was awesome and I would go.
So I went. It was at a restaurant in the West Village. I walked in the door and went to the check in area marked off for authors. There were loads of name tags there, many with famous names on them. My tag was nestled between two particularly famous people. I was given my tag and told to have a nice night. I looked around the restaurant—which was absolutely packed—and realized I knew absolutely no one. No. One. So I made my way in a bit and took a drink from a tray, then I made my way in a little bit more. People started to approach me. They came RIGHT UP TO ME, squatted down a little to read my tag, decided I was not important, and walked away. This happened about five times, at which point I decided this party sucked and I was leaving. I sent my agent a text: PARTY IS HORRIBLE I AM GOING.
The quick reply: DON’T YOU DARE THIS IS IMPORTANT! TALK TO PEOPLE!
She meant well. She was trying to help. No one wanted to talk to me. It became more and more obvious and people jostled past me and flicked glances at my nametag and again and again registered that I was Not Famous.
NOT GOING TO HAPPEN, I said. LEAVING.
Now, I’m not anti-social at all. I just don’t do mingling things very well. I’m not a networker. I’m not the kind of person who sizes up the room for potential contacts and works it. I’ll talk to anyone about anything, but I won’t just stay because I am in the presence of Important People. I much prefer sitting at home in pajamas to that.
I AM COMING, she texted back. I AM RUNNING THERE NOW. DO NOT GO OR I WILL JUMP ON YOUR BACK LIKE A SPIDER MONKEY.
I was about to leave anyway when someone passed with a tray of mini ice cream cones. I had never seen a mini ice cream cone before. I really like small foods, and this was something that I considered worthwhile. I would get a mini ice cream cone. I would try to get two or three, I decided, and take them to the bathroom and hide in a stall and eat them there and THEN I would go.
So I followed the mini ice cream cones along, through the crowd, and managed to get one. By this point, I was trapped in a corner, so I ate it there. There was only one other person in this corner—a man with a beard in a hat. He looked much like I felt. After eating my ice cream cone and doing all that I possibly could have pretended to be doing on my phone (pre-smart phone, this was not much), I decided to say something to the man.
“This is awful,” I said. “I don’t want to be here.”
“Neither do I,” he said, nodding.
I got the sense that this was the first thing he’d heard all night that he could really get behind. We stood for a while in a pleasant silence, then we talked a bit more about how this was really no good. I explained that I wasn’t famous, and how people looked at my nametag and walked away, and he agreed that that was no good at all. We got along really well, this man and I, and we started to smile. I said that mini ice cream cones were a pretty good thing, and we discussed that and agreed that this was true. The party was bad and forced mingling was bad and being told we had to stay was bad, but mini ice cream cones were something to be appreciated.
This was going well until someone came over and started doing a heavy schmooze on the man, and in the course of this, I realized the man in the hat was Terry Pratchett. He didn’t wear a tag. He looked uncomfortable with this and gave me a look of apology that said, “It’s come for me. I gotta go.” And I did a “sorry I didn’t know who you were by sight.” Because I knew Terry Pratchett the writer, but didn’t know what he looked like. Good Omens got me through the flu. I read it four times.
Now, perhaps this doesn’t sound like the most impressive encounter, but I’ll tell you what—it set everything right for me. I’ve had to do many, many things like that since. I know more people now. It’s easier. But I appreciated that he didn’t care that I wasn’t famous—that you didn’t have to put on any special airs to be a writer. I could actually be honest about how I felt about things and situations and I could be myself. Be nice, but give no fucks. That is what I got. He made me feel okay, and I always felt okay after that. Somehow? That gave me the confidence to deal with the more public aspects of a job I didn’t particularly understand I had.
As it turns out, publishing is not evil or particularly scary. Most people at these big events feel pressure. I can enjoy these things more now. May I never ignore someone because of their nametag. And sometimes, you have to take the tiny ice cream cone and run, especially if it is a fine summer night.
Thanks, Terry Pratchett for hating that party with me. It meant a lot.
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