Signs, Co-Signs and Tangents

On Sidney Sheldon’s recent tour to Brazil and Argentina, 7,000 desperate fans--having clambered aboard buses and traveled great, dusty distances--mobbed their idol for copies of “Memories of Midnight.” Last fall, at a book-signing for Anne Rice, hundreds of people--some dressed as mummies or vampires--wended their way in switch-back lines throughout the store for close to four hours. Crazed mothers have grabbed baby-guru Dr. T. Barry Brazelton by the tie, coattails, belt and shoestrings to keep him from leaving author appearances. “It’s gotten so bad,” he says, “that I sit in smoking sections so I don’t get a baby dumped in my lap.”

Most writers cherish their solitude. But after months, sometimes years, the ordinarily reclusive author must leave the word processor and venture into the world to sell his book to what he hopes will be an eager public. Day in and day out, authors on tour rush to catch planes, dash from television to radio stations, squeeze in stops at bookstores. Sometimes they sell books; sometimes they don’t. In encapsulated encounters--both prosaic and bizarre--the writer meets his (or her) fans.

“People want more than just a name in a book,” says Jean Auel. “They want real contact. They want to put their hand on your shoulder or touch your hand.” Some fans burst into tears. Some feel the need to dictate to authors what they should write. Erma Bombeck once inscribed a book to a total stranger: “To my absolute dearest friend who is going to replace me someday.” Some aficionados arrive at book signings with armloads of first editions wrapped in protective plastic jackets and pepper their writers with arcane questions.

Then there are the arm-chair critics: Mystery novelist Tony Hillerman bemoans the fans who show up “with the express purpose of telling you there’s a mistake on Page 244.” Often, devotees discuss the author while they’re standing in line as if the author weren’t there. Auel has heard people argue about which of her books is the best, which is the worst. Erma Bombeck heard the following exchange: “Erma speaks for all of us.” “Yeah, men read her as well as women. She’s probably one of the few bisexuals writing today.”

These book lovers come bearing gifts--flowers, pictures, cookies, homemade Christmas ornaments, home-canned salmon, gems, hair barrettes, photographs of their families, even drugs for authors with certain reputations. Actor/authors get scripts, composites and resumes from Hollywood hopefuls. While on tour in the Southwest, Jean Auel admired a woman’s turquoise-and-silver necklace. The woman promptly dropped it on the desk and walked away.

Fans have brought horror writer Clive Barker many a morbid gift, including videotapes of “Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer,” a “sculpture” made from a decomposed squirrel and Styrofoam, and a pin with the words “I wonder what your head would look like on a stick” printed on it. Ross Thomas once received a model of his office as a fan imagined it--replete with tiny bound books on minuscule shelves, a mechanical typewriter and a cat. On Roseanne Barr’s book tour, people brought her pizzas, chocolates and ice cream.

There’s more to sign than just books. Jackie Collins has signed male chests. Dr. Brazelton has been asked to sign diapers; he refused. “The strangest is when women ask me to sign their undergarments,” says horror writer Dean Koontz, who politely declines. Anne Rice has signed leather jackets, a pack of Marlboroughs and T-shirts, as well as skulls and vampire teeth. Clive Barker has scrawled his moniker across miniature coffins and once had a man come up, slit open his arm, and ask the author to sign his name in blood. Barker complied.

Some fans name their children after authors or their characters. Jean Auel has met five little girls named Ayla at one book signing alone. (A set of twins, Ayla and Jondolar, live in Holland.) At galas for Jackie Collins, a plethora of little girls named Lucky or Montana cluster around their literary godmother. On two occasions in two different cities, Ross Thomas has inscribed books for a Federal Express pilot who keeps an eye out for Ross signings across the country. The pilot’s son is named Ross Thomas Medford.

Writers try to rise to these occasions. Maya Angelou signs her books “Joy”--with an oversized J. Sam Donaldson signs, “Ronald Reagan made me the person I am today.” Rosalind Carter is one of the slowest autographers in the business; her husband is one of the fastest. Julia Child signs her books with “Bon Appetit.” One day--after signing close to 1,000 books--she scribbled “Bon Appendix!” (The fan opted to treasure this error.) Dean Koontz once signed 1,300 books over 9 1/2 hours, but felt so guilty about people waiting for so long that he bought hundreds of dollars worth of M&Ms; to be passed out along the line. Occasionally writers lose heart. When a publicist mentioned to Richard Bach that his signature was completely illegible, he muttered, “That’s right. They can’t find me in there.”

For every success story there are dozens of horror stories of failed book signings--squalid afternoons when not a single fan shows up, and the only questions a writer hears are: “Which way is the bathroom?” and “Is that desk for sale?” “Those things happen, man, even when you play your cards right,” says Tony Hillerman. Michael Dorris remembers a nightmare signing in Louisville when--after an eternity of sitting alone surrounded by piles of “A Yellow Raft in Blue Water”--an elderly man wandered over and said: “I heard tell of a man around here who built a raft, put his chickens on it and floated down to Paducah. What did you do?” Dorris told him. The man didn’t buy the book.

Contact between author and reader isn’t limited to book signings. Once, while on vacation, Amy Tan went shopping. A woman came up to her and said, “You’re Amy Tan, the author!” Then she reconsidered. “Naw, she wouldn’t be shopping at a sale.” Erma Bombeck has had people enthusiastically cry out, “You’re Erma Bombeck!” Then, after a pause, “You are not!” “People are never happy with what they see,” says Bombeck. “They’re always saying things like, ‘I’m so disappointed. I thought you were taller.’ ”

Sudden fame can be disconcerting. Recently, Amy Tan left her house and noticed a man watching her strangely on the corner. Feeling uncomfortable, she continued on her errands and came home to discover that she was wearing two different boots. The attention has been so unsettling that nowadays when strangers call, Tan speaks in a fake Chinese accent and pretends she’s the housekeeper.

Writers are both baffled and touched by their fans’ attention. “I’m an avid collector, an obsessive collector,” says Koontz, who is approached--even when he’s not on tour--four to six times a week by his readers, “but there’s no one whose work I admire so much that I’d wait hours in line to have them sign my book. The whole thing unnerves me.” Michael Dorris looks at it another way: “If you do it right--with the kind of respect that the people who come out deserve--then you can have 100 intense experiences in two hours.”

The fans will go home happy and the author, after four more cities, can go back to work.