There’s apparently a book out there called Mortification, a compendium of stories about authors on tour. I’d like to add my own little anecdote, somewhere in the chapter by the title of “Mundane and Yet Exquisitely Unique Circles of Book-Tour Hell,” which I have to assume the book contains. The one that describes these remarkably specific cages you find yourself trapped in for what feels like All Eternity when you’re an author on tour? Yeah. Here’s one for those particular annals.

It begins with my unofficial Toronto “book launch,” by which I mean the pub night I threw for myself while I was in the city doing the media rounds promoting The Geography of Hope. Several of those in attendance are among my oldest and dearest drinking buddies—the sort of people who don’t even need to twist my rubber drinking arm so much as make a casual pantomime gesture across a crowded bar (the “drinkie-drinkie” gesture, as a lawyer once memorably called it on The Simpsons), and like that I’m out well past midnight on a school night.

…and then up far too early the next day for some morning interview…which turns out to be at CIUT, the University of Toronto campus radio station…which happens to be housed in a collapsing old Victorian pile…which happens moreover to contain a studio on its very top floor, a cramped little warren tucked under the eaves…which happens, returning to my point, to be the venue of my own brush with authorial hell on this tour…

What happens, to be specific, is that no one really properly greets us on arrival, and I’m so bleary-eyed that you could walk me out a second-storey window and I’d be picking gravel out of my chin before it occurred to me to ask where the hell we were going.

Anyway, so somehow I get ushered into this airless vault of a studio in the attic and seated in a folding chair off in a corner, and then I’m left alone in there until, presumably, the host sitting there begins our interview. Except he doesn’t even look up at me. He’s leaning in tight to the mike, an earnest undergrad in a hipster t-shirt, delivering a steady stream of words to the airwaves in a clipped monotone. For awhile I just sit there in a hungover haze, and then maybe five minutes in it occurs to me that he’s just reading a pile of news stories. Wire-service pieces about incidents of animal cruelty. One after another after another. In their entirety. Verbatim. He says “quote” and “unquote” to indictate the direct quotations, like it’s the ‘30s or something.

Not long after the reality of my surroundings fully dawns on me, it occurs to me that, while I’m by no means in favour of cruelty of any kind, I’d kill this kid with my bare hands if there was a glass of water in it for me. And I’d torch the whole building for something carbonated. I’m just dazed enough that it occurs to me what a strange headline that would make in the next day’s Varsity: “Author of book about ‘hope’ butchers animal rights broadcaster live on air.” Like an Onion headline, if The Onion was a much darker satire than it is.

Fortunately, my handler pops in to drag me to the right studio in time.

While I worked on The Dirt on Clean, people began taking me aside and confessing. Sometimes the person didn’t use deodorant, just washed with soap and water; some people confided that they didn’t shower or bathe daily. Two writers told me separately that as the end of a project neared, superstitiously they stopped washing their hair and didn’t shampoo until it was finished. One woman reported that her husband of 20 years takes long showers three times a day: she would love, she said wistfully, to know what he “really” smells like, as opposed to deodorant soap.

Something similar happened while I was writing a book about mourning customs. Then, people would tell me privately about an observance that was important for them, even if it seemed superstitious or overly sentimental—how they wore their father’s old undershirts, or had long talks with their dead wife. As people confessed their washing eccentricities, I wondered if a failure to meet the standards of the Clean Police was as bizarre as full-blown mourning in the modern world.

Now that The Dirt on Clean has been published, I’m harvesting even more washing stories. At the end of a talk or interview, people will tell me about their Scottish aunt, who never got into a tub but washed herself “piecemeal” and always seemed perfectly clean. Or about their time in the south of France, when housewives used the kitchen’s pot of warm water to clean themselves quickly, in a few strategic places. Or about their decision to give up deodorant when there seemed to be a link between aluminum and Alzheimer’s disease (never proved), and they’ve never returned to the practice. As always, I’m interested, and amused at the surreptitious way people reveal their “deviations.” It shows how thoroughly we’ve been conditioned to the one-bath-or-shower-a-day-with-soap-and-deodorant model. But, as our ancestors knew, there’s more than one way to skin a cat—or get clean.

I used to make fun of writer friends who had websites and blogs. Given our busy lives, with families and jobs and leaves to rake and, most importantly, BOOKS TO READ, where was the time to express unconsidered opinions about, say, chocolate? Besides, it always seemed an embarrassing exercise in self-love. “Shoot me,” I remember saying, to my friend, William, “if I ever get a website. The sound of it: toddbabiak.com. Tasteless! Boorish! Actually, don’t shoot me. Stab me, with something that isn’t even sharp. Just press really hard, again and again.”

Three months later, I had a website.

It’s been difficult, avoiding William at dinner parties and the theatre. Perhaps William doesn’t know I have a website. Now that I have one, with handy links to Amazon and Indigo-Chapters pages where my novels are sold, I judge the quality of my friendships by the “comments” button under my blog entries. So far, it’s mostly my brother and Cousin Brad who respond to my provocative posts about those yellow ribbon magnets, that guy who peed in my garbage cans, and chocolate. Which leads me to conclude that my brother and Cousin Brad, who are blood relatives and therefore ineligible to be my friends, are my only friends.

The website has been most useful as a mechanism for contact; readers can hunt my address down and email me after reading the novels. The Book of Stanley, my latest book, contains religious themes. It hasn’t been nearly as controversial as some had expected, partly because people with serious religious views have so many holy texts to read, they aren’t interested in novels that include sasquatches, Busby Berkeley routines in schoolyards, and sex scenes in Montreal townhouses. But I have received a number of emails, more than thirty, from Scientologists who believe I am attacking them in the novel.

My internet research of Scientology has revealed little of substance, so if I have inadvertently attacked the religion it had to be either instinctual or supernatural. And by supernatural I mean spiritual. And by spiritual I mean religious.

Someone, God or the life force or possibly Yoda, wanted me to write what I wrote. He is omniscient, isn’t He? And omnipotent? How could I have slipped through His fingers? If He has fingers, which He assuredly does not. What would He use them for? You think God feeds Himself, or plays baseball? God.

I’m not sure if William has religion. He’s always been pretty slippery about that stuff, along with details of his salary and sex life. But just in case, I’m taking martial arts classes. In case he’s fashioned a blunt shiv, I want to be ready.

As many of you know, the Scotiabank Giller prize was awarded two days ago. The event was held at the Four Seasons hotel in Toronto and, if you’ve never seen the award show on TV, it is a truly glamourous evening with great people watching. It was particularly fun to see authors and editorial types all gussied up looking like movie stars. All evening there is an incredible excitement in the air. Everyone is thrilled to be part of a night where Canadian books and authors are celebrated. I had the pleasure of sitting with Alissa York whose book Effigy was one of the five shortlisted books. It is true that, while all the nominees would love to win, they all appeared to be genuinely happy to be nominated for this very prestigious award.

Here are a few pics that I took:

Giller winner Elizabeth Hay with Alice Munro and Jack Rabinovitch

Louise Dennys, Executive Publisher, Knopf Canada, Random House Canada, Vintage Canada with nominee Michael Ondaatje with his wife Linda Spalding

Nominee M.G. Vassanji with his wife Nurjehan, and Kristin Cochrane, Associate Publisher, Doubleday Canada

VP, Publisher, Random House Canada, Anne Collins with nominee Alissa York

(Also, in case you don’t know the story behind the award, here is the wonderful story of Doris Giller).

My husband has been eagerly awaiting the chance to meet one of his favorite culinary darlings—Nigella Lawson—since I told him about the possibility months ago. His dream came true last night at the Eaton Centre when he and 500 other adoring fans had the chance to meet her at Indigo where she signed copies of her latest book Nigella Express. Men and women, young and old alike came out in droves to share their love of the Domestic Goddess. And what a woman she is! She was amazingly upbeat and personable despite a long day of media interviews as she signed book after book and took picture after picture. Have I mentioned that she is more gorgeous in person than she is on the cover of her books or on her show? It was an absolute pleasure to have met her. And now that I’ve made hubby’s dream come true he can do the same for me by making me dinner! Any one for dessert?

Nigella ready to sign!

Last Thursday Dave Bidini’s new book, Around the World in 57 1/2 Gigs, launched at local music joint, The Paddock. As the new publicity intern, green to the world of publishing, I was excited to meet Dave Bidini, former member of The Rheostatics, and to be someone “behind the scenes.” Dave was scheduled to arrive, tape a television interview, perform a short reading, and play a solo gig.

Reading Bidini’s book he seemed down-to-earth, intelligent, and endearingly self-deprecating. To be honest, he sounded like the complete inverse of a rock musician. With Nirvana, The White Stripes, and Oasis as my rock models, I was unsure of what to expect.

Cool as the crisp air outside, Dave walked into the bar, hat on head and guitar in hand. “Sorry I’m late! Nice to meet you, I’m David.” A gentleman and a rock musician—the Gallagher brother’s could learn a thing or two.

Politely taking a seat on a barstool drinking a Perrier and lime, Dave got ready for the lights and camera…“Hi, Tom!” he said over his shoulder with a warm smile and familiar nod to the barman.

The evening went off without a hitch. Guests filtered in happy to be warm and with drink, and everyone was excited to greet Dave personally. After playing one song he switched to his writers hat—not literally—and the crowd remained in place.
The Paddock went quiet and we all gathered in close as Dave read from his book. Listeners were eager and attentive—thoroughly enjoying his anecdotes from the road.

Afterward, it was all about good times in Queen West. A book launch became a night out at a great bar, to which Dave Bidini is no stranger. To tell his friends apart from his fans would have been an exercise in futility, as they were treated all the same by him.

Recently, I was lucky enough to attend an advance screening of The Kite Runner film, based on the best-selling novel by Khaled Hosseini. It’s a strange thing to see the movie version of a book you’ve read—particularly if you have a fondness for the book.

Personally, when I read a book and then see the movie, I feel a sense of entitlement—like I’m owed something more because I have my own special connection to the story. I have already imagined what all of the characters look like, designed the set as I have envisioned it, and set the tone of each scene the way I read it in the novel. Invariably, the director of the real movie doesn’t live up to the standards of the Oscar-worthy director in my head and I’m left saying “Meh, it wasn’t as good as the book.”

But this is not so with The Kite Runner! The director, Marc Forster, crafted his film to be so true to the book that I think all devotees of the novel will be impressed. The performances are fantastic, the music beautiful, and the visual treatment of the entire film is spectacular! And the kites! (sigh) I want to learn to fly a kite…

Still, I’d tell anyone who hasn’t already read the book to do so before seeing the film. Even though you’ll know what to expect plot-wise, this film is compelling from start to finish and is a rare example of a novel translating beautifully onto the big screen.

This past Saturday I had the pleasure of attending a signing with Bret Hart at Chapters Pointe Claire for his book Hitman. What a fabulous time it was with over three hundred people coming ranging in age from three to thirty-three coming out to see their favourite wrestler. Some die hard fans had been waiting outside the store from 6:30am in the rain. People brought books, belts, magazines and DVDs. Bret was a pro and shook hands, signed books and took pictures with any one and every one who wanted one. On the way to the airport I asked him if he ever tired of the attention and he said that the fans were what made everything worthwhile. So I guess what they say is true: “Bret Hart is the best there is, the best there was, the best there ever will be.”

Bret “The Hitman” Hart ready to sign!

Bret and me!