Meeting Sarah Dessen

Through a series of fortuitous events, I found myself, last month, attending the BEA—Book Expo America, which is one of the largest book events for publishers and authors in the nation. It is a four-day event, but I was only able to attend two days—and the second day, after a discussion with one of the people responsible for my attendance, I discovered book signings. I’ve never been to one before, and I have only vague notions about what a book signing is. I supposed that one shows up, the author signs the book, one says something trivial but sincere about the author’s work, then one departs.

Once I learned that books were given out free (I was very, very broke), I decided to try it. I headed to the section (basement floor, in the back) and selected a line at random. It was a longer line, which probably meant that the author was a good one. I kept an ear out for who the author was, and I didn’t have to wait long. “Is this the line for Sarah Dessen?” “Sarah Dessen?” “Sarah Dessen personalizes.” “Sarah Dessen is so nice.”

The line’s length caused the passersby to cut through rather than trek around, and the patient fan in front of me commented on her inconvenient placing, and I responded that she was almost near the massive column, which would then surely stop the interruptions of traffic. And it did, but only until she was past the pole (the line was moving quickly now). Then just a few more feet, and we were inside the official line, beset with blue dividers. A few feet more, and a man told us that if we didn’t get a book, Sarah Dessen would be upstairs at 1 p.m. signing more. We were restless now, peering down the line, trying to count the remaining books and the people in front of us. I still didn’t know exactly who Sarah Dessen was, but I was positive that if I’d waited 45 minutes to get her book and they ran out, then I would be severely disappointed. We were closer now, and I told my fellow fan that it looked like we’d be getting books.

The books were a bright pink, and the Sarah Dessen fans clutched their copies to their chests and sighed as they walked past us. I even saw a few damp faces. Was she that fabulous? I thought. She’s inducing tears.

We inched nearer, and I tried to lean to the left and snap a picture—as proof. Sarah Dessen didn’t make it into the picture.

I was even closer now, but the fans in front of me hid her while they gushed words of praise and thanks.

Then I was there, in front of her, and I held up my camera like an adoring fan and asked if I could take her picture. And Sarah Dessen said, sure, let me make sure to smile, and she sat up straight and folded her hands and smiled, while I held the camera up with a shaking fingers and snapped the picture.

I thanked her, told her I loved her work, and I was off, clutching my own pink book to my chest.

Conversationalist, I am not

My life often feels like a large unevenly mixed bowl of Awkward. For example, I went all the way to school and sat down in class with my zipper unzipped. This is a paranoia of mine, yet when it happens, I generally deal with it calmly, except when someone else points it out. Then I experience panic, and thoughts of How did THAT happen? And Am I really that much of a freak??

I try to write about Awkward as little as possible, because it is really painful, at this point in my life, to relive those moments over and over again, and I'd really rather just forget them. Leaving them unwritten and floating around in my cranium to be eventually forgotten works really well for me, thanks.

Except, today, I had one of those moments that I wrote down as soon as it happened, because it was completely ridiculous, and, for once, instead of declaring myself a freak, I decided that I didn't really care what anybody thought, and I just wanted to read my pink, autographed Sarah Dessen book despite the fact that all my coworkers were reading Faulkner and Cummings, and whatever else really, really smart people read. Then I realized that I didn't care because I never cared, and I really should work on the attitude, because I tend to be condescending and pretentious. And yes, I read books that make me think, too, okay?

Now, without further ado, what I wrote at 2:37 p.m.:

I am growing out my eyebrows. I am wearing eyeglasses. I am on the verge of an emotional hurricane. I don't have half the mental capacity of the other tutors. I have the social capacity of a worm.

(I had noticed the tutor sitting next to had his head on his arms. In the world of Sarah Desser, striking up a conversation with someone else, male or female, means great conversations and insightful epiphanies about oneself. Unfortunately, Sarah Desser's characters actually can think on their feet and say the perfect thing that leads to those great conversations. I, in contrast, only know how to interact with others on a very basic level and am practically nil in ability to think on my feet. This wasn't always the case; I think I used to be witty. I'm not sure.)

Me: You okay?
Him: *Silence* ... Yeah. Just been reading for the past four days straight. *Gestures to a mammoth book of poetry in front of him. Lets me look at the author's name. Have never heard of him. Have nothing to say.*
Me: ... Do you have a class this summer?
Him: Do I have a class? *His eyes betray confusion. And ... what is that, repulsion? Ouch*
Me: Are you taking a class?
Him: Oh. No.
*Silence. We're in Brooklyn, but if it had been a place where crickets lived, we would have definitely heard some. Loud ones. The show-off ones who play basketball and get all the Friday night dates.*
Me: Is it for anything in particular?
Him: *Eyebrows show more confusion. Disgust, is it? Wow, anger, too? My goodness, I'm making an idiot of myself. I'm in self-destruct mode now. This is not good on any level. Abort. ABORT.* Oh this? *He gestures toward the Goliath* No. I just like it. But I can't read it for four hours straight.
Me: *I make some sort of murmuring sound. I think it was meant to sound sympathetic. My eyes dart back to my Spanish homework. My head quickly follows. I have nothing to say. There is more silence. Then he gets up and leaves.*

Thus, when I make cryptic comments about how I think people perceive me, I TOTALLY HAVE EVIDENCE TO BACK IT UP.

I embarrass myself. Maybe if I start doing Sodoku or crossword puzzles, my mind will be able to think better in situations like the above. Eventually I might post these: thoughts on the book expo, social security, and miscellaneous. No holding your breath, please. I don't want to be responsible for anyone fainting.