Jo-Ann Mapson

Stealing Carl Reiner's water and losing count of the times I was asked "How do you get an agent?":
Part Two of a Two-Part Report from the LA Times Festival of Books

Coming home to California is a bittersweet experience. Sweet because I get to hang out with my mom and my little brother, eat home cooked meals, catch up on reading, and feel the sun on my shoulders. Bitter because I see how much the traffic has increased, how built up things have become, and fall into that nasty habit of buying stuff like bargain-priced Staffordshire china at TJ Maxx, cute clothes at Chico's, and chocolate marzipan at See's Candies.

There is no easy descent into So Cal. It's a head-drenching baptism into the la-la land of ultra skinny women, expensive cars, and a hurry-up pace that never ends. On day one I went to the Nail Spa for toenail polish, which I am too blind to apply with any accuracy. There were twelve dentist-office-type chairs, each with two different massage programs available. A private Jacuzzi for my feet. Two televisions showed "All My Children" with closed-captioning. I went for a deep purple color. Two days later, my big toe turned red and sore, and my joker of a brother insisted I was in the early stages of SARS.

My son Jack surprised me by driving down from Monterey, and it was fun to spend time with him, talk (and $hop for antiquarian book$). He escorted me to the L.A. bookfest, and his slant on things kept me smiling. The traffic getting there was horrible. Forty miles took an hour and a half. We parked in the VIP lot, got our badges, and checked out the green room. Stars flitted by: George Plimpton, Amy Tan with her yorkies in tow, Maxine Hong Kingston, Sandra Cisneros, and so on. Somewhere nearby, The Rock-Bottom Remainders were rocking onstage with Roger McGuinn, Dave Barry, and Amy Tan dressed in leather. My panel, Survival Fiction: Living to Tell the Tale, thankfully ended up being about making it through "life's hardship" and writing stories about it instead of Jeff Probst of the television series and eating tarantulas. Diane Leslie (Fleur de Lis in Exile) told us about the sixty-one nannies she endured, and her lonely childhood as the daughter of screenwriters. Diana Wagman (Bump) explained how she'd once worked suicide hotlines, and the experience made it into her novel. Moderator Susan Salter Reynolds (LA Times book reviewer and a huge Sherry Simpson fan) fielded questions and kept things moving. Meanwhile, my son sat in the front row flashing computer photos Stewart had e-mailed to us of Henry, my mini greyhound, in various goofy poses. When it came time for audience questions, a physician stood up and asked some wandering question about depression and bi-polar disorder. I wanted to say, hey, you're the one with the medical degree, we write FICTION, but instead I looked at pictures of Henry and kept my inner child amused. Later, we all signed books, and Jack and I got slightly schmoozed by two Hollywood producers who were interested in the film rights to Bad Girl Creek. We indulged our obligatory two-minute reverie of buying new cars and oceanfront houses, and then realized the producers had left!

On the steps by the signing area we were dying of thirst when we spotted Carl Reiner's private table, no Carl in sight, but three, count 'em, three, bottles of Sparkletts water, whereas I had only rated one. "Carl Reiner probably doesn't even drink Sparkletts," we reasoned, and I liberated two bottles.

Next we foolishly went to a collector's booth where all manner of first edition/first printing/signed copies of fabulous books were for sale. I gazed upon Truman Capote's tidy signature inside In Cold Blood. I tried not to drool over a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird in its original jacket, and made the bookseller open all the books by authors I loved. Due to California brain set, wherein all things for sale can be yours simply by waving a credit card, I bought Nick Hornby's new book for Jack and for myself a British edition of Michael Faber's The Crimson Petal and the White, which my agent says is her favorite book this year. Afterwards I suffered through buyer's remorse, then buyer's rationalization. We ran into neighbors from twenty years ago, grazed the green room, watched Nicolas Sparks eat grapes, and eventually ended up on our respective cell phones calling our spouses and sending love talk into the ether.

At the Awards ceremony, which is like the Oscars for writers, skinny women dressed in designer clothing seemed to glide into their seats. On stage, a bevy of famous writers took way too long to introduce the nominees for the LA Times book prizes. What began at 7:30 was not finished by ten, so Jack and I crept out and found a way to the banquet before the official doors had opened.

This Festival seems to bring out the snob in some-the "in" crowd looks down its nose at the geeks who do their homework and can't afford the right shoes; people shamelessly check out nametags and look away when the person is not "important" enough to rate a smile. But for others (me), it's a great opportunity to observe the human condition and gather material. I felt proud in a way-LA is responsible for 60% of book sales across the nation-and as this weekend city of 150,000 readers descends on a college campus, it's proof that TV hasn't ruined all of us, and proof the novel isn't dead.

A flurry of e-mails from New York has me doing a "light" rewrite on Goodbye, Earl, so I must sign off and amend pages. Then I'm on my way to New York, London, Wales (Hay-on-Wye, a town with 64 bookstores!), and finally Ireland, a place I've been trying to get to for the last ten years. Surely I will pick up some interesting writerly tips across the Pond. I plan to soak my sore toe in the Liffey. Ta for now.

More later,
Jo-Ann

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