Undercutting the market for signed books by Canada’s Greatest Novelist? Machine-reproducing that irreplacable signature? Facilitating the production of hundreds of signed copies, worldwide, on a daily basis? That would completely debase the market value of the signed copies, as well as cheapening the emotional connection the “Dear Reader” feels towards the book and the author who, for at least a moment, handled it.
Who would do such a thing?
“It’ll be like being the first man on the moon!” somebody said, trying to reassure Aki Beam, a New York librarian nervously waiting first in line to have her copy of Atwood’s new book signed by the LongPen‘s robotic arm.
“Apollo 13 is the parallel springing more readily to mind,” murmured the bookstore’s stressed-out owner, as a technical expert fiddled frantically with the machinery.
I have a book that Viggo Mortensen signed for me, and frankly it means a great deal more that he, himself, hauled his decorative lefty ass to Beyond Baroque that night and stood up on stage and read his poetry and then sat down on the filthy floor next to my pal Trixxi because he was too late to get a chair (they tangled legs, hers and his being too long to put anywhere else) and then went and sat for hours at the table with the other people: Georgeanne Dean, Patricia Smith, Regie Gibson, Luis Rodriquez, and Marvin Bell although not Saul Williams, because apparently the Saul does not sit at tables with other authors and sign things; all of whom signed things very nicely, particularly Regie Gibson, with whom I shoulda followed up, athough I’m a great one for slapping my head six months later and saying, “Idiot! He was hot!” and I even hung onto the paper bag Ian Tracey gave me his phone number on for two years, although I was, as mentioned, too much of an idiot to do anything about it until six months after I’d finally gotten rid of the bag…but I’m over that now; and then Viggo actually held and signed my book, and didn’t even spill any of the whisky on it, and that means much more than something done by some mechanical pen With Free Bonus Gee Whiz Factor that, frankly, non-geeks couldn’t care less about.
Besides, he got Sharpie all over his fingers and I now have a nearly complete set of fingerprints with which to frame him someday. Put your suggestions in the Comments, please.
But that’s neither here nor there.
Nor was Atwood.
She was in London; 40 people were in New York for the booksigning. Now, I dunno about you, but I figure 40 is a pretty good number for a piece of machinery to pull; it’s a crappy number for Margaret Atwood, though. The market moves fast, I’ll tell you that.
And another thing.
“You’re talking to the person who was heading for Los Angeles when they had that earthquake, was heading for New York on the morning of 9/11, and set out to do a book tour in Japan when the Sars episode hit,” Ms Atwood said. “I’m the person whose limousine broke down on the New York freeway, green stuff and smoke came out of it, and I hitched. I was actually rescued by the marines.”
I’m wondering if Margaret Atwood would mind posting her travel plans in advance, for the benefit of the whole world…next time I’m planning to go somewhere, I’ll make sure she’s not headed there. Better safe than entombed in fiery grave with, I remind you, Canada’s Greatest Novelist.
You just know that, in a thousand years when we got dug up by future archaeologists, the caption would read, “Margaret Atwood, Canada’s Greatest Novelist, and unnamed fan.”
