On my signed copy of
Ian McEwan’s ‘Saturday’ he worked his signature into the branches of the
trees on the title page. Very fitting for a writer whose stories snake around themselves, thoughts
redoubling again and again, shifting and twisting and finally arriving at the
unexpected--but unconsciously known--root of the dilemma. I started
reading the book after McEwan signed it for me at the Key West Literary Seminar, but I was too scattered as I prepared for my trip to
By the way that was
a complete lie, about McEwan signing my book. Even though I had complete and
unfettered access to him, I was so intimidated by the man who wrote Atonement
that I could barely speak to him, let alone ask him to sign my yearbook.
I was probably too intimate with the other authors I was taking care of. Margaret Atwood? Oh yes, we shared stories about visiting
But McEwan? I clammed right up, starstruck and speechless. It was like meeting James Fucking Joyce, for me. I bought my copy in the bookstore, safely pre-signed.