Monday, August 22, 2005

One

Green Man Fest was pretty good. I couldn't stay for the whole weekend due to one thing or abother, but what I saw was great. As for our (Rob Lewis, John Williams, myself) event, it was interesting. One punter turned up.

One.

Solitary.

Punter.

Seeing as she didn't even know who we were anyway, we did a little "speed reading" (one page each) and fucked off to the pub. Maybe we should have made more of it, but come on... Anyway, we saw the funny side. (Mind you, I haven't seen Rob since. And his hat was found on the banks of the nearby River Wye... And John's silver Vauxhall Cavalier was found abandoned at Aust Services near the Severn Bridge...)


Many thanks to that one solitary punter. You really saved our dignity.

3 comments:

Jenny D said...

Glad to see you back, Charlie; I've been missing the chaff. Funny how reality is always a bad thing, no? Nobody says "Oh, sorry I haven't returned your phone calls, reality kicked in in the form of a huge check and I lavished it on a decadent trip to Eastern Europe..."

I had one reading (at Quimby's in Chicago) where literally nobody showed up. It was a low point, for sure: a freezing rainy Friday night in a city where I had a grand total of one friend, indie-comic-type store where the clerks seemed really to have no idea why I was even there, certainly no interest in stopping what they were doing to listen to a reading. And my friend Elizabeth who'd brought me over to the store had just reread the novel the day before, and said she couldn't stand the idea of hearing it again. So we went and got dinner instead, but it was most discouraging.

Charlie Williams said...

Ah, but the trick is to not be discouraged by those discouraging things along the way, right? (Or at least no permanently so.) That does sound pretty rough though. But I think it could happen to any author in that particular shop.

I love your version of reality. But we do tend to associate "reality" with the boring or arduous stuff, don't we? Then again, maybe it's a circumstantial thing. Maybe to those miners in 19th century pit villages, spending their whole lives down the shafts, reality was something they got a glimpse of occasionally when a beautiful stranger passes through.

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