I discovered that I enjoy book fairs a lot more as a reader than an author. Self-promotion is not my thing. I feel weird and uncomfortable.
The writers were all great. There was a lot of solidarity and mutual help among the authors. There were some really interesting people but I felt out of place. My whole parish turned out in support, including the priest in funny shorts. When I told my mother, she immediately asked me if he’s got nice legs.
The author of children’s books in front of my table at the fair was the mother of a friend of Klara’s friend. This is a really small town.
Now I’m on my way to take out the Russian teacher. She’s clearly miserable, and in spite of everything, I feel bad for her. Nobody was supportive of her coming here. Her parents were very opposed.
Being human is a heavy burden.
P.S. By “taking out the Russian,” I mean I’m taking her out for a ride and dinner.