Sarah E. Moffett

Anti-book tour.
Week 4.

July is nearly over, and I’m celebrating from the patio of my Grandparents’ home in North Carolina. And it’s hot. And there are mosquitoes. And Faulkner-esq delusions induced by heat stroke. Celebration over. I’m moving inside.

<5 minutes later.>

You’d think not being on book tour would enable one to focus on such publishing necessities as regular posts. Then again, you’d also think the Cubbies could win a World Series now and again, but we all have shortcomings. Now that I’m stationed back in front of a fan, air conditioning vent, dry ice, and the world’s largest iced tea, my usual list making abilities are taking hold. After all, what does one do when they are not on book tour? EVERYTHING.

Specifically, this would include…

Learn about Oppenheimer, that Nagasaki got the pamphlets the day after the bombs were dropped, that Saint Sarah was the saint of gypsies, what Ice-9 is, and what broccoli tastes like with mustard.

Pondering such thoughts as Einstein’s assertion that “imagination is more important than knowledge” and Picasso’s observation that “art is a lie that makes us realize the truth.”

Forward silly e-mails and respond to others. (Yes, I did respond, don’t tell me I didn’t, I don’t want to know that clearing out my 1782 e-mails in my inbox was for naught.)

Celebrating Christmas in July.

Buying flowers, because we all know I can not even begin to grow them.

Celebrating my Grandfather’s 80th birthday, and being forbidden by all family members involved to ever publish any of the stories that were told over that weekend excursion.

Fire BB guns, play in the rain, and accept after 13 years that my sister is infinitely better at cartwheels than I am.

Recover from said attempt at cartwheels.

So now here I sit, about ready to embark on the last leg of book tour. For those I will see in Colorado, cheers. For those I will miss, best. And for my publisher, the adoring book tour posts are forthcoming. Be prepared.

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