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I'm one of those people who feel inexplicably guilty when being questioned by anyone in a uniform, even when I haven't done anything wrong - and in all likelihood, never will. It's probably the coward in me. It makes me a pushover when Girl-Guides are selling me cookies at the door. They know me by now, and only have to insist I buy six tons of Brownies and I'm writing a cheque.
Anyway, a wonderful thing happened as I was being questioned, fingerprinted, cross-checked and photographed prior to entry at JFK yesterday. The immigration officer was a steely-eyed mega-serious woman of perhaps forty with a name tag that read 'Flint', which I wasn't sure referred to her name, or her demeanour. She asked the purpose of my visit and I gabbled:
"I'm an author. I write books. I'm on tour. Yes, that's it. An author .... on a book tour."
She stops what she's doing and fixes me with her grey eyes, which seem to bore into me like cork screws.
"You've written a book?"
"Several, actually," I reply, swallowing nervously. Her eyes don't leave mine for a second.
"What's it about?"
I suddenly feel like a startled rabbit caught in the headlamps of a massive 18-wheeler, horn blaring at 3:00 AM on a deserted forest road somewhere. My mind goes blank. What is the book about? What are any of my books about? I finally find my voice and answer in a strangled, dry-throated squeak:
"Um, er, well, gosh - it's a bit tricky to explain but...."
She stares at me and raises an eyebrow. Is it my imagination, or is she not buying the whole Author Book Tour thing? Irrational thoughts of deportation drift into my mind. Then, the wonderful thing happens. A group of school kids from Mexico had gone through before us in the queue, and one of Ms Flint's co-workers had been priming them in secret. They burst into a joyous heartfelt rendering of 'Happy Birthday to you!', the strains of their bright, clear voices echoing around the chamber, turning heads and raising smiles. It was, of course, Ms Flint's birthday, and all of a sudden Ms Flint wasn't actually a Flint at all, as a happy smile crept onto her face and she turned to thank the school kids and use that imperious eyebrow of hers on the guilty co-worker. She turns back to us.
"It's not my birthday," she smiles, because it is, and like it or not, when a colleague likes and respects you enough to have a party of strangers sing 'happy birthday' in the sober environs of the immigration Hall at JFK, then everyone suddenly becomes so, well, human. And her uniform is no longer there, and she's just like us.
"I write books for people who love stories, and stories for people who love books." I announce with renewed confidence.
"Sounds good." she says, still smiling and stamping my passport, "Welcome to America."
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Answering the question "So what's your book about?"
I laughed aloud at this, because I know EXACTLY what you mean. I have people ask me that all the time and end up spouting what amounts to the same answer (or lack thereof).
Right now I'm trying to figure out in which genre to categorize the latest Thursday Next book. I thought categorizing my books was tricky. At least I KNOW my books are fantasy, of a sort.