Dear friends,
There’s a unique kind of insanity that grips a writer right before a book tour. You look at the calendar, see all the dates and cities lined up like little dominoes, and instead of thinking, Maybe I should just do a quiet launch from home, you say:
“Let’s go meet strangers and talk about the imaginary people who live in my head.”
This is, of course, ridiculous. Writing is one of the most solitary, internal, neurotic professions a person can choose. We hole up for months—years, sometimes—rewriting scenes, chasing character arcs, researching obscure minerals or firearm calibers, and talking to ourselves in parking lots to work out dialogue. And then, when the book finally comes out, we somehow decide it’s a great idea to put on real pants and tour the country like we’re Springsteen with a plot twist.
It takes a special kind of conceit to assume anyone wants to hear you ramble in person about a fictional sheriff from eastern Nevada. And yet, here I am, booking flights, checking the tire pressure, and wondering if I should pack the black shirt or the other black shirt.
But here’s the truth: I love it.
Because for all the self-deprecating jokes and logistical headaches, the book tour is the moment when writing stops being solitary. It becomes shared. It becomes human. I get to hear how a scene made you laugh, or how a character reminded you of someone you once knew, or how reading The Bitter Past made you look up Cold War history in the middle of the night. That’s the magic of this whole crazy thing we call storytelling.
Also: sometimes baked goods are involved.
So I’m hitting the road again, this time with The Blue Horse in tow—a book I poured a lot of heart into. Charlie, my golden retriever, won’t be making the trip, but rest assured she’s supervising from home (and demanding royalties).
If I’m coming to your town, I hope you’ll stop by. If I’m not, I’ll be the guy updating you from hotel rooms with suspicious carpeting and cheap wine that tastes like regret. Either way, I’ll be writing, signing, and quietly marveling at the fact that this life—however absurd—is real.
Here’s the list. See you out there.
—Bruce
