Tragic tale of meeting an author

[Tabouli]

storm:
>> though my last attempt at meeting a favorite English author was a disaster.
>>Very uncomfortable and unfruitful).
> 'fess up!

(btw, storm - is there some significance behind your rejection of the capital S?)

OK, here I 'fess.  (cue for tragic violins)  The first mailing list I ever got involved in was the Girls' Own list, in 1997ish, mostly because it actually had members in it who had read one of the best written English boarding school series ever, IMO - the stories about the Marlow family (some in school, Autumn Term, End of Term, Cricket Term, Attic Term, some at home, notably The Ready-Made Family, and Run Away Home).  I'd practically never met anyone in my *life* who'd read these books before (quite a difference from HP fandom!), and I exulted in the opportunity to wallow in psychoanalyses of the main characters and plots.  There were even shippers, not that I knew what they were then.

The Marlow books were written by a certain Antonia Forest.  Given that the first book was published in 1948, I'd always assumed that she'd died long since.  Not so - one of the listmembers actually *knew* her, and told us that she was not only alive and kicking at 83, but still working on her next Marlow book!  Exhuberant, I solicited her off-list, and she passed on an admiring, witty letter to Antonia from me.  Antonia answered!  She even gratified me immensely by telling me that my letter suggested to her that I did have the talent to become a writer!  I was setting off in May 1998 for a world trip, so I organised to meet said listmember and Antonia herself when I reached England.  However...

Things went badly right from the start.  The listmember (40ish) was kind and well-meaning, but also had the sort of sternly intellectual no-nonsense personality (McGonagallish) which unnerved me and brought out the prattling schoolgirl in me (I'm terribly self-conscious in real life, and was more so three years ago), especially when she introduced me to the stiff, reserved apparition in the passenger seat.  Antonia herself was a tiny old woman in a beige trouser suit, who was, I suspect, shy and uncomfortable with this apparently noisy, excitable young Australian woman (O dear, I thought, O dear O dear, she obviously quite liked my letter but in person I must be coming across as silly and noisy and immature and self-obsessed, which is why your hostess is treating you like a 15yo schoolgirl, shut up, shut up, you're here to meet Antonia, let her speak.  This sort of self-commentary going on in one's mind does not help matters).

Things just got worse and worse.  I'm more of an analyst/writer than a librarian - I wanted to talk to her about the writing process, and about her characters, Antonia obviously disliked this subject greatly and grew still more cagey (ouch!  ouch!  I've offended her!  cried the inner critic).  She asked me what other books I read to change the subject and she hadn't heard of anything I mentioned.  The silences grew longer and longer and more awkward, but every time I tried to break it with a question or comment, it fell flat or sounded forced and silly or like a pointless and rather self-indulgent rant, and only emphasised the fact that apart from her books (which she didn't want to discuss) we shared so few interests and had such different ways of thinking that neither of us had anything to say to one another.  Which is unusual for me - I pride myself on my social versatility, but the combination of the stiff reserve of the rich elderly Englishwoman, the severe no-nonsense middle-aged one and the ol' cross-cultural not quite sure how to read the upper middle class/upper class landowning stiff upper lip English social code defeated me totally.  Where was *my* cross-cultural trainer when I needed one?  By the time I realised it would have been better to be as shy and hesitant as I was actually feeling rather than trying so hard, it was too late.  I felt a right eejit.

After a polite couple of hours, Antonia pleaded fatigue and was driven home, while I cringed in a corner and waited for my hostess to return.  I stayed the night there, as planned, and the next morning had quite a friendly conversation with my kindly listmember hostess, but all in all I was very glad indeed to thank her and flee in mortification.  I've never quite read Antonia's books in the same way since (tragic violins reach a tragic final minor chord).

(errrr, no-one on this list is or was on that Girl's Own list, are/were they?)

Catherine:
> Well, let us know when you do get a chance to come over.  I'm sure several 
of us on the list would love to meet you.<

Hey, I'd also love to meet some of you American OT chatters when I go to the States next year, though experiences like the above and the dodgy penfriend romances I've mentioned make me a bit paranoid about the de-fictionalising process. People don't realise it, but I'm a timorous little salad really, and I've long thought I come across better in writing than I do in person.  All the same, I'm older and wiser now, and you lovely HP people feel warmer than the Girl's Own types (who mostly seemed to be indignant, opinionated female academics and librarians, making the feel of the list a bit chilly and ivory-tower'd, though still much more appealing than the thesis I was meant to be writing at the time).

The other thing I wonder about whenever I contemplate meeting you people is what name do I use?  Do I give you my real name to use, or do I stick with Tabouli?

Any thoughts?  What have you done in your meeting so far?

Tabouli.


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