I once heard somebody say that signing tours could kill you
faster than drink, drugs and fast women; regrettably my experience in at
least two of those categories is limited, but during my recent
mini-tour of New York and Chicago it nearly came true. My assistant Rob
accompanied me to
New York ComicCon,
which was frenetic to say the least, but even when you are jetlagged
it's all in a day's work; we've done this many times before. There is
such a thing as signing tour machismo.
It was a great event,
especially meeting the actor Sean Astin and catching up after a few
years. So the day passed noisily, but that was only one day down and
then there was business to deal with at my US publishers before a talk
at Barnes & Noble and then more publishing business and interviews
and so on, after which we had a free day before heading off to Chicago.
Rob suggested we go and pay our respects at Ground Zero. Unfortunately
both of us had gone down with a little bit of food poisoning, or so it
seemed, but it appeared to have gone away after lunch and so we got in a
cab for an extremely bumpy ride.
We headed south through
Manhattan, both feeling absolutely dreadful. We arrived at the foot of
Freedom Tower and had enough time for one single photograph before I
decided to turn back, as I was feeling so nauseous. We got back into the
very same cab and began the trek back to 52nd Street. However, we were
only five minutes into the journey when, according to Rob, my breathing
became very laboured. I felt very cold, although sweat was pouring down
my face; I couldn't focus and just seemed to be slipping away. There was
nothing I could get a grip on. Rob kept asking me if I was OK and
assuring me we didn't have far to go … the little liar! We still had a
good 15 minutes in that bumpy cab, and I have to take his word for what
happened next; I collapsed back into the seat and, again according to
Rob, was now definitely in a very bad way. But chalk one up for the boy
scouts and their first aid training, because he grabbed me and cleared
my airways – no task for the squeamish – while yelling at the cabbie to
drive faster.
By the time we got back to our hotel I was conscious
enough to decide that this was just one of those things and insisted
that a lie down would do the trick. However, my young-adult editor had
already called the doctor, and filled me up with Pringles and vitamin
drinks while we waited; and since they were worried, I was worried too.
By the time the doctor arrived I felt fine again, but he insisted on
giving me a good checking over. And good job he did, because when he
took my pulse he felt an irregular heartbeat and immediately packed us
all off to the nearest hospital. There I was warned that I might quite
possibly remain for a few weeks, as a worst-case scenario, as they
couldn't possibly recommend that I fly in that state.
I was
suddenly covered in miscellaneous pipes and electrodes. I was impressed
by the thoroughness of it all and even more impressed when towards six
in the morning they declared that as my heart had spontaneously returned
to a normal rhythm as far as they were concerned I could leave, with a
stern instruction to see my specialist back in England as soon as
possible. I did so and it turned out that I had low blood pressure,
probably exacerbated by the circumstances of the signing tour, odd
hours, jet lag, the irregular meals and general rushing about.
Nevertheless, on the day after leaving the hospital we flew on to
Chicago, where we did an event at Anderson's bookshop – one of the best
there is – and we had a great crowd, none of whom would have known that
there was anything wrong. The show must go on.
The flight home was
bearable, but I started thinking to myself, "Look, you are in your
mid-60s, with stents in your heart and a daily pharmaceutical regime in a
myriad glowing colours. And only a few months ago you were charging
through a bog in Borneo in search of a lost orangutan." I remembered the
days when I used to fly around the US with nothing more than a
transparent plastic bag, a mobile phone, a wallet, yesterday's washing
and a friendly grin for every homeland security officer – necessary
because authors on signing tours don't have the same footprint in the
eyes of security professionals as real people; we tend to have a lot of
one-way tickets. My perfectly transparent bag also worried every single
one of them, because I wasn't carrying much clothing. (As recommended by
Neil Gaiman, I had adopted the sensible routine of buying fresh clothes
as required and then giving to the helpful escorts who attend every
author when they arrive in a new city a small bag of used clothing and
the money to post it back to the UK. Some of the nicest ones actually
washed them before doing so!)
When I put it like that, it seemed
totally mad. Fun, but mad. Perversely, it was a great life – it still is
on the whole – and I wish to keep it like that for as long as possible.
Right now, I see the calendar filling up and note that next year I will
already, among other things, be doing a tour of Australia and New
Zealand, attending the next
American Discworld convention in Baltimore and
a host of lesser media engagements. It is amazing how many people want
me to do something that will take just "a moment of my time", which
invariably takes more than a week, and I suspect this is the same for
almost all authors.
Now that I have been made painfully aware of
the ticking clock, and the possibility of an erratically ticking heart,
tiny voices are saying things like, "You damn fool! You could be sitting
at home in the chapel, happily writing books and not worrying your wife
too much and staying within easy reach of a surgery and a pretty good
hospital." It's a thought, I suppose – and I will respect the advice of
my medics.
And the clock ticks...
