The Twin Cities Book Fest 2019

The Twin Cities Book Fest has developed an exuberant and egalitarian tone that no other local book event can match, at least none that I've been to. Publishers, self-published authors, used book dealers, trade organizations like the Professional Editors Network, university creative writing programs, digital printers and design firms, and a variety of other organizations that promote books and reading in one way or another are arranged in no particular order down five or six rows of tables. Most of the tables are strewn with books, and quite a few of them have pieces of bite-sized candy on offer in a bowl or basket. Rain Taxi, the festival organizer, has set up a used book sale in one corner and a children's book area across the cavernous room in the opposite corner. Some belly dancers were getting ready to perform in a third corner when I walked by—I don't know why.

Rain Taxi has also arranged for a handsome array of authors, both local and national, to read and discuss their books in a second venue just down the street. We dropped in briefly to listen to Faith Sullivan and Susan Straight discuss the importance of women telling stories about other strong women, while in another makeshift enclosure a few feet away two outdoorsy men were analyzing the delights of Minnesota's Northwest Angle .

The author on the program who interested me most, David Shields, was appearing too late in the day. His book of aphorisms, Reality Hungry, includes a surprising number of winners. Evidently he's been involved in two or three new projects since then.

But the main interest of this event has always been in the grand hall, which serves as the Eco-Building during the state fair. With the Bookmobile booth right inside the door, and the Nodin Press booth a few feet away, front and center, I felt like I was among friends right from the get-go.

Wandering the aisles can be fun, though for me there is greater pleasure to be had from running into old friends. I'm almost guaranteed of seeing Bill Mockler, a colleague and friend from twenty years ago, because he tends the booth for Consortium Distributors. He harvested the last of the hot peppers from his garden recently (I saw a photo on Facebook) and we got to talking about his garlic crop.

"Right now is a good time to plant," he told me. "Or soon. When there's been a hard freeze but the ground itself isn't frozen yet." He recommended buying garlic for seed at the farmers market rather than the grocery store. "That stuff could be from China, as far as we know."

I was suddenly reminded of a book I own that might interest Bill. A Garlic Testimony: Life on a New Mexico Farm. "I have two copies," I said. "I'll send you one." On a preliminary sweep through the shelves back home, I could not located either copy.

Also likely to be in attendance is another old Bookmen friend, Richard Stegal. He often helps out at the Nodin Press booth, and there he was again. He told us he spent a few weeks near Ashville, NC, recently, babysitting his younger sister while she recovered from a knee operation. "It's so nice down there," he said with a wan smile. "And then you come home to this?"

The weather was dreadful indeed: just above freezing, gray skies, gusting wind, slight drizzle. I think the dreary conditions outside might have added to the energy inside the hall.

I often help Nodin Press authors get their books ready for publication, but I only occasionally  meet them face-to-face. It's always a pleasure to do so. We "know" each other, but the sight of a human face, the movement of an arm or a leg, the sound of a voice, adds immeasurably to the relationship. 

For example, I worked last spring with Ed Block, a retired professor from Marquette, on a book-length critical appraisal of Jon Hassler's novels. Now here he was, signing books at the booth. I introduced myself and we had a lively chat. Somewhere along the way I was reminded that he was an expert on the philosophy of Gabriel Marcel, and I steered the conversation in that direction. "Yes, I used to the editor of Renascence magazine, and we did an entire issue on Marcel." He paused and then said, "It wasn't one of our more popular issues. I'll send you a copy if I can find one."

Over the years I've become aware that I remember lots of people who don't remember me. This gives me a  little freedom to pick and choose my interlocutors. Just to be safe, I usually make it a habit to greet a passing acquaintance by saying my name. It can sometimes be difficult fitting a name to a face on the spot. "Yes, of course I remember you...er..."    

 

We caught up with Norita Dittberner-Jax at the Redbird Chapbooks booth. She's got a book coming out next year, though I haven't seen it yet. "I was thumbing through 26 Minnesota Writers over at the book stall," she said, "and there you were." I couldn't deny it. That was a long time ago. It was an essay about the Grand Canyon, as I dimly recall. Something about the silliness of Kant's theories of space and time, and an image of two rafts floating downstream, seen from high above, the size of grains of rice.

Norita's daughter in the mayor of Duluth, and Hilary asked her how the re-election campaign was going. We'd been in Duluth recently and we'd seen the yard signs. "She won last time with 73 percent," Norita said breezily. "She hasn't got too much to worry about. But she genuinely likes her opponent. He isn't mean and he doesn't lie."

A few minutes earlier we'd run into Nick Hayes in an adjacent aisle. He's putting the final touches on a memoir about his time spent in Russia. The subject of readings came up—how difficult it is to anticipate the size of the crowd. Nick told us the story of his friend, Peter Quinn, who had written a grisly mystery called The Hour of the Cat. The publisher had arranged for a reading somewhere in Manhattan, but as the event approached there was only one elderly woman sitting in the front row. Quinn looked out across the podium and said, "Ma'am, might I ask why you're here?" She replied, "Oh, I love anything to do with cats."

We got to reminiscing at the Friends of the St. Paul Library table about the early years of the book festival. "Remember when it was downtown at the Vo-Tech? It was cramped, but there was a lot of buzz." "And what about the very early days, when it was held on one of the upper floors of the International Design Center? Rather dark and dingy in there..."

A few minutes later Media Mike Hazard and his wife, Tressa, suddenly appeared, and Mike handed me a postcard advertising the closing reception (on October 20th) for their joint show at Homewood Studios. "That isn't far from our house," I said. Before long we were discussing the choice of Peter Handke for the Nobel Prize, and how hard it can be to really, really finish a manuscript on your own. Especially if you imagine it's the only book you'll ever write.

We also spent some time with prepress wizard Sean Knickernocker admiring a few of Bookmobile's latest full-color art book productions; with historian Joy Riggs, whose son in enjoying his freshmen year at Grinnell College; and with poet Laurie Allmann, who recently got back from investigating an obscure scientific and natural area in Nemadji State Forest on the Minnesota-Wisconsin border.  

In the interstices between these bursts of conversation, newly-published books presented themselves in a steady stream as we moved from table to table. And older books, too. (I'm so far behind the times that often I can't tell new and old apart.) The double-wide table at Coffee House Press looked especially inviting. I took a look at a book by Ron Patchett called Big Cabin. Nice title. (Maybe I could use that myself, or something similar. How about Small Cabin?)

I also thumbed through a few pages of Valeria Luiselli's The Story of My Teeth.  But I've become so reluctant to purchase anything on impulse that Hilary occasionally reminds me, "You know, you could buy that." Still, I hold back. Too many books piled up at home already.

Finally, as we were about to leave, she went over to the Majors & Quinn table and bought signed copies of the new novels by Faith Sullivan and Leif Enger--novels by local authors set in regions of the state we enjoy visiting. We ought to be offering some support to somebody.

Considered all in all, it's a beautiful scene, full of energy and aspiration, creativity and kindness. Everybody's got a story to tell, and there are plenty of people, too, who take pleasure in listening. We aren’t all “on the same page” and we don’t want to be, but we all acknowledge the value of pages, appreciate what’s written on them, and honor those with a knack for filling them up with interesting stuff.