Wasn’t there a story about George Washington cutting down a cherry tree when he was young, and he couldn’t tell a lie, and had to confess that he’d done the dirty deed? And isn’t there another story about honest Abe Lincoln who had to walk a gazillion miles in snow and sleet to return something that wasn’t his?
I don’t remember all the childhood morality tales and fables, but I do know–those famous Aquarius men (You didn’t know I’m an Aquarius, too? Yes. Yes, I am, thank you very much.) were supposedly honest guys and so I’ve got to be honest, too.
I’m a trifle worried about Texas. No, not the state. It seems the Bush family has that well in hand, but worried about my book tour there in just a couple weeks. I’m looking ahead to the trip and being that I’m dog-tired at the moment, feel well…dread.
I don’t really want to be in any more hotels trying to pretend that I enjoy hotels when I spend far too much time alone in them already. I don’t want to struggle to find bunches of bookstores in cities I don’t know very well, laboriously plotting store to store with the assistance of yahoo maps. I want to be rich and literary and important and famous and have publicists and drivers whisking me from one point to another while I, every bit the diva, close my eyes in my limousine while an on call manicurist tends to my nails and a gorgeous young bartender with a great body, strong jaw, and killer smile makes me hand-shaken fresh fruit margaritas. My publicist fends off calls from the media–‘No, Miss Porter’s busy’ (slyly ogling the bartender from beneath my lowered lashes) and ‘No, she’s not doing any interviews today. She’s already been on Oprah and she’s in desperate need of some time for herself.’
At my next stop on my book tour, I step from my limousine to crowds of millions…or maybe just the one screaming fan carrying the sign, “I love you, Jane! Marry me! Have my baby!” Unfortunately the fan’s enthusiasm puts me in a slightly awkward position and I’m forced to answer a plethora of media questions: “No, we aren’t a couple. No, I’ve never met her before. Yes, she seems lovely and I’m very grateful to have such a devoted fan base.”
After my final book reading for the night, I gracefully rise from the table where I’ve signed hundreds of thousands of books and my hand is fatigued but I’ll never let anyone know. Inwardly, I droop. Outwardly, I’m strong. My handlers, that fantastic publicist of mine, gently but firmly leads me to my limousine where Raoul is eager to make me another drink and Swedish charmer Hans has miraculously appeared to give me a massage. It’s an awkward moment at best. Hans and Raoul argue in the car over who is better looking. Blondes! Brunettes! Muscular men with blue eyes! Raven haired devils with eyes that flash fire. It’s too much. I’m worn out. I tell the driver to stop the car. Raoul and Hans are set on the curb. Silent, pensive, I return to my hotel room alone. Alone.
This is my life on book tour. But it must be done. Fame is difficult, the responsibilities are heavy. I will endure. I refuse to disappoint my legions of fans. Well, at least not the lone fan with the sign but that’s neither here nor there.
This is all true. Every word of it. I’m an Aquarius. I cannot tell a lie.
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