The time I embarrassed myself in front of Joe Hill.
Before I start, I have to say that I’m a big fan of Joe Hill. I read Heart-Shaped Box when it was released, and loved it. I’ve most of his readily available stuff, and a couple of rare ones as well. In my opinion, Locke & Key is up there, rubbing shoulders with Sandman and The Walking Dead. I'd recommend his work without reservation. Heart-Shaped Box and Locke and Key being the best so far. Joe, Stephen King’s son, was in Manchester March 17th 2010, promoting the release of Horns. I attended, typical crazy fan style, with everything that he’d written at that point, stuffed in a shoulder bag. I was having a great time, listening to Joe talk about his work. There was one point when he started walking up and down in front of the audience, fingering a small black bag. Hmm, what was going on here? I’ve been to this style of events before; he’d reached the point when he’d finished promoting his book, and was about to canvas questions from the audience. I could see where it was going. My heart raced. What he had in his hand was a bribe. I wanted it. My heart raced faster. The first person to ask a question would get it. I knew this. I glanced around. Everyone in the room knew this. My heart beat faster, louder still. Before he’d even finished explaining the rules, my hand shot in the air, waving like a flag at a parade. He laughed, the audience laughed. I put my hand down again, waited until he had finished talking, and then he picked me out to ask the first question. Awesome.
I asked him which medium he preferred to work in, knowing that while he was at the book signing to promote Horns, he also had a number of Locke and Key books finished. He answered that working with graphic novels helped him develop his pacing and economy of words, while still driving the story forward.
Very pleased with myself, now the proud owner of the little black bag and contents, I waited patiently until most people had left. If you’ve not been to any book signings before, then when it's almost over, the author will retreat to a desk that has a barricade of their books, either to sign or hide behind - it depends how the evening has progressed. I loitered around, having a load of books; it didn’t feel right to take a place in the queue, knowing that everyone else only had one or two. You end up waiting with the crazies; women that want to declare undying love, stalkers, the real Annie Wilkes kind of fans. Anyway, when there’s just a handful of us left, and I'm not sure if the person behind me is actually loitering or mentally unstable and unable to find their way out of the room, it's my turn. When I stood before Joe, I asked politely if he would mind signing my collection. He didn’t. As I unload the pile of books onto the desk. Joe’s face drops. “I didn’t write this.” He said. Fuck. I’d included a book of poems by Joe Hill. A Joe Hill, not The Joe Hill. I’d bought it from Amazon, along with 20th Century Ghosts. The poems were written by someone who had issues. Serious issues. I managed the first few lines of one, flicked through the rest and put it to one side. Not before it managed to insinuate in my mind that not everything had been rosy in the King household. “I tried to get this disambiguated by Amazon.” Joe said. “There’s a good word – dis-am-big-uated.” Part of me went, thank God for that. The father mentioned wasn't his dad (who happens to be my favourite author of all time.) The other part of me, the part that was left standing in front of Joe Hill, died. He signed my books in silence. I left.
The book of poems didn’t survive the journey home. I’m not sure what happened to it. Nearest bin I think. Sorry Joe(s). I'm really sorry for any embarrassment caused to you, Joe Hill, and the other Joe Hill, Jesus. I'm really sorry for you.
JW (May 2014)
