THE POSTSCRIPT, Carrie Classon

I was driving back to my little motel after my first two talks of the week.

Earlier this year, I attended a national conference for librarians. My publisher wanted me to be there to sign free books, and I have never in my life seen people so excited to get a free book as those librarians.

I signed, “I love librarians!” on every book, except for a couple which I signed, “I love library administrators!” and “I love library assistants!” because I love everyone who has anything to do with keeping a library going.

So when I was asked if I’d drive up to the northwest corner of Minnesota and speak at a library, I said, “Absolutely!” Then they asked if I’d mind being up there for more than a day. “Not a problem!” I answered without hesitation. Then they sent me a schedule that showed me speaking at eight libraries in four days, most of them more than an hour’s drive apart.

That’s when I started to wonder if I was a little too enthusiastic.

But I love libraries and library patrons, and librarians, so I said I’d come. I rented a room in a little mom-and-pop-style motel on a lake that had a complete kitchen, so I wouldn’t have to look for a restaurant after doing all that talking and driving, and headed out the next morning.

Writers have always read their stuff aloud. The oldest stories in the world were preserved because people recited them until writing showed up and they could finally write them down. Charles Dickens and Mark Twain read their works all over the country, and many writers still do today. And while I am no Dickens or Twain, I can see the value of reading and speaking to a live audience. Writers who read their work aloud write sentences that sound like they should be read aloud. The two skills go hand in hand.

But it has made for some long days.

Driving home on Tuesday night, I drove through a patch of deep woods. There were very few cars on the road and a lot of deer. I drove slowly and counted five deer either crossing the road in front of me or standing, undecided, on the shoulder, looking like they might make a dash for it. Then I saw a giant furry rump heading off the road and into the ditch, and knew the only thing that big was a black bear.

But the worst was just before I made it back to my motel, when a whole family of raccoons came marching out across the highway. I hit the brakes and was sure I was going to hit at least one of them. The car slammed to a stop. My purse and the stool I brought with me and the muffin I was eating all flew to the ground, and I stopped a few feet in front of the last raccoon in the line.

The raccoon also stopped. He squinted into my headlights. “What the heck do you think you’re doing?!” he seemed to ask.

And I had to admit, I wasn’t entirely sure.

But the next day, when I spoke at yet another library, and someone told me how much my presentation meant to them, I remembered.

Sitting at my desk is all well and good. But nothing can compare to talking to the people who read the books — face to face.

“Thank you,” I said, again and again — that day and the next day and the day after that. “Thank you for this opportunity.”

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