I didn’t undergo a McClelland & Stewart sea-to-sea Kill an Author tour, but I did do some media in Edmonton. The interviewers—all male—were either apprehensive or hostile. “I haven’t read your book and I’m not going to” was a snappy radio opener. “Tell me in twenty-five words or less what it’s about.” The stringer for the Canadian edition of Time magazine asked whether men liked me (The answer: Why don’t you ask some men?) and what did I do about the housework (The answer: Look under the sofa). This gent was wearing white cotton ankle socks with dress shoes, which immediately disqualified him in my eyes. Thus began my reputation for eviscerating interviewers. It’s only partly deserved. I never eviscerate interviewers unless they attempt to eviscerate me first.
I did my first official book signing in the men’s sock and underwear department of the Edmonton Hudson’s Bay Company. The theory was that this site was near the escalator, and shoppers going up and down would see me sitting at my little table with copies of The Edible Woman and would rush over to buy some. This didn’t happen. Instead, I stampeded herds of men who’d wandered in to pick up some Jockey shorts and were spooked by me and my alarming title. I could hear the sounds of their winter overshoes galloping away into the distance. I sold two copies.
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