From Iain, with best wishes and deep embarrassment ... Iain Sinclair signs books at the Hay festival. Photograph: David Levene
I was walking through Covent Garden at a rapid clip on my way back to the office from a meeting when I saw him: approaching in the other direction, a man with plastic-rimmed glasses, neatly cropped dark hair, a preppy jumper-shirt combination. "Where do I know that guy from?" I thought to myself as he strolled towards me. "School? Work? Does he live in my building?"
And then it hit me: I knew him from the jacket photo of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, which (despite critical maligning) is one of my favourite books. "Jonathan Safran Foer!" I cried out, "You're my hero! Your book moved me to tears! And I'm really not a weeper!"
Except that I didn't: while this eloquent monologue played out in my head, I was actually too shy to say anything. Instead, I gawped silently as he passed, probably making him feel a little uncomfortable. At least it wasn't as tragic as the time I met Vikram Seth at an event where he was signing copies of Two Lives: I mumbled something about dentistry and turned bright red; ever-gentlemanly, he restrained himself from inscribing my book, "Best wishes, although I'm embarrassed for you."
Of course, the author-fan encounter is not always easy for the author, either. I was charmed recently by Hermione Lee's account of spending time in New York with Philip Roth, who apparently can't walk a city block without being greeted by flocks of fans and who, it seems, quite enjoys having little chats with them. It's very stylish. However, he has probably been practising this to some extent since 1969 (and his succès de scandale with Portnoy's Complaint) and not everyone can manage it with equal aplomb.
I don't think it's fair to condemn writers who aren't utterly warm and loving when coping with fans: the skill sets associated with sitting in a room on your own writing a book and being a celebrity don't have a lot of overlap, do they? And as my dental gaffe demonstrated, expressing one's love for a writer to that writer does seem sometimes to bring out people's offbeat sides, and "being fawned upon" is not the reason that most people write.
While working in publishing, it was part of my job to vet the fan mail, before forwarding it on to authors. Ninety per cent of it was perfectly lovely; 5% was pleasantly kooky - "I have three attractive daughters who I think you might fancy" - the other 5% got filed in the "keep an eye on this one in case the legal department needs to get involved" folder. Some writers, before signings, feel the need to offer instructions to fans about how best to deal with an author encounter, which includes admonitions to observe niceties of personal space and speak with an indoor voice.
Why is it so difficult? Perhaps it's because, unlike with other sorts of celebrities, when you communicate through writing or by speaking to a writer you really admire, the act of stringing a sentence together means that you are engaging with him or her in the very activity that is the cause of your admiration. It's like trying to communicate your admiration for a champion ice skater and through the execution of a triple toe loop: the chances of your being impressive unless you yourself are also a professional are slim, and any skills that you have will be undermined by your fear that the expert is judging you. It's safer not to attempt it.
