We have a friend whose job is author escort. She’s the one who drives authors to and fro during their visits to the Los Angeles area. Because:
It is [Joan] Robbins’ view — shared, evidently, by the publishers who pay her several hundred dollars a day to chaperone legally competent adults on book tours in South Florida — that authors “don’t know where the hell they’re going.”
We find this job fascinating (maybe because the husband thinks we would be more efficient with a handler — we remain convinced we can lure any professional to the dark side). So we would have wanted to know more about logistics and such (yeah, we figured it out: the story’s about the author, not the escort; such is always the way of life). Instead we get the unfathomable (and can’t even blame it on the lack of caffeine). What, exactly, is pursed?
They were driving to a Barnes & Noble off Biscayne Boulevard and 187th Street, Robbins at the wheel of her black Infiniti, license plate AUTHORS. [Jean-Marie] Hamel flipped her hair, applied powder and lipstick and pursed.
- Escort’s read: Author is her own best seller (Note: Registration required)
