Well, it looks like Tori Amos screwed over the good folks at the Booksmith, one of my favorite independent bookstores in San Francisco and a local neighborhood haven for hardcovers.

This isn’t really much of a surprise, as the superstahs always seem to have “sudden and unforeseeable changes” in their schedule that prevent them from attending signings, at least as originally lined up. The difference here, however, is that Amos gave only four days’ notice without even bothering to set up a new date, let alone offering to sign additional copies of her book.

While the Booksmith is honoring returns and refunds for those who preordered signed copies of Amos’ book, I really hope Amos’ discourtesy isn’t too much of a financial burden on the Booksmith. Perhaps Ms. Amos is so out of touch with others that she can’t understand that the Booksmith is a small store that sometimes depends upon gargantuan egos like Amos’ to stay afloat.

In the interests of preserving literary decency and maintaining auctorial sanity, we have joined the Rake’s campaign to remain silent about authors who sound like something you can buy a dozen of at the supermarket. We figure this will add a few years to our lives and focus our fury towards more deserving targets.

Hey, Meg Wolitzer! Please shut up about your Puritanical hang-ups, check yourself into therapy, and get over yourself. The notion that novelists should refrain from writing about sex because, heaven forbid, their children might grow up and be permanently mortified is one of the kookiest, New Agey, and self-affirmative dollops of bullshit I’ve heard of since the Quirkyalone movement.

The true “horror” here is seeing someone obsess so much about the naughty bits that her parents wrote. Most of us in the real world have no problem coming to terms with the idea that other family members not only have sex, but, if they happen to be novelists, happen to write about this very seminal aspect (no pun intended) of the human condition, among many other things. If Meg Wolitzer is indeed “a novelist,” then she should understand that the subconscious is very different from the conscious, that a parent should probably be judged on their maternal and paternal gestures rather than their novels, and that characters do not necessarily reflect the total beings of their authors.

Or to put it another way: if Wolitzer’s looking for fey titiliation, then maybe she might want to incorporate Jude Law, a vat of chocolate fudge, three hermaphrodite midgets, leather chaps, and plenty of rope instead of Mommy’s Dirty Novel.

For those who weren’t annoyed by DFW’s recent article (who knew that visual representations of footnotes could divide the litblog community?), Jeff has the scoop on Ziegler’s attempts to interview DFW. (Short answer: DFW is too shy and dislikes interviews.) Ziegler apparently plan to go over the article over several shows. Whether Ziegler plans an aural equivalent to footnotes is anyone’s guess.