The Page-Turner Parade
A Field Guide to Book Launch Species
If you've never been to a book launch, don't worry. You're not missing fireworks, interpretive dance, or a sudden burst of confetti raining down like a New Year's countdown. Unless it’s a poetry launch. Then yes, possibly confetti, and someone in a tunic performing a “spontaneous” reading from inside a papier-mâché egg. But otherwise, it’s mostly a subtle, murmuring affair held in the back of an indie bookstore that smells faintly of musty books, espresso, and ambition.
I have attended, by a conservative count, approximately thirty or forty book launches. That includes novels (mostly novels), memoirs, experimental verse chapbooks, and one YA book launch at The Drake where I strutted on a red carpet while flash attacked by a mob of actors posing as paparazzi (a themed launch related to the book). And through it all, I have taken notes. Not on the content of the books, but on the people and their sartorial choices. The serially specific rituals that every launch-goer seems doomed to repeat, as though book launches are less literary celebrations and more competitive pageantry events for the modestly eccentric or those that fit a type.
Let me introduce you to the taxonomy.
1. The One Who Thinks It’s Their Launch
You spot them immediately. Often wearing something deliberately “literary”—a chunky cardigan, tortoiseshell glasses with non-prescription lenses, and most certainly a scarf, even in July. They arrive early. They inspect the stack of books like they’ve written them. They know the author (sort of—once shared a hummus platter at a writing workshop in Orillia) and are ready to bask in the residual glow of someone else’s success.
They hover. Not near the cheese plate, but near the table of books. They casually ask strangers, Oh, have you read her work before? as if curating the reading preferences of the room. If the author is introduced by a publisher or host, this person nods solemnly, occasionally mouthing along with key biographical facts.
When the Q&A starts, they don’t ask a question. They make a statement, disguised as a question, that includes the words “in my own writing…”
2. The Free Wine and Food Enthusiast
You won’t find them in the front row. No. They skulk near the refreshments, pretending to browse a flyer while calculating when it will be least conspicuous to pocket another mini-quiche, pastry, or stick of celery. Their interest in the book or author is secondary. They do not know the author. Their main goal is to turn book launches into budget-friendly happy hours. Not a word of a lie, at my first book launch for Barnacle Love, I had someone bring their own Tupperware to load up on cod cakes and shrimp patties for the next day.
Attire? A little formal, a little vague. Think “corporate creative”—jeans that cost too much, a blazer with ironic elbow patches, and sensible flat shoes so that when they’ve had one-too-many, they can still place one foot in front of the other. If you ask them what they’re reading, they will say, “Oh, I just started something…” and then pivot to a comment about the air quality in the venue or the poor lighting.
They leave as soon as the reading ends. Sometimes with a full glass of white wine balanced on top of a book they are most likely to return.
3. The Reluctant Friend and Family Member
Ah yes. You can spot them creeping to the edge of the room like a shadow. Often a cousin, or possibly a friend, visibly panicking at the notion of being asked to interpret a metaphor. Their eyes dart toward the exit like it's a life raft. They have made the grave mistake of attaching themselves to someone who writes.
Their outfit screams compromise: a dress shirt tucked into dark pants, or an expensive blouse and skirt with pumps, reasonable pumps. Think I’m Portuguese and I need to dress up for church. Poor souls. If it’s their first time, they don’t know about the readings. Or questions. Or seventeen different people who introduce themselves by describing the “arc” of their memoir-in-progress.
They will clap louder than anyone, not out of enthusiasm but sheer relief. Don’t these book people have jobs. I’ve got work tomorrow. Get me the hell outta here!
4. The Fellow Writer Keeping Score
There is no pleasure here—only reconnaissance. This person is not here for the author. They are here for intel. I wonder if his agent’s any good? Who blurbed the back cover? Who’s that person talking to the editor in the hallway? I know them . . .
These are the bitter writers who weaponize envy. Every part of the launch is a personal affront. Did they get a bigger crowd when their novel came out? Who’s paying for this? Any nibblies and were they any good? Or just crackers? I can’t believe they gave him that much real estate in the newspaper today?
They dress with neutral dark precision. Nothing too attention-seeking. Think burglar—black turtle neck, black slacks, black loafers—Marcel Marceau without the face paint, and certainly no tear drop. They’ve practiced their Oh, it’s so wonderful to see you doing so well smile and The Quill and Quire never gets it right, chased by a roll of the eyes. It barely reaches the teeth.
5. The First-Time Attendee (My Personal Favourite)
Wide-eyed. Giddy. Possibly wearing a book-themed T-shirt (“So many books, so little time”). It appears their sartorial goal was to mismatch pattern and colour—plaid skirt with Pippi Longstocking hosiery or cargo shorts with a cowboy shirt (throw in the bolo for good measure). They’ve been following the author on Instagram for months and came with a TPL tote bag already stuffed with post-it notes, bookmarks, a copy of West End Phoenix, and vague hope.
This person is charmingly pure. They believe in the magic of stories, the triumph of debut novels, the community of readers, and the transformative power of a good sentence. They want to meet the author, but they’re nervous. They rehearse their compliments in the washroom mirror.
They will absolutely buy the book. They will read it twice. They will post about it with a filter and a fern. They will cry for the dog in Chapter Eleven.
6. The Person or Group Who Thought it Might be Fun
Unclear if they’re lost or just on sabbatical. Carrying a weathered leather satchel and a book from the 19th century that smells like damp churches. They lurk in corners muttering things like “interesting intertextual references” or “reminds me of a lesser Zola.” Clothing leans toward “adjunct professor in exile”—corduroy pants, tweed anything, and an air of intellectual exhaustion. Or they stumble in as a small group, chances are they are cloned hipsters with their shaped beards and expert fades topped by trucker hats. Their cuff of their jeans the only flash of white. Huddled together, you can’t tell one from the other—like a suburban cul de sac, houses all alike.
They like to compare. To everything. To everyone. Even if the launch is for a thriller about a missing podiatrist, the academic will find a way to reference Foucault. The hipster weighs the price of a 4 oz cut of Wagyu from Cumbraes for tomorrow’s dinner versus the price of the book on offer.
7. The Fashionably Mysterious Stranger
They arrived late. No one knows who they are. Their coat is dramatic, picture a mix of Joseph’s Technicolour Dreamcoat and Fagan’s cloak with hidden pockets. Their boots are too stylish for someone who claims to “just write for themselves.” They lean against shelves like they’re waiting for a train to Paris, their hair wild and unkempt in unnatural hues of brown or red. And they’ve paid a hairdresser handsomely to get that right amount of coiffed bed head
They are the type of people who enjoy being seen. And perhaps, to be whispered about. Are they an agent? A reviewer? An aloof poet who writes under a pseudonym? No one knows. They leave without speaking. But not before locking eyes with someone in the second row for five charged seconds. There is mischief and magic in their stare . . . the sexual energy is real.
8. The Actual Author
Finally. The person of the hour. And somehow, always slightly stunned that anyone showed up. They have agonized over their outfit, tried on nine variations of “casual but credible,” and finally settled on something that suggests they didn’t try at all. A blazer over a band tee. Maybe boots that say “I walk a lot, thoughtfully.” Just not the Birkenstock’s, please. Mephistos are even worse.
Their task at hand is to feign normalcy while dying inside. They will read their work with tremulous hope. They will thank everyone twice. They will stumble over their own bio. They will cry, maybe, when they see their grandmother mouthing the words along with them in the front row. They will not remember a thing if its a crowded room . . . the two hour launch taking up their time with book signings. It’s a good problem to have.
They will forget the name of someone they should have thanked and remember it at 3:17 a.m.
They will also—for a brief, glittering moment—feel like what they wrote matters.
Final Thoughts: The Beautiful Absurdity of It All!
Most book launches are not glamorous. They are awkward and sweet, cluttered and caffeinated. They are full of misfits pretending to be at ease. But there’s something sacred, too. A writer spends years whispering into the void, and on this night, the void whispers back—through claps, through laughter, through one drunk guy near the cheese table yelling “brava!” at the wrong time.
The choices we make—what we wear, where we sit, who we pretend to know—are all just part of this odd, fascinating ecosystem. And no matter who you are—the dreamer, the doubter, the wine-chugging interloper—there’s room for you in this story.
Because at the end of the day, we all came for the same reason. We wanted to be near something true. We want to celebrate the accomplishment of writing a book. Or, at the very least, raise a glass of wine.
Clever writing as always Anthony and funny! I hope I'm available for you next book launch so I can sit back and watch for these characters to arrive.
I remember your launch at Lula Lounge. Fun night even though I left my chunky cardigan and unseasonal scarf at home. It was a great night.