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Editor's note: Over the course of the International Festival of Authors, some of the writers in attendance will be providing guest posts for our blog coverage. This one is by the Toronto poet Dani Couture, whose debut collection is called Good Meat. She read at the IFOA on Tuesday and reads again tomorrow.

It's Tuesday at 5:07 p.m. and the King Street car is nearly empty. I blame H1N1, but I don't mind the extra seating. I've got work on my mind, there's a run in my nylons, and I'm paranoid that I've left the stove on. Again. All along King, business folks board and disembark the streetcar -- the finely tailored tidal waters of the Bay Street set. I have a momentary flash of panic. Did I bring my book? Is the reading tonight?

At York Street the streetcar driver honks his horn and yells at a clutch of jaywalkers, "You won't live until the weekend!" He tells me to have a good night. I look down and notice that the sole of my shoe is separating from the leather upper, the run in my nylons now a railroad track.

I get off the streetcar and walk the rest of the way to Harbourfront. I pass Metallica fans who are getting ready for another big concert at the Air Canada Centre. A sea of black T-shirts, short skirts, dark lipstick, and long hair. A group of Quebecers standing in front of a hot-dog stand are talking about Lars Ulrich, but that's all I can catch. A block away, I can still hear the busker under the bridge playing a mournful solo on his electric guitar. His empty guitar case was filled with coins and those small Halloween chocolate bars.

At Il Fornello, which feels like the unofficial epicentre of the Festival, I order crostini and a drink. The Tupperware container I used for my lunch falls out of my bag. I stuff it back in. Someone says, "I think I just saw Ian Rankin in here." I worry about the run. I worry I've picked the wrong poems.

It's 7:45 p.m. and I'm sitting in the green room, which is incredibly warm. William Deverell takes off his jacket, while Michael Connolly flips through the pages of his book. I keep doing this awful laughing thing that I do when I'm nervous. I finger the run in my nylons and try to remember where I put my Metropass. An IFOA guide appears out of nowhere and says it's time and ushers us backstage, which is beautifully lit by a dozen blue light bulbs. The guide asks if I want wine: "Yes, please." Ian Rankin tries to convince me to read for the full 10 minutes I'm allotted. "I'll try for seven," I say. On stage. Off stage. I don't remember a thing, except that I think I said something about botulism.

After the readings, we're escorted through long hallways and up a set of stairs until we reach the signing tables. I turn to the guide: "You really don't need me here, right?" A poet who writes about meat and rifles and poor decisions alongside internationally beloved crime fiction writers. "Yes," he says, so I sit. A woman approaches me immediately. Nearly out of breath she asks, "Would you sign this?" I look down. It's one of Denise Mina's books. I should read that one, I think. I point at the woman three seats down with the same haircut. "Oh," she says. But then someone comes up with a copy of Good Meat. And then a few more. The rest of the writers are barely able to look up from the books they're signing there are so many piled in front of them, but I'm thrilled. On the way out, someone talks to me about botulism. I find my Metropass. I take the subway home.