Should Authors Have a Book Tour Dress Code?

Once upon a time, I emulated a hero of mine—the pioneering narrative journalist and author Gay Talese—and insisted on wearing a suit and tie to every meeting with a source, every public appearance, certainly on a 2011 book tour for Six Weeks in Saratoga. Looking the part was, on some level, part of my signaling. That maybe if I looked put together people might feel the same way about me. A writer like me can’t afford a bad first impression.

(The Writer’s Guide to Being a Great Podcast Guest.)

For decades, Talese wore suits out of a sign of respect for his sources, for the story. But there comes a time when wearing a suit makes you look far too stuffed up, especially if you live in the Pacific Northwest, like I now do.

To be clear, I am not a follower of fast fashion, or fashion in general. My ideal outfit is a Metallica T-shirt, jeans, Chucks, and a Boston Red Sox cap. I don’t read the fashion magazines and the only bags I carry are the bruise-colored ones under my eyes. That said, when an author rounds third base from the private life of generation to the publicly facing side of book promotion, what we wear, like it or not, signals to potential readers how we work and what might be in that $35 hardback.

As a recovering suit wearer with a biography on the iconoclastic 1970s runner Steve Prefontaine coming out in the spring of 2025, I suddenly thought that I might need to consider my appearance. I’m a journalist, and Metallica shirts might not convey proof that I’m more than a basement blogger aggregating sources instead of tirelessly working the phones. But over-dressing in a Talese-ian three-piece wouldn’t reflect the counter-culture nature of the central figure I’m celebrating at the heart of The Front Runner. So, three beers deep (or was it four?), it got me thinking: Should we dress as true to ourselves as possible? Or do we dress for the book we’re selling?

Me not being the greatest case study, I sought a brilliant journalist and New York Times best-selling author Kim H. Cross. She writes nonfiction narratives that have ranged from natural disasters (What Stands in a Storm), architecture (The Stahl House), and true crime (In Light of All Darkness), the latter a revisiting to the Polly Klaas kidnapping and murder from the 1990s.

Similar to feeling out of sorts if I’m not wearing a Metallica shirt befitting of Beavis from Beavis and Butthead, Cross, writing to me in an email, admitted feeling insecure when not wearing “fleece, a wetsuit, or a helmet.” Cross is an avid mountain biker, water skier, and can wield an ax the way a conductor waves a baton to a steady 4/4.

While it would indeed be goofy to have a “costume” for each book, certain books might call for a certain aesthetic. Given the sensitivity around a story like In Light of All Darkness, Cross knew she needed to be more muted in appearance. Cross appeared on 20/20, did several public events where she had to navigate Klaas’s tragic story while also, you know, selling a book. It’s a thorny balance, part of the job, but as authors, we are, like it or not, our book’s PR machine and how we look and what we say might just be the difference between earning a sale and a life-long reader or someone judging your book by your cover and moving onto other authors.

For The Stahl House, which was a book just as much about aesthetics as it was about the story behind the iconic house, Cross said, “My wardrobe definitely reflected the book,” lots of vintage, mid-century pieces.

For In Light of All Darkness, it was a matter of being tasteful; she recruited a couple friends to “shop her closet” for her.

Friends: “What’s all this menswear? Where’s your black blazer? Don’t you have a pair of simple black slacks? A kitten heel?”

If people are going to judge our books by our cover, then it’s worth at least giving it some thought.

Come spring 2025, when The Front Runner comes out, I won’t overthink it. Since Steve Prefontaine was a hip, James Dean-ish figure, suits and ties seem way too formal for such a badass. Prefontaine was cool; wear a tie at your own risk.