There are readings, and then there are readings. The first kind isn’t a mystery: a bookstore, a folding chair, one or two great lines for every dozen pages that make you wince inside. The second kind starts with Michael Chabon, comes to a climax with Les Claypool, and winds down with Po Bronson, Katie Crouch, and Peter Orner playing half-court basketball at Robert Mailer Anderson’s house.

But who could possibly make that happen, I hear you cry? One guess: President Obama. If last Thursday night’s star-studded crowd of Bay Area wordsmiths has its way, that title won’t be just an overeducated liberal’s fantasy—it’s now $200,000 closer to reality.

With less than three weeks left before a presidential election that means agony or ecstasy for most of us, local Democrats have reached unprecedented levels of fundraising. Stephen Elliott, a prolific author and Obama champion, collaborated with the tireless Ayelet Waldman to organize “The Power of Words” evening as the spectacular coda for his Progressive Reading Series. (He also shoots a mean layup.)

In addition to Chabon and Claypool, the list of performers included—get ready—Tobias Wolff, Isabel Allende, Anne Lamott, and Tamim Ansary. Not only did these luminaries arrive early and read beautifully, but they also brought piles of autographed books to give away to the most generous donors.

Anticipating your next question: How come you got to go?

I’ve never been much of a political activist, despite having the strong opinions you’d expect from a Massachusetts-raised, tree-hugging, bleeding-heart editorial type. This election is different. I’m tired of being unable to listen to a presidential press conference without losing my shit. I believe that Barack Obama will make a tangible and deeply necessary difference in healing our flailing country. I’m fired up. I’m volunteering.

At last Thursday’s event, I was in charge of handing out bags of signed books. I have a good gig here at San Francisco, but that small task turned out to be as satisfying as reviewing someone’s new novel or putting in eight hours of solid redlining. And let’s be honest: I was giddy as a schoolgirl to be around all those authors. They’re among the thinkers whose words shaped my adolescence, education, and career path. Selfishly but unrepentantly, I count their achievements as my motivation.

I’m far from alone in this. The house was full of students and mentors, even among the most celebrated writers—Tamim Ansary glowed like a superfan when Tobias Wolff shook his hand. (I got a little drunk and insisted on telling Michael Chabon how Mysteries of Pittsburgh helped me fall in love once. He was on his way out the door, but gracious about it.) Worship was in the air.

In the latest twist in John McCain’s downward spiral, the candidate has taken to disparaging Barack Obama’s gift with words. “I admire so much Senator’s Obama’s eloquence,” McCain sneered in the last debate, sounding as if eloquence were a bacterial infection. The Republican doesn’t seem to understand that he’s only quarantining himself.

Americans love words. We speak and read and listen to and blog and Twitter trillions of them every day, a tsunami of articulation. When words are used honestly and well—as every successful leader has demonstrated since long before “ask not what your country can do for you”—or even dishonestly and well, no other tool in the human arsenal has more power.

Last Thursday, to show their unwavering support for a man whose words give them hope, a room full of people whose words are their livelihood fell silent to listen to their heroes read extraordinary words. From their lips to the White House’s ears.