As a writer, I look forward to someday being seated at a book signing. It’s part of the publicity campaign for a book to have its author appear at public events and sign copies for interested fans and patrons, and naturally it can be an experience that overjoys, overwrings or grounds the writer in reality, depending on the size of the crowd that comes to your event. Some folks get 5,000. Others get the book store owner and the maintenance man. I think that will, eventually, be me.
Today a local columnist and author, Lisa Scottoline, is appearing at the local Barnes & Noble to sign copies of her newest fiction work. It’s raining a gale outside, but I’m sure a line will be out the door to see her. She has thousands of readers in the paper and untold numbers of book readers: place them inside a bookstore and you’re likely to have a blast.
I’m not there, of course: I’m here, sitting at the cyber cafe writing about it. Sure I’d like to go, but I know that standing in the rain, with my car parked in the only space available–out in the corner lot in no man’s land where I might return to find it set on cinder blocks–would not be conducive to a good meet and greet with an author. Even though I know that she will be appearing at the second of her day’s stops after about 90 minutes of driving from the last event, and will probably be having the same type of bad hair day from the rain as I, why turn a book signing into a commiseration party in which we would all stand around and complain about the water damage to our shoes?
I do plan to buy her book, though.
And, if I ever get to that point in my writing career when I can drive 90 minutes to sit at a table and sign books, I’ll bring my umbrella, blow dryer and a roll of paper towels, because it does seem that every time a big event comes in my life, it rains.
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