On Saturday afternoon, in the middle of the first witheringly hot weekend of the summer, I dutifully donned a demure pink blouse and presented myself at a Borders store in Carlsbad for what my publicist obliquely referred to as “an event.” Having never done one of these things I had no idea what to expect. Would I have to give a talk? Answer questions? Stock shelves and clean the restrooms? As it happened, I was given the choice of a short talk set up in the back part of the store, or a simple signing at a table near the entrance. I went with the latter, since after four months I’m pretty sick of hearing myself talk about this book. I ducked into the restroom to freshen my lipstick and check for cleaning supplies, then took my place at the table.
I’m sure you’ve had the experience of walking into a bookstore and spying some lonely looking person perched in front of a display of her books, smiling a wan smile. As always when I’m presented with naked desperation and profound unease, my custom in these situations is to tactfully avert my gaze and hurry past the doomed author. I figured this is pretty much what everyone else would do when they walked in and came face to face with several racks of a pretty little book and a pudgy, middle-aged woman. Surprisingly, most people paused to figure out what was going on, made eye contact, and smiled. Many stopped for a chat. A darling few allowed me to foist a copy of the book on them, and even asked me to sign it.
In the meantime, a couple of dear old friends I hadn’t seen for years dropped by, and several bosom chums who I see more often also paid exorbitant gas prices to make the trip and offer moral support. It was a rather festive event, the staff were lovely, and I must say I enjoyed myself. Overall it was much, much easier than giving a lecture or workshop.
And obviously, much easier than cleaning the restrooms.
