May I share my latest experience of embarrassment? I am turning a red hue as I type.
I was delighted when asked to do a book signing at a quaint, locally owned book shop. It has managed to withstand the economy and the convenience of on-line shopping and savings of powerful chains. Every passerby is drawn to the store, if just to smell the aroma of parchment or to have the wooden floor creak melodiously under foot. It's a reminder of the old shops back in my hometown and, without reading a book, I am transported to a time of penny candy. My pink Shwinn bike can sit on the sidewalk without a chain or body guard. Sorry - I digressed.
The day of the event came with no fanfare. A bright yellow paper was taped to the window announcing my presence and a discussion about the book between the hours of one and three. On entering the shop, 2 copies of my book were displayed on a table with, again, the same bright yellow paper, only this time encased in a plastic cover. I was directed to the back room. Now for those unfamiliar with the layout of the store, the back room has a small alcove leading into it with lots of jig-saw puzzles on the wall. The room is about the size of an average sized dining room. As I stepped into the very organized room I was greeted by a small plate of cookies, an assortment of folding chairs, and a table, again displaying my book. A worn, but very distinguished wooden chair, fit for a professor emeritus, waited for me. Behind me, literally 18 inches behind me, was the NY Times best-selling books. A pathway between the chairs and my table led to the locked staff bathroom.
I sat done with waited abandon. I dug out the special pens that I just bought across the street at a darling card and gift shop. The lady at the gift shop wanted to match the color of the pen to my book cover. How sweet. But the darn pen would not write. Another pen stopped writing after 2 words. A helper came over and they both determined that the whole batch of pens were unsuitable. But they worked diligently to find two pens that at least were salvageable. They gave them to me without charge.
The day was hot - I mean 90 degrees hot. That morning had brought a gentle rain which would have been perfect had it continued. What a perfect invitation to browse. But it cleared and left the pavement a bit steamy. OK. The shop was air-conditioned. Would they know about the free cookies?
People began to trickle in the room. Two patrons were mothers of small children that were permitted to use the staff bathroom. One mother made eye contact with me and I smiled. When her son finally came out of the bathroom, given several warnings by the shop owner not to stuff too much paper in the toilet, he had the good manners to approach me and ask about my book. He was more impressed by the cover and asked if I "colored it" myself. The child was so enamored that the mother actually bought a book. Yeah! My first sale.
The first hour went by slowly. I mean, it dragged. My beautiful daughter, Molly, stopped by to give me support. Now mind you, she possesses several copies of the book. I was so devious. I slipped her a twenty and said, "Go buy my book". Pathetic. Just pathetic.
Then the pace picked up. Several people entered the room and walked straight toward me. I would rise and extend my hand. They would awkwardly accept my welcome to the NY Times best-selling section and then reach directly behind me for this popular book in trilogy form. I endured this humiliation for the remainder of the second hour. I was dressed in hot pink but, as you guessed, my face was wearing red.
At the end of my time - well, actually I had 8 minutes remaining but the stop owner was kind enough to rescue me - I picked up this "book of the hour" along with its 2 other sequels and proceeded to checkout.
I commented on the title and felt that it implied some spiritual theme. He laughed at me and announced that he calls it Smut One, Two, and Three. "Go ahead", he said. Turn to any page and read. Stupid me. I did. And as the shop owner stared at me to confirm that he was right, I magically turned more red. "See"? he said. So all afternoon, my book on feeling good about yourself was competing with REALLY feeling good. I packed up my belongings and headed home.
As I thought about my experience I had to smile. I am working on a series of books, too. My Life as a... The next book is about a house, with each room devoted to topics of health and wellness. My master bedroom section was to deal with insomnia, erectile dysfunction, and peri-menopausal issues to name of few. Now should I edit my work in progress? Hmm...
I was delighted when asked to do a book signing at a quaint, locally owned book shop. It has managed to withstand the economy and the convenience of on-line shopping and savings of powerful chains. Every passerby is drawn to the store, if just to smell the aroma of parchment or to have the wooden floor creak melodiously under foot. It's a reminder of the old shops back in my hometown and, without reading a book, I am transported to a time of penny candy. My pink Shwinn bike can sit on the sidewalk without a chain or body guard. Sorry - I digressed.
The day of the event came with no fanfare. A bright yellow paper was taped to the window announcing my presence and a discussion about the book between the hours of one and three. On entering the shop, 2 copies of my book were displayed on a table with, again, the same bright yellow paper, only this time encased in a plastic cover. I was directed to the back room. Now for those unfamiliar with the layout of the store, the back room has a small alcove leading into it with lots of jig-saw puzzles on the wall. The room is about the size of an average sized dining room. As I stepped into the very organized room I was greeted by a small plate of cookies, an assortment of folding chairs, and a table, again displaying my book. A worn, but very distinguished wooden chair, fit for a professor emeritus, waited for me. Behind me, literally 18 inches behind me, was the NY Times best-selling books. A pathway between the chairs and my table led to the locked staff bathroom.
I sat done with waited abandon. I dug out the special pens that I just bought across the street at a darling card and gift shop. The lady at the gift shop wanted to match the color of the pen to my book cover. How sweet. But the darn pen would not write. Another pen stopped writing after 2 words. A helper came over and they both determined that the whole batch of pens were unsuitable. But they worked diligently to find two pens that at least were salvageable. They gave them to me without charge.
The day was hot - I mean 90 degrees hot. That morning had brought a gentle rain which would have been perfect had it continued. What a perfect invitation to browse. But it cleared and left the pavement a bit steamy. OK. The shop was air-conditioned. Would they know about the free cookies?
People began to trickle in the room. Two patrons were mothers of small children that were permitted to use the staff bathroom. One mother made eye contact with me and I smiled. When her son finally came out of the bathroom, given several warnings by the shop owner not to stuff too much paper in the toilet, he had the good manners to approach me and ask about my book. He was more impressed by the cover and asked if I "colored it" myself. The child was so enamored that the mother actually bought a book. Yeah! My first sale.
The first hour went by slowly. I mean, it dragged. My beautiful daughter, Molly, stopped by to give me support. Now mind you, she possesses several copies of the book. I was so devious. I slipped her a twenty and said, "Go buy my book". Pathetic. Just pathetic.
Then the pace picked up. Several people entered the room and walked straight toward me. I would rise and extend my hand. They would awkwardly accept my welcome to the NY Times best-selling section and then reach directly behind me for this popular book in trilogy form. I endured this humiliation for the remainder of the second hour. I was dressed in hot pink but, as you guessed, my face was wearing red.
At the end of my time - well, actually I had 8 minutes remaining but the stop owner was kind enough to rescue me - I picked up this "book of the hour" along with its 2 other sequels and proceeded to checkout.
I commented on the title and felt that it implied some spiritual theme. He laughed at me and announced that he calls it Smut One, Two, and Three. "Go ahead", he said. Turn to any page and read. Stupid me. I did. And as the shop owner stared at me to confirm that he was right, I magically turned more red. "See"? he said. So all afternoon, my book on feeling good about yourself was competing with REALLY feeling good. I packed up my belongings and headed home.
As I thought about my experience I had to smile. I am working on a series of books, too. My Life as a... The next book is about a house, with each room devoted to topics of health and wellness. My master bedroom section was to deal with insomnia, erectile dysfunction, and peri-menopausal issues to name of few. Now should I edit my work in progress? Hmm...
