Of Snakes Sex Playing in the Rain, Random Thou (21 page)

If an author truly wants to become depressed, he should check out the availability of signed titles on line. I’ve learned that my signed copies available for sale are worth more than I ever made on the books in the first place. It astonishes me that my work has more value when it’s used and out-of-print than it does when it’s new and right in front of a potential reader.

And then, there’s the heart-breaking discovery in some used book store that a book I’ve personally inscribed to a friend or co-worker has found its way to the cut-rate shelf. That’s a pretty humbling experience, one that tends to sting for a while.

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What’s worse than individual autograph session experiences, though, is the mass gathering of authors. Such events are often staged by bookstores during special events (“National Library Week”) or are held in conjunction with writers’ conferences and conventions and the like. They also are sometimes appended to such events as arts and crafts fairs, charity galas, museum parties, and university and college festivals and are particularly popular around the holiday season. They have been held in conjunction with county and state fairs, stock shows and rodeos, and on at least one occasion I know of, as a side-attraction to a tractor pull.

These “cattle calls” are designed to bring together in one place a group of anywhere from a half-dozen to a hundred writers, all seated behind nameplates and stacks of their books for the convenient access, one might think, of eager readers hungry for a stack of autographed books. Sponsors sometimes provide a buffet, maybe a wine and cheese table, or at least a sack of popcorn, and sometimes there actually is music playing in the background.

As a rule, authors of self-help books, cookbooks, how-to books, humor, children’s books, etc., often do well at these events. Such volumes are “gift items,” and some people look forward to the opportunity to clear their Christmas lists with the stroke of one credit card.

But organizers of such events forget one important point: books are expensive. At least, consumers
regard
books as being expensive, and while those attending such mass signings may stock up for the holiday season, they don’t often buy fiction unless the writer is already enjoying notoriety. It’s not uncommon, then, for more than half the writers present at even large and well-staged mass signings to sell no books at all except, perhaps, to each other. And one of the rules about writers is that they seldom, if ever, buy each other’s books—not at retail—not unless they’re shamed into it.

It is not so strange then to hear a veteran author state that he or she simply does “not do signings.” On the surface, such a caveat seems elitist and snobbish, but those who’ve been through the agony learn fairly quickly that it’s most an embarrassing and sometimes expensive and painful experience.

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The problem goes back to first principles. Writers, even very good writers, are not the sort of celebrities that excite the general public. Even name-brand writers often disappoint those who stand in line for hours waiting for a scrawled signature across the bastard title page of their purchases. Writers are not automatically beautiful or heroic the way movie stars and sports figures are, and they’re usually not flamboyant and mysterious the way actors and musicians can be. More often they’re rumpled and harried, in need of coiffure or shave, with unpolished shoes and unmanicured fingernails. They usually have bad breath and lack people skills, and they probably are sitting there, watching the clock, needing a smoke or a drink, and desperately wishing they were anywhere but where they are.

It’s a generalization, perhaps, but the sad truth is that some frumpy, middle aged scribbler squinting through bifocals to make sure of the blank spot for a name or dedication to be written is just not very glamorous. Writers are just plain hard to publicize.

It often takes several books before a writer concludes that public signing events—from the lavish to the plain silly—are exercises in futility. Many publishers still apply serious pressure on their authors to engage in these events, almost demanding that the writers demean and embarrass themselves in an effort to promote their own work. And some authors, frankly, have a large enough ego to enjoy or a thick enough skin to endure the whole process no matter how mortifying it might sometimes be. To be honest, there’s really not much choice.

I do hope that one of these days things might change, that I might have a chance to live out the Hollywood fantasy of being overwhelmed with demand for my personal signature on one of my volumes. I also hope to retire in Hawaii and someday to pay cash for a Porsche convertible. Writers deal in dreams, and no matter how unattainable they sometimes seem, they are, perhaps, what keeps us working.

In the meantime, I send this book out to you unsigned, uninscribed. I hope you find it as much fun to read as I found it fun to write, and if you did, let me know. I’ll be happy to sign it for you. If you didn’t, well, it’s only a collection of eyebrows, and I’m sure that, at the end of the day, they’ll need trimming.