I just heard from my publicist. Ok, she’s not really MY publicist, I share her with probably 70 other authors, but ‘my publicist’ sounds better than ‘the communal publicist’.
Anyway, she has me set up for 6 book signings up and down Utah. She said we should have a schedule by the end of the day. She is very nice, and very efficient.
When a reader thinks of a book signing, they probably imagine going down to the local book store, standing in line for a bit, buying a book, then getting it signed by an author. Nothing difficult about that, no stress.
That is how I used to picture them. Let me tell you how I picture them now.
I’m sitting at a little table, surrounded by stacks of my books. People walk in the doors, spot me looking all pathetic at my table, they pretend to become very interested in something on a shelve that allows them to enter the store without having to walk by me (which probably means they need to climb over a few mannequins, through a display window), and then go about their shopping. Every once in a while the wind will blow a tumble weed past my table. Grown men will be embarrassed for me, and little kids will kick me in the shins.
I’m really not looking forward to the signings, because I’m just not a salesman. I feel like just the fact that I’m there in the store, I’m supposed to accost everybody, and convince them to buy my book. That’s just not my style. Hey, if you want a book with a chicken on the cover, great. If not, great.
I also feel quite silly about signing my name to something. I always hated signing year books. “Stay cool, don’t change, have a fun summer.”
Maybe that’s what I’ll put in the books, instead of my signature.