A DAY IN THE LIFE

One of the reasons authors have book signings is to basically push the next book they are writing.  Everyone knows, just like any entertainer, you're only as good as your last movie, album, or series.

It's no different with books.

Coincidentally, I have a book being released this November, although I had hoped it would be sooner.  Like last November. 

I was in a small town on a Sunday afternoon, at an even smaller, but quaint bookstore.  The sun was shining brightly, like the great big hug that was needed after a nasty and damp winter.  The proprieter's name was Thomas, and he was a retired teacher.  It was obviously he held great affection for the clientele, and they for him.  He was short and wore wire rimmed glasses, precisely the way you would want a bookstore owner to look.   They came in one by one, old men and women, high schoolers and moms out for the afternoon.  They went by names like Vern and Mona, Rupert and Sally.  The teens stood quiet and sullen, anxious to head to the mall while waiting for their moms to pick up the book that had been reserved just for them.

The entrance way boasted a counter with a cash register, with candy and gum and small pamplets stacked on the opposite side.  The walls were stacked from floor to ceiling with books; old ones, new ones.  The air was filled with the smell of paper and typset, old cigar smoke and the promise of a bestseller, hidden somewhere amongst all the secrets from someone's heart. Unopened boxes from anxious new writers like me lay silently at the far end of the room.  Bright sunlight streamed in through the big windows at the front of the store.

Walking towards the back of the store, you had to watch your head as you walked passed yet more books jutting out of walls, creating an almost cavelike atmosphere.  The room opened up to a great room of sorts, with assorted overstuffed couches and chairs, small coffee tables and end tables holding dimly lit lamps.  It was a reading room, the real intent of the establishment, a dream come true for its owner.  There were no windows and no room for anything on the walls. Books filled every conceivable corner of the room. 

A corner table held coffee and tea pots, with packets of raw sugar and creamer.   It appeared everyone had their own coffee mugs, which had been rinsed out and were upside down in the drainer next to the small sink.  Old musty chairs were staggered throughout the room, creating privacy if one wanted to escape in reading  "Moby Dick" or "A Tale of Two Cities" as well as a sitting area to discuss the latest Oprah Book Pick.   A tan cat sat cleaning herself on one chair in the far right of the room, while a sleeping black and white puss strewn out on a couch opposite her paid no mind to her routine.

For as many times as I have done these signings, each venue is different in how they like to showcase the visiting author.  I have stood at a podium while I read an excerpt from one of my books.  Other times, the freedom to roam the room was granted, as I jutted between white folding chairs and talked to the audience with the aid of a microphone and ad libbing my little heart out.  There's even been the opportunity to sit at a table and have people come to me, forming a line and chatting a little here and there.  In the beginning, it was all people I knew; friends, relatives and co workers.  As the years went by, I was able to travel and go to bookstores filled with strangers who were curious as to who was this middle aged woman and what did she have to say.

Today was a combination of all of these descriptions.   Apparently, there was a couch set up for me, with my books stacked neatly upon one corner.   I plopped down in front of the table, while the black and white cat opened one bleary eye. 

"I see you've met Mr Stories." Thomas smiled as he bent down to pick the cat up and cradle it in his arms.   

Vern walked in and stood at the doorway, his 350lb frame blocking out whatever sunlight tried to stream in from the other side.

"You the writer?" he asked in a deep baritone, his eyes crinkling as he smiled.  His shock of white hair was less so, having been buzz cut the day before as part of his Saturday ritual.

I smiled.  "I am."  There didn't seem to be the need to add anything else.

"Cool" he said, and then sat on the couch opposite to where I was stationed.  "I'll be right back."

Closing his eyes, he was asleep in minutes, snoring the sleep of the really tired or dead.

"Don't worry" whispered Thomas.  "He does that."

He was the only person who stayed to listen to me that day.  I wasn't upset.  In fact, I was surprisingly comforted, as I sat back on the comfy couch while I read one of my books to Thomas, Mr. Stories and Vern.


It was a good day.