The Five People You Meet at Every Book Signing

I had another book signing yesterday.  Traffic was pretty light.  I blame the economy, the sunny day, Barack Obama, Bristol Palin, global warming, and Red Dye #5. 

In all seriousness, I get tired of hearing writers bemoan light-traffic book signings.  Writing a book, and then having that book published, is very difficult nowadays.  So if you find yourself sitting behind that little table, pen in hand, next to a stack of books with your own picture inside the jacket flap, you’ve pretty much won the lottery.   

That’s how I see it.  Whining and complaining that not enough people have doled out a twenty plus a five (and gotten very little change back, I might add) for your personal opus is like admitting you just won the lottery, but when they threw the ticker-tape parade to congratulate you, not enough people waved as you rode by.  In other words, no sympathy.  Not even for myself, when traffic was as slight as it was yesterday.  Nonetheless, five very special people did stop by my signing table.  Without fail, they always do.  In case you don’t hang around long enough to meet them, let me introduce you to:

The Five People You Meet at Every Book Signing:

The Circler:  You don’t actually meet the circler at your signing, because he won’t come all the way up to the table.  He gets close, though, lurking all around the periphery, examining a copy of your book with one eye while he pretend-reads something from the $5.99 stack with the other.  Eventually, he reaches out with one hand to pick up a copy of Trespassers, drawing it back to him so fast that passers-by might think your immediate vicinity is wired with invicible fencing.  He might even buy it, but he definitely doesn’t want to talk to you about the purchase. 

Is he too shy to meet you?  To scared to ask for an autograph?  In truth, I suspect it’s neither.  You see, I’ve seen the tentative/embarassed look on The Circler’s face before.  I’ve worn it, in fact, many times — every Sunday afternoon when I do my grocery run. 

I’m not the least bit tentative going into Kroger’s for groceries.  I know what I want.  I know what my budget is.  I could do the layout backwards.  I don’t do my hair or makeup before I go.  I wear my husband’s old sweats.  I park at the rear of the lot because it’s faster, and I run to the door.  Nothing, I tell you, NOTHING is more important on Sunday afternoon than getting into and out of Kroger’s in record time.  NASCAR pit crews would fear me if they saw me do this.     

But then…once in awhile I have an unexpected detour.  I don’t know his name, but he’s a little old man in a flannel shirt, stationed behind a card table at the grocery entrance.  Just as I’m gunning into produce, his sweet, arthitic little voice begs, “Miss, would you like to subscribe to the Times-Dispatch, today?”  I swear to goodness, if the local paper stationed a naked Heidi Klum at that table, half-hidden by a stack of to-be-filled subscription cards, they could not have a higher success rate than they do with Lil Old Man.  I am guilted into stopping every time. 

So, while I still find The Circler to be a strange, evasive beast, I think I understand his motives.  Just because a person arrives to buy a book does not mean that he wants to be sold that book.  Writers are storytellers, storytellers are salesmen, and sales take time and energy for everyone involved.  Whatever people say about big bookstores, they are one of the last sanctuaries where you can walk in and not be immediately accosted by armies of large, white teeth; assaulted by thousands of perfume bottles; and tripped head over heels by offers to “help” you.  I don’t want to be the one who changes that.  So carry on, Circler.  You don’t bother me; I won’t bother you. 

The Lingerer.  There are Three Distinct strains of Lingerers; some more virulent than others.  But they are all alike in their nature, which is polar-opposite that of the Circler.  The Circler avoids conact with the writer; the Lingerers seek it.  And then THEY DO NOT LEAVE.  Don’t get me wrong — the Lingerer’s attention is, pre-crossing-that-creepy-line, flattering.  And whatever they say, memoirists love attention (Yes, I know I am incurring the wrath of certain peers of mine, who write final chapters insisting they want nothing more now than a solitary, simple life…you wrote a book all about yourself and gave it to the world in a glossy cover, honey.  The gig is up.) 

But at book signings, writers are given a teeny amount of time and space (usually a table about two or three feet square).  When a fan becomes a Lingerer, blocking both the table and the sign announcning what’s going on, for fifteen to thirty minutes (or even more) at a time, they prevent other customers from approaching the author, or even seeing that there’s a signing happening.  This happened to me twice yesterday, and I returned to an inbox full of emails to the tune of “My friend and I wanted to talk to you about the book, but you were preoccupied with someone and we were in a hurry, so…”  Sigh.  I understand.  I wish I could have spoken to them, too, instead of peering at them over the shoulder of the Lingerer, screaming with my eyes “Waaaaaaaaaaaiiitt!  Come baaaaack!” as their attention drifted to the Dr. Phil display.  But on to the subcategories:

• The Gusher:  The gusher is a well-intentioned, genuine fan.  They loved your book.  They want the world to love your book.  They have pictures to show you, of all their children and grandchildren who are sure to love your book.  

Of course, I LOVE the Gusher.  Who wouldn’t?  The gusher is enough to validate your self-esteem through a whole week of no-sales.  They are the most harmless of the Lingerers, and I am always more than happy to give them my email address so we can correspond further on a personal level, and they can cease and desist with the immediate lingering activity.

• The Barfly:  No one can really figure out what this Lingerer is doing in a bookstore.  They aren’t concerned with any of the the books.  But when you’re doing a signing, they are concerned with you.  They want to know if you are tired, if you are bored.  They tell you that you look tired, that you look bored.  They tell that you look lonely “sitting there all by yourself.”  They come back every ten minutes or so to ask if you are “having fun yet.”  Never once do they ask about your book, nor do they pick it up.  

The Barfly does not appear to understand that, as explained above, a bookstore is one of those last sanctuaries where it is acceptable (if not encouraged) for people to stand or sit alone, absorbed in their own universes, with no pressure to make forced smalltalk.  I blame his persistence on whomever wrote that article in some popular publication about how bookstores are the new singles bars (I have no proof that such an article exists, but I’m sure it does.  I’d like to track down the flittering pop culture reporter who wrote it, and invite the Barfly to follow her around for a few weeks.  The Barfly can linger around her on the subway while she’s trying to read the paper, in the seat next to her on the plane, or in the waiting room of the doctor’s office).      

• The Lecturer:  The Lecturer cares neither about the book nor the author.  They do care about telling the author how much they know about other books, other authors, and the craft of writing, in general.   They haven’t read your book, but they do have some general writing and research suggestions for you.  So you’re a Richmond native?  Spectacular.  They can, and will, tell you every article of trivia they know about the founding of the Confederate states.  Don’t say “Yes, I’ve heard that,” or they’ll be forced to trump your knowledge with two more facts, thus doubly prolonging the lingering.  Don’t bother deterring them by bringing up the most obscure book or awkward topic you cant think of.  They’ve heard of it, they’ve studied it, and if they haven’t they will provide their standard eye-rolling response on why it is a pointless, idiotic thing to read or to study.  The Lecturer is the most persistent of the Lingerers.  You begin to suspect that they are, at heart, offended that someone is here in a bookstore signing books, when they, themselves, are not (whether they’ve written anything or not), and they need to challenge the notion of your existence.  Or, bore you so silly that you give up and pass out, and they can take over your table.             

And finally…

The Critic.  The critic has not read the book.  The critic is not really interested in the book, but picks it up for the sake of finding something to criticize.  Yesterday, the critic had a scraggly gray ponytail and wouldn’t make eye contact.  He picked up a copy of Trespassers and quickly tossed it in my direction, adding, with a very condescending gaze: ”It looks like a Mommy Book to me.  No offense.” 

“Well, interestingly enough, most of the great press I’ve gotten has come from male readers.” [TRUE!]

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.  Still, looks like a Mommy Book.  If you know what I mean.”

And I wanted to say: “Actually, no, what you’ve said is entirely new to me.  I wasn’t aware of this new genre of “Mommy Book.”  Being a new mother myself, I hear you implying that, in addition to giving up all their spare time and a huge chunk of their identities, new mothers have also lost the ability to read.  Or at least to read anything above your condescention.  Thank you for enlightening me, sir.  I did not know that.  Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in the section to the left.  That’s where they keep the “Aging Hippie Trying To Hide His Gut With a Tied Sweater” Books.    

And there you have it.  Most people don’t fall into any of the categories encompassing the special FIve, but I can always count on those visitors. 

Oh, and the guy who bolts up to the table, ignoring the signs, nearly knocking down my neat little display stacks, just to say, “Hey you, where do they keep the J.K. Rowling stuff?”  He usually makes an appearance, too.   

 

 

 

                    

 

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