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Awkward, humiliating and a pile of unsold copies: one author live blogs his first book signing

Live, from my first book signing: awkwardness, humiliation and 96 unsold copies, The Riff Raff

Words by Marlin Bressi

Live from my first book signing: I'm here at a lovely little bookstore in York, Pennsylvania, on a cold December afternoon, two feet from the front door, at a rickety folding table. Sitting across the aisle are two other invited authors, one a writer of children's books, the other a writer of Civil War history. The children's book author seems like the type of person who always won the blue ribbon in school science fairs; his table is draped in decorative skirting, with a colorful banner announcing who he is and what he's doing here. All that's missing is the fizzy volcano. The historian is dressed like a Union soldier, his table a miniature museum of military memorabilia, right down to the ancient rifle placed next to his stack of books, its muzzle unintentionally pointed at the head of the cartoon koala gracing the cover of his neighbor's book. It's quite an interesting juxtaposition. Meanwhile, I'm sitting with my Sharpie, sans costume. The Sharpie is one of 20 I purchased for this occasion. Out of an abundance of precaution I also popped two aspirin in the parking lot, in case my hand starts to cramp up from signing autographs. Judging by the tumbleweed blowing down the reference book aisle, this is not likely to happen. I hope I didn't lose the receipt for those Sharpies.

Read: Writing Can Be Better Than Therapy On my table there's a card with my name printed on it. Potential customers read the name out loud and study me like a zoo animal. "Ah, so that's what a Marlin Bressi looks like," I expect to hear them say. One picks up a copy of my book, flips it over, thumbs the pages. She looks at me, then says that my publisher made a smart decision to omit my photo from the back cover. Ouch. The authors pass the time re-arranging their stacks of unsold books, as if a different configuration might appease the publishing gods and result in a sale. I've got three hours to kill, so I'm writing.

"A teenager asks where he can find a copy of 'The Awesomely Exciting Life of an Author: A Tale of Black-Tie Parties, Bibliophile Groupies and Shitloads of Moolah'. I direct him to the fiction section." More authors have arrived. There are six of us now. Whenever a customer enters the store, they spring into action like mall kiosk employees hellbent on selling seamless acrylic veneers that can be installed directly over an existing bathtub. It's not in my nature to be a salesman, and so I have yet to make a sale. Sure, selling a copy of my new book Hairy Men in Caves: True Stories of America's Most Colorful Hermits would be nice – it is a darn good book – but I'm not going to entrap some poor sap who came here for a copy of Harry Potter for his kid. The customers are mostly women. I'm the first person they see when they enter, and they ask me where they can find Nora Roberts. I direct them to the romance section. A teenager asks where he can find a copy of The Awesomely Exciting Life of an Author: A Tale of Black-Tie Parties, Bibliophile Groupies and Shitloads of Moolah. I direct him to the fiction section. Intermittently, I overhear the children's book writer name-dropping the identities of famous authors. His audience is obviously impressed. Seriously, if this schmuck drops the name of one more famous author, I'm stealing Stonewall Jackson's musket and clubbing him over the head. '...funny thing happened to me recently while I was golfing with James Patterson and Garrison Keillor...'