I doubt this is an issue that will resonate with, well, most of humanity but: I feel the definition of "author" needs some adjustment, specifically its usage as a verb.
Of course, the present definition means to write or otherwise create something – a book, or an article, a report, a computer system, and so on.
What that leaves out, however, is the stuff an author does after the book is an actual object occupying physical space, or text appearing on somebody's e-reader. I'm talking about promotion and marketing, e.g., book reading and signing events (some self-organized), media interviews, and maintaining a robust social media presence, such as -- Lord help us -- keeping a blog.
These may be tasks and activities that do not come easily to some, and might even be nerve-wracking. I can't claim to be proficient in all these things, but for the most part I enjoy them.
Recently, I took part in a Local Author Festival at the Burlington (Mass.) Public Library, to whom, not-so-incidentally, I extend sincere gratitude for organizing and hosting, and for allowing me to participate. So, on the appointed day, I packed up a dozen copies of Transformation Summer, put on my best/only blazer, and headed north.
To be honest, I hadn't given much thought as to what exactly the festival entailed. There wasn't space or time set aside for readings or remarks; the featured event was a talk by Ted Reinstein, a reporter and writer for the Boston-area TV station WCVB program "Chronicle." Each of us local authors (about 30 in all) had a table on which to display our books, and where we could greet visitors. Leading up to the day, I had the sense of us being like puppies in a pet store, bursting with anticipation and excitement at the sight of a potential customer coming through the door.
What we were actually doing, of course, was presenting a product, as surely as if it was a food item, a clothing accessory or a high-tech gadget. So I had to graft a salesperson persona onto my author identity, and deal with the classic challenge: How do you capture someone's interest, enough to unleash your powers of persuasion? And, when there are more than two-dozen other people in the immediate vicinity hawking a similar product, how do you get someone to buy yours?
You have to accept that some things aren't in your control. If the prospective customer is bound and determined just to browse with a quick, almost furtive glance, there may be little you can do. You hope your product -- sorry, your book -- is sufficiently eye-catching, that the cover design and the title will at least give them pause. You try to look inviting. I elected to stand, rather than sit, to indicate I was willing and ready to engage. And I kept a warm but restrained smile on my face.
Some people were indeed determined not to be ensnared. They scarcely slowed down or made eye contact. Others gave a non-committal "Hello" and/or head-nod, lingered for just a second to glance at the books, then moved on.
But there were people who were clearly open and receptive to buying a copy. They stopped. They looked at the display, as well as the compilation of testimonials I'd taped to the table. Some picked up a copy and looked at the back cover, where there was a three-paragraph description -- one that I'd slaved and agonized over for days during production -- of the story. And then, inevitably, they'd ask: "So what's it about?"
Wisely, I did not go with the response I'd given to some friends and acquaintances: "It's about 250 pages." Instead, I explained that Transformation Summer is a fictional coming-of-age memoir, a man reminiscing about the summer he turned 16 and everything seemed to be going wrong, and how his mom drags him along to a personal-growth camp, which he is sure will be a disaster but it's not at all what he expects, and years later he's still trying to process what went on during those two weeks.
This summary seemed to spark at least some degree of interest, and so I'd mention that there were underlying themes about how we experience memories from youth, whether sometimes a memory becomes more important than the actual events it's related to, and if that memory perhaps keeps us from moving forward.
At the same time, I didn't want to make the book sound like an overly intellectual tome, 'cause it ain't, so I added: "If you were ever a teenager pissed off at your parents -- or if you've ever had a teenager pissed off at you -- you'll definitely relate to this book." That usually generated a smile and a knowing nod.
It was fun, dammit. I guess it might've been less so if I was depending on this to put food on my table, gas in my car, beer in my fridge, and fresh strings on my musical instruments. Even as I was giving the spiel, I had to gauge what impact it had on the prospective customer: Was I being too cerebral? Maybe a little new-agey? Part of me wanted to throw off all pretense and say, "Look, you don't have to get all caught up in the universal-themes bit; you can just read it for the story. It's fun, humorous, maybe kind of wistful, a little sad perhaps. Complete strangers have told me they've enjoyed reading it. And it's just 15 bucks."
In the end, I sold one copy, to a woman who said it sounded like something her teenage son would enjoy. A few other people asked about buying it online, and so I directed them to my website, where they could easily place an order.
But there was more to the event than making sales. I got a chance to meet several other authors who run the gamut in terms of the place writing has in their lives: an occupation for some, a pastime for others -- and for still others, something that just showed up one day and has remained.
Just before the festival had formally opened, the aforementioned Ted Reinstein walked around and greeted some of the participating authors. He stopped by my table, picked up a copy and remarked: "That is a really nice cover!" I explained how pleased I'd been with Atmosphere Press and the way they had worked with me to get the book published, especially in regards to the cover design.
Ted held the book in his hands and said, "You know, this is just the perfect size for a book. That's not something you necessarily think about a lot, is it? But really, it just fits so well."
No, Ted didn't buy a copy, but that was OK. I felt I had received a kind of endorsement, if you will, at least for form if not content. Who knows: Maybe I'll use that as part of my pitch the next time I'm at an author festival hawking my wares: "A story you'll love, a book that's the perfect size."
All in the day's work of an author.
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