Author's Fair - Glamor & Glitz vs Boring & Schitz

Magnums of champagne were chilling in the Author's Room, one next to each recliner. A table ladened with caviar, sour cream, caviar, brie cheese, chilled, peeled grapes, slices of melon, squab, smoked salmon, rainbow trout, and slightly sauteed morel mushrooms awaited the arrival of authors' limos which began arriving in time for brunch. White jacketed serving staff were ready to bring silver trays of fare to each creative genius before the unwashed masses were admitted to the signing area.

Each author received a welcome Gucci bag filled with trinkets of appreciation. It's not the gift but the thought that counts of course, however the Rolex was a nice touch.

We all sat in Corinthian leather chairs behind velvet ropes and signed as many books as time would allow. Trainers stood by and cut off each line when it reached 600. Sure, some folks left disappointed but the author's health must be first priority.

After the patrons were sent from the halls and order restored, we all stood around sipping warmed cognac, smoking cigars and downing eclairs flown in from Paris for the occasion as we chatted about how Charisse had found her voice.

Sigh. That's how it should be.

In reality, I was up with the proverbial early bird on a dark, rainy morning. I loaded several boxes of books and one bag of lithographs into the back of my station wagon. I double checked my ditty bag - bookmarks, signing pens, aspirin, tissues, a book to read though not the one I wanted, a ham sandwich for lunch, water, granola bar, rubber bands and a stack of small post it notes. A quick breakfast of a bagel and coffee and off to the show.

The direct route was under construction. Mapquest didn't know that apparently. Fortunately the coordinators did and sent a message via email. They suggested an alternate route: Turn right on Range Line Road. Nice catch. Except Range Line Road at 106th is called Westfield Blvd. Mapquest knew that, but then Mapquest didn't wish me good luck on my trip like the coordinators did.

I made it passed the roundabouts and flashing orange lights arriving at the library in plenty of time to scout the place and get set up.

The coordinators requested we arrive at 9:00 a.m. - the customers were scheduled to arrive beginning at 10:00. At 9:05 I was set up and ready. One of the coordinators pointed to two coffee pots across the way. Help yourself. I smiled and nodded. I saw old friends and some other folks plus several newbies. I received a smile and the dreaded "You don't remember me, do you?"

I didn't.

The young lady reminded me that when she was trying to break in as an illustrator, I had met with her at a Starbucks (where the hell did we meet before Starbucks?) and explained the process.

Did it help?

I have an eight book contract and another in the works.

As far as I was concerned, I could go home. It was her talent that secured the contract but my ego insisted I take proper credit for some part of that success. Way to go Jennifer.

At ten the doors were flung wide to the book buying public. Nothing happened. Where were the lines? Where was the demand for my books? Where were the pushing screaming fans? Where was the paparazzi?

Some time after my ham sandwich and water but before my granola bar, the coordinator asked if we had suggestions to get the folks from the hallway where other writers were sitting into the large room that the rest of us occupied. I asked: Are there any people in the hallway?
Some, she said. Not many.
I suggested she try to fill the hallway first and let nature take its course.
A couple of friends and former students came. They bought a few books. One bought a lithograph. There were a curious number of people - one adult, one child, who entered our room, stood close to the middle and spun like a dreidel - never coming close to actually looking at a book let alone touching one. The child took baby steps as mom or dad did the whirl and then the two exited.
Several people asked me how to do this and that. I answered to the best of my ability. It was that or read Deaver's book.
A couple of folks asked me to sign books for kids whose parents surely hated them. Could you sign one for my daughter, 01JJeo.
Pardon me?
01JJeo.
Funny, that sounds like ohonejayjayeeeeoh! That can't be right. Smile and nod.
I'm a bit hard of hearing, would you mind writing that on one of these post it notes please? You know, so I spell it correctly.
Sure as hell, it was 01JJeo.
Family name?
No, we made it up.
Uh huh. You should have gotten a dog instead.
We have a dog. Named him Rex.
Three o'clock. Quitting time. Meager sales. I plopped my bag on the table, the cloth straps falling across my books. An indignant woman appeared out of nowhere like a zit on a teenager's chin, threw the straps off my books and glared at the titles.
Here, she said, This one. I want to buy this one.
Overtime.
But you don't turn your back on a sale.
Its for my husband. His birthday is April 1st. He told me about your book, Michael Le Souffle and The April Fool and said I should buy it for him. Sign it Happy Birthday
I don't care why you buy lady. Honestly. If you're happy, I'm happy.
Everything needed to be packed up and dragged out to the car. Fortunately I had me to do all that because boxes of books are heavy.
There is always good and bad about a book fair, author fest or writer's conference. The best thing about the most current one is that I didn't have to drive that far.
That and the Rolex.