Coonridge Digest: Best Pay I ever got

Greetin’s from the Ridge.

It was the part of book writin’ that I hadn’t anticipated… and maybe the reason more people don’t write books.

I was just naïve enough to think that you wrote a book, chucked it off the publisher and that was it. Never did plan to make a dime, but just thought it’d be nice to see your life tucked neatly between two covers. Then I got the note sayin’, "We’ve scheduled your first book signing for next week."

Book signing? I thought I was done. "Mrs. Crump, it’s customary for the author to visit selected bookstores and other outlets to promote sales." Oh. Whatever greases the goose, I guess. Sounded like a good deal of fun and a chance to meet folks. I had no idea what a strain it would put on this feeble frame.

Let me say right off the top that I’m more than appreciative of anyone who’s ever bought one of my books and I’m in no way complainin’. The problems I encountered were purely of my doin’ and I’ll admit it. Trouble was, nobody told me the rules.

Rule Number One of Singing Your Books: As soon as you sit down they’ll wonder how you could ever have written an entire book and not be able to remember the name of a single person in the line. I’ve had this same terrifyin’ pattern repeated over and over. "Hi! I see you’ve got my book!"

"Yes, would you sign it?"

"Love to!" (And here the panic begins as I stare into the face of a person I’ve known for twenty years and for the life of me can’t remember her name.)

"Uh…" (..tryin’ bluff number one) " … just so I get it right, how would you like it inscribed?"

"Oh, just my name would be fine." (..Foiled!…time for last-ditch tactic number two)

"I want to make sure I get it right. Would you spell it for me?"

"Sure. S-U-E."

And instead of the great author givin’ humanity its finest thrill by her very presence, I come off as a feeble-minded dolt who must surely use a ghostwriter.

Rule Two: Avoid Public Readings

Banks, flower shops, antique stores… all lend themselves to some fairly pleasant afternoons of book-pushin’ but the place I dread the most is an actual bookstore. In the first place, you set up your card table at a bank and folks seem pleasantly surprised that you’d be there. You set up shop at a bookstore and they seem genuinely confused as to why you’re there. Go figure.

One of the worst afternoons of my life was at the local Barnes and Ignoble. They asked me to do a "reading" while I was there. For forty minutes I stood in the middle of the Christmas rush, readin’ to myself and a few others while the rest of the world inched by, wonderin’ for all the world why this old lady was talkin’ to herself. In the stall next to me was the fella who wrote the "Unauthorized biography of Dennis Rodman." Out of sheer boredom I picked up his book and read it aloud for a while. No one seemed to notice.

Rule Three: Just Because They Ask, That Don’t Mean You Gotta Go.

My publisher once scheduled me to sign books in a place that can be described in no other way than a "Head Shop." I spent a long and scary December afternoon in a place that did a bigger business out of the back room in illegal paraphernalia than they did from the front cash register. I figure that I must have been their "legal front," and that while I was sellin’ books in the doorway, the President’s anti-crime program was bein’ sorely tested in the rear.

Rule Four: And There Are Times That Make It All Worth It.

It was cold December afternoon when I heard a tiny knock at door. Standin’ there was a young lad with one of my books clutched in his fist and a butter pecan ice cream cone in the other.

"Mrs. Crump. This book is for my grandma. Would you sign it?"

It was just the most adorable sight you’d ever seen. "Sure, let me get a pen." As he took back the signed copy he asked, "Do I owe you somethin’ for signin’ it?"

I smiled. "Well, I usually take a lick of an ice cream cone." He thought a short moment then offered the drippin’ cone up to me.

"Oh that’s okay. I was just kiddin’. But I do like ice cream."

He smiled, thanked me and took off down the street. Five minutes later I heard another small tap at my door. The little fella had returned, this time with a huge butter pecan ice cream cone in his fist, carefully wrapped in wax paper. It was the best pay I ever got.

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.