Went to a writer’s forum the other day…it was closed. We were supposed to have the opportunity to sell books, but the only people there were hungry authors and I learned a long time ago that you can’t sell books to hungry authors.
Forty-four authors and no public attendance – I don’t get it. To make matters worse, the keynote speaker was a writer for a large city newspaper. We all sat there and listened to his success story with envy. Everyone (except one) ate it up.
After he was through patting himself on the back and giving very bad advice to new authors about finding agents and publishers on Google, the herd all wandered back and forth to each other’s book displays with eyes like deer caught in the headlights of a car.
One portly woman looked at my display of murder mysteries and frowned with disapproval while shaking her head back and forth. She reminded me of the bobble head toys people put on the dash of their cars. It was about this time that I pulled up my pants and went home.
I would like to quote one middle-aged author wanna be as I made a beeline for the door. “Running out on us?” I turned, looked her straight in the peepers and said, “If by us you mean the herd of sheep in this room…yes I am.” With that parting shot over the bow, I left the room feeling like I had just escaped false imprisonment in a commie prison.
I did have witnesses to this event. My wife and daughter were with me and it was my wife that suggested we leave the barren wasteland post-haste. My daughter’s eyes were pleading a likewise sentiment. I had no problem accommodating their request.
The moral of this story is simple. Do not go to author events that do not include the public who buy the fruit of our labor. While it is true I write because it is my passion, I expect to be paid for the effort. If that makes me a capitalist pig, then so be it. Oink, oink, oink….
I’m just saying,