You get there and you are incognito. Wander Wander Wander. Who else is there you know. Absolutely no one. Signing in one hour. Make the most of your one hour. So many books and so many authors. How the hell can anyone sell anything? The thriller authors seem very organized. They have their palm cards and their publicist there. They wear a suit. They look like their books...clean, cheap, businesslike, rich. But of course they are not rich or they would not be at printers row hawking their books. It is the OK corral of the networking author and it is daunting.
A hotdog. A coke. You do bash into somebody you know and they offer you a beer in the poets tent. Salvation. Then you see someone you asked to blurb your book. He says he will do it from his table. Better. And now your hour is ticking down and you are hanging around your tent. This is where you will sit like a prisoner behind your books. This is where the authors who precede you are sitting with the look of a bored toll booth attendant. Almost done.
And then they are packing up and it is now or never. You walk around the table and are accosted by authors who think you are a book buyer never suspecting you are one of their own. You circle the tent and pop out the other side and now the table is clear and it is your turn. You pull the books out of your backpack and slink down. A woman to your right introduces herself. She is a radio personality and is immediately mobbed. You turn to the guy to your right who has his people talking to him. You are the only one who has no fans.
You look at your watch. Sigh. One hour and fifty five minutes to go. You sell a couple books and chat with the radio personality woman. She is on the backside of her career in radio and looking for publishing as salvation. The dude on the other side has a book about Camps. You talk between then and pass the time and exchange cards and pitch each other on future projects and then it is time to go. You have sold maybe half the books you bought. You are pitched out and networked out. But you did it.
You participated in the Printers Row Author Show and there is satisfaction in that. Humility is a badge after all.
www.williamhazelgrove.com
A hotdog. A coke. You do bash into somebody you know and they offer you a beer in the poets tent. Salvation. Then you see someone you asked to blurb your book. He says he will do it from his table. Better. And now your hour is ticking down and you are hanging around your tent. This is where you will sit like a prisoner behind your books. This is where the authors who precede you are sitting with the look of a bored toll booth attendant. Almost done.
And then they are packing up and it is now or never. You walk around the table and are accosted by authors who think you are a book buyer never suspecting you are one of their own. You circle the tent and pop out the other side and now the table is clear and it is your turn. You pull the books out of your backpack and slink down. A woman to your right introduces herself. She is a radio personality and is immediately mobbed. You turn to the guy to your right who has his people talking to him. You are the only one who has no fans.
You look at your watch. Sigh. One hour and fifty five minutes to go. You sell a couple books and chat with the radio personality woman. She is on the backside of her career in radio and looking for publishing as salvation. The dude on the other side has a book about Camps. You talk between then and pass the time and exchange cards and pitch each other on future projects and then it is time to go. You have sold maybe half the books you bought. You are pitched out and networked out. But you did it.
You participated in the Printers Row Author Show and there is satisfaction in that. Humility is a badge after all.
www.williamhazelgrove.com
