Writers often do book events in libraries, book stores, at book clubs, and before community groups. Lots of authors do these reluctantly because they don’t like to be “salesmen” with their books. But here’s why I love book events.
Last weekend, I participated in an art festival and sold my books. I shared a table with other interesting artists. As people walked by, they stopped to look at my books and the sculptures next to me. Some people bought books and others moved on. Either way, book events are a fascinating experience.
I like how friendly people are, how interested they are in art, and how much they love to read and want to support local authors.
There was the lone man who camp up and said he’d read my books, loved them, and was also a scuba diver. Did I have any stories about scuba diving? After his passionate tales about scuba diving, he introduced himself: Captain Scuba—of course.
A woman with bright red hair came by and talked. What a fascinating lady with an unusual history. I could’ve talked to her for hours. She promised to come back to buy my books but wanted to look at other art. Too bad. Would she ever return?
Another lady stopped by and learned my books were stories about possible terrorist activities. She started to tell me about chem trails—those trails in the sky left by jets. Someone, she told me, is tampering with the climate and one of the most serious problems in the world is the chemical trails. Watch out, she warned. I love book events!
An elderly lady hobbled forward on an aluminum cane. She parted the white hair that covered her face and told me she used to read a book a day. But now, at her age, she can’t because she falls asleep before she can finish. “Will your stories keep me awake? she asked.
“I think so; they’re suspense stories,” I said.
“Okay, I’ll try them.” She bought two
Late in the day, I’d become discouraged as people walked by. One after another, when I asked it the liked to read—anything—they all said no.
This made me sad. I wondered what was happening to Western civilization if no one was reading anymore. The sun dropped below the tree line, the other artists started closing-up their stalls, and the crowd thinned. I began to pack-up my books.
At the last minute, the red headed lady ran up to me. “Don’t leave,” she called out. Balancing several packages in her arms, she pulled-out her purse, plucked some cash out, and bought a copy of each one of my books. “I’m a voracious reader,” she assured me. Ah—civilization was saved. She made my day. And that’s why I love book events.
