Yesterday, in between marking and working on edits of book three, I thought I’d pop into a local bookstore and maybe see if they had any copies of my book, and perhaps see if they’d like a few signed bookplates. OK, so it was a work avoidance strategy.
So, I walk into the shop: check it out. There’s about twenty of my books on a table, cool. I take a deep breath, then about fifty more. Why do something when you can put it off?
Finally, before someone thinks that, maybe, I’m a shoplifter, I walk over to the counter with a copy of my book.
The assistant looks at me, then the book, and I mumble something about being the author, and would they like some bookplates.
The assistant nods their head, looks kind of impressed, or so I think – this isn’t going too badly.
Then they say, ‘We don’t sell many bookplates, but they’re over by the other counter.’
Yeah, this little author has a lot to learn about projecting his voice.
We sorted it, I stopped my mumbling, and my bookplates were handed over. Still, you’d think I could have been a little smoother.
I’ve worked in bookselling for fifteen years, but there’s still nothing scarier than going in cold to a bookstore, and asking if they’d like signed bookplates, even if they have a nice big pile of your books.
Well, there’s plenty of things scarier. But this was a good fear to face.
Selling the book doesn’t stop with the writing.