Friday, July 16, 2010
I had in hand (or in two born-of-plastic-bottles bags) a small collection of my books, a couple of bookmarks. The point of the festival was to meet and greet and sell. I stink at selling. First-class bad. They kicked me out of Girl Scouts for my poor cookie-selling record (I think, or maybe I just quit). I want to talk to people, converse. That isn't selling. I am very, very bad at selling.
But yesterday, that was at least part of the point, and as I stood among my fellow authors, I listened in on stories by people who know how to sell. I heard about methods. Planes flying book banners across the shore. Book advertisements slipped into menus. House-by-house book club tours. Here I am, thinking I'm fancy when I get a bookmark printed (would any of you like one?). But my fancy is not 21st-century book marketing fancy. At. All.
There are many times in my life when I've looked around and been crowded down by the thought: I am not prepared. Yesterday was one of those days. A better person would have stuck it out.
I am not a better person.