A Real Live Author
A little follow-up to yesterday’s piece.
Today I delivered some books to my local bookshop (yep, the one with the purchase order!) I always deliver by hand as, apart from anything else, it’s a good way of keeping up relationships.
The first time, I felt intensely nervous in a touting-for-business kind of way. As though I had somehow done something wrong and was about to be found out. (Why can’t I develop the quality that authors are supposed to need these days? That of being my own cheerleader, my own first believer, ready to shout the triumphs of my books from the rooftops.) The owner of the shop can seem a little forbidding in a way that reminds me of my mother, but I made an effort to chat and bought a Kate Atkinson book.
On the second occasion, even though the owner was expecting me, there was no sign of recognition until I introduced myself and I still somehow felt that I was encroaching on her time. The third time, after she had called, asking me to drop in three of each book, she didn’t recognise me at first but seemed marginally pleased to see me.
This morning, having requested more copies, she not only recognised me but met me with a big smile. ‘They love your books,’ she said, at which I melted in a puddle of gratitude on the floor. I had parked on double yellows so couldn’t stop for long but I asked how she was and we had a brief chat. I was aware of a customer watching us with some interest and ear-wigging before I left at a run. It felt real. Like I was a proper author. Someone whose books people love.
My dream come true. Yes, I should care about sales figures—and I do. But I care far more that my books are bringing people pleasure. That I write books they love.
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