Page 27 of The Nicest Thing
"Yaya, we've been over this," I said gently."They gave me the late timeslot.It's an hour away.You have to be here to take your medicine,andyou'd have to miss Bingo night."
"I do love Bingo," she mumbled."But you know I'd be there if they hadn't taken my license."
"I know."I sent her a smile."Plus, you already have signed copies of all my books."
"Yeah, well, you're my favorite author."
"Thanks,yaya."
She waved that off then said, "So, tell me more about life.How are things at Magnolia House?Are you and Emilia still getting along?Any wild nights?And what about Finn?I want to know everything."
And on it went.
I answered her as best I could—without revealing Finn and my agreement—while asking questions of my own.I learned a lot about her life at Silver Pines, found out that our loathing of Director Redmond was shared universally, including by the staff.No surprise there.The woman next door wanted to set up her granddaughter with Angelo, which Grandma agreed to without talking to Angelo first; she felt it was a good match,and he couldn't get mad because she "only had so much time left."I rolled my eyes at that one.She also said that despite the director's despicable ways, she loved Silver Pines.When I asked why, she said it was because all her friends were there.
By the time I left, the sun was setting; we'd drank all the tea, and Grandma Rose's smile was the last thing I saw before driving away.
She wanted to stay, so I would make that happen.
I just had to earn more money.
Find more readers.
Sell more books.
Shouldn't be too hard, right?
#
This must be what it feels like to throw a party, and no one shows up.
I laughed quietly to myself.
It was either that or cry, and I always tried to choose humor over feeling sorry for myself.
Hidden in a little corner, seated near the back of the store between the nonfiction and self-help sections, I hadn't seen a soul for the past 15 minutes.When I did spot someone, they looked right through me.Actually, that wasn't true.There had been the barista who brought me a complimentary bottle of water, and the one lady who gave me a pitying glance before walking by, as if to say, "Sorry kid, you picked the wrong profession."
Maybe it was true.
My hangups did not a good marketer make.
And I had…several.
I shook my head.No, I was meant to be a writer.It was the only thing I'd ever wanted to do. The only thing I was good at.I mean, sure, my book sales were currently on life support, and Iwas still relatively unknown.But I had a decent following.The problem was my readers were spread all over the world.That, and again, I had no idea how to market my stories.Any success I'd seen was admittedly down to luck.My first book sold like crazy.The next one too.And the next.I had a few others that did well, some that didn't, but I couldn't depend on fate now.I needed to try something new.
Hence the book signing.
It was my attempt at putting myself out there.
And I did send a newsletter.
But you didn't tell your family or friends, my mind whispered.
There was a reason for that.
It was a stupid one.
But at the time, it seemed sound.
