(why I hated the signing but loved the book)

I went to a book signing at a small local bookstore the other night on a whim after work. I was walking by on the way to my car to drive home and saw the sign for the event. The book reviews – in bold font on the book cover and the event poster – were gushing. The genre – indigenous storytelling – was intriguing. The thought of spending the evening with the author and other literary-minded people was beyond appealing.

It was happening in an hour. I made a quick impulse decision to go, grabbed a quick bite to eat at Cafe Creme next door, and popped back to Mockingbird Books in plenty of time to get a good seat.

The bookstore was crowded, every seat taken by people who all seemed to know each other. People who had not only read the book (the author’s first), but who followed other indigenous writers.

I had not read the book (remember, it was an impulse attendance) nor any others by indigenous authors. In other words, I was not set up for success.

But, how could it not be a great way to spend an otherwise long Thursday evening? There are so many life perspectives I don’t have even an inkling about but wanted to experience. And I drink up well-crafted words about the secret (and not so secret) lives of other people like cool fresh stream water on a hot summer day.

I sat near the back, a nod to the fact that I hadn’t read the book.

I didn’t want to be too conspicuous. I already felt a little like I was crashing a party to which I wasn’t invited and wasn’t prepared. Despite being dressed fine, maybe even a tad overdressed, I didn’t have the background: I was an outsider, a squatter.

One person asked the young author what was his purpose in writing the book. To which he replied, “I don’t know. I’ve always told stories. They just come to me. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m going to say or how the story or the characters are going to turn out.”

Another, a writing professor like the author, asked what advice he would offer young, fledgeling writers. His answer, “make sure you have a reason to write” seemed cogent enough, but not terribly original or even satisfying. Piecing together the two questions, the contradictory advice – “have a reason to write, though I don’t have a reason to write” – struck me as less than helpful.

Half an hour into an hour and a half long event, sitting on an uncomfortable seat with my after-work free time ticking away, I was underwhelmed.

And then he read a short piece from the book – a collection of stories. It was well-crafted and thought-provoking. I loved hearing the words in the author’s voice, with the associations, accents and feelings intact and whole. I wanted more.

I did stick it out to the end, partly because I wanted to hear more readings, partly because I wanted to buy the book, partly because I was hoping he would read another passage or two and save me from reading. I got it signed, too, because that seemed like the thing to do. I’m excited to read and digest it.

I’d love to have the chance to talk with the author after I read the book. Just not about his process; how long it took him to write it or how many words a day he wrote, how characters are and are not taken from people in his life.

My fantasy book signing would definitely be more storytelling and less storytelling-as-a-craft.

Maybe it’s because I already write for a living that I’m less interested in the process.

Maybe it’s because my process is pretty well-defined already, so I’m not looking for advice about writing.

Maybe talking about how they write isn’t the true value of conversations with good or great authors. Why did we waste time with chit chat about the process of writing?

Or maybe I’m just looking for another good book to read. Just not by myself.

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