What Are Friends For?

The other day, Sally, a friend I hadn't seen in quite some time, she lives in another town, called to say she'd bought my book and asked if she could come by to have me autograph it. Of course I was delighted and invited her to lunch. She said she'd arrive about twelve-thirty. So I made a shrimp salad, which I knew she liked, set the table, heated the rolls, cut the cheesecake--and waited. And waited! Twelve-thirty came and went. One, one-thirty slipped by, and still no Sally. Could I have gotten the time wrong? Had she had an accident?

Really worried I went to the door and looked outside, and that's when I saw it: a note tucked under the mat. I hastily picked it up and read it, recognizing Sally's handwriting. She said she'd rung the doorbell three times, but there was no answer so she assumed I'd been called away. She said she was awfully sorry to have missed me, and I was disappointed, too, to put it mildly. And bewildered. I immediately tried the doorbell myself and it rang just fine for me. But wait--it was one of those rectangular shaped bells with a little light in the center and an upper and lower section you could push to make it ring. Push the bottom part and it rang loud and clear, but push the top part, as Sally obviously did, and nothing happened. She said she'd also knocked on the door, but I was in my study at the back of the house (and I don't think she knocked very hard) so I didn't hear her. Fortunately she wrote her cell phone number and I called that immediately and was lucky to find her shopping not too far away. So she came back and we had a lovely afternoon.

But I was worried, knowing something had to be done about that darn doorbell. It was obviously defective and should be replaced, and I wondered if I could unscrew it and put in a new one. I live alone now that my husband's gone, and I've never been what you'd call mechanically inclined, so this was a real challenge. Then the next day, as I was still stewing about it, the doorbell rang. I ran to answer it and there stood the husband of another good friend. An engineer, he had taken out the old doorbell and replaced it with a new one he'd bought at the hardware store, and when I asked him how he knew I needed a new one he said when he and his wife had arrived a few nights before to take me to a concert with them, he'd noticed the doorbell didn't work right. So he simply got a new one and put it in. "No big deal," he said, when I tried to thank him. "After all, what are friends for?"

To Get the Ball Rolling

As everyone knows, for fiction writers, the best way to get the ball rolling (or so I've been told) is to start with a book signing. So you contact your local bookstore and ask them, nicely, if they're interested and usually they are, so you set up a date that's convenient for both of you. Then they order the books and a few weeks later they tell you everything is ready for the show. "Great!" you say, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. But are you ready? That's the big question. Although I've written six adult novels and numerous short stories and books for children, and have participated in all kinds of book signings at book stores, large and small, through the years, for a normally shy person like me just the thought of going through another one causes the butterflies to start jumping in my stomach.

The first big decision, of course, is always, what should I wear? Do I dress up or go casual? I usually try on five or six outfits, then go back to the one I picked out originally, a somewhat dressy top and tailored pants. Then pushing myself out the door it's off to the races. Fortunately my local bookseller knows I'm nervous and is up to the challenge. They always provide a nice place for me to sit with cozy chairs clustered around it for anyone who wants to visit, and coffee, soft drinks and snacks available for the hungry. Not all bookstores do this, of course. It's been my experience that the big chains, while friendly, don't knock themselves out for a writer unless you're a big-time, preferably a New York Times best-selling author. But most local booksellers do their best to take care of their own.

So you're there and now it's up to you to keep smiling, even when someone picks up your baby, reads the flaps (they certainly look interested)-- but alas, they sigh, put down the book and walk away. You take it in stride, telling yourself it's all part of the game, but being normal you can't help feeling a bit dejected. However, the next person in line, a pretty, white-haired lady, buys three books, yes, three, all at once. "For my granddaughters," she says, with a twinkle. "They love romantic-suspense novels and think you're one of the best." Of course you glow!

And it's moments like that that help you through the bore who informs you, in a loud, strident voice, that the publishing business is going to the dogs and he never buys books--although naturally he helps himself to the snacks; they're there, after all. Or how about the chatty little woman who talks your ear off and instead of the standard "Best wishes" dedication, wants you to write something long and flowery that she's composed herself on the dedication page.

So it goes and before you know it four hours have elapsed and your first book signing for the new book is over. But did you get the ball rolling? Well, you sold quite a few books and suddenly realize that you've enjoyed yourself and had quite a bit of fun--which is good, because in the next few weeks, or months, you'll do it over and over again.