Anatomy of a Bad Book Signing

By Suzette Martinez Standring

It’s not good marketing to share a flop, but a bad book signing can be comical. This is in case you thought authorhood was all bright lights and glamour.

I don’t want to be self-serving by saying I’ve spoken to crowded rooms before (there I’ve done it anyway), but Tuesday at Borders was not one of them.

Shoot me now - there were only two people.

It was like a murder scene and my mind filled with crime-related thoughts, “How horrible! What happened? Somebody, help!”

In my brightest voice I said to them, “Hi, it’s nice to see you here.”

Startled expressions said it all. They were just using the chairs to read an oversized art book and a guide to Lebanon. I skulked away.

At show time they were gone. A storewide announcement was made, and three guys showed up. One man had 15 minutes before leaving to lead a volunteer group down the street. A teen took a front row, and a red-haired man sat in the back.

Where was my husband who swore he’d be here by now? A fourth body would have made a huge difference!

My opening chapter was read to nods and smiles. The audience (if such a word qualified) was mine. Then a young woman sat down next to Mr. Red Hair. More people! She whispered to him.

Wow, I thought, wouldn’t it be something if theirs turned into a “how-we-met-at-an-author’s-event” romance?

Suddenly, she left and Mr. Red Hair interrupted my talk. “My girlfriend’s done and I’ve got to go now, but you were great.”

Then Mr. Lead Volunteer chimed in, “I’ve got to go, too.”

The teenager remained seated. Obviously a budding writer, dedicated to improving his craft.

“So you came to hear about column writing?” I asked.

“No, my mom’s here shopping and I was curious.”

And I was curious about him. Paul from Revere was a ringer for actor Shia LeBeouf. He gave me the rundown on his essays about Vladimir Lenin and Michael Jordan.

“I’m going to be a judge someday,” he said.

“Your mom must be so proud,” I said.

“She teaches me to do what’s right. You never know how things can turn out,” he said.

I surveyed the empty chairs. How true.

Finally, David showed up and his late arrival was most galling.

“You said the bookstore was across from the Prudential. Wrong!” he said. (That was the galling part, my fault.) He had huffed and puffed from another bookstore where he had walked in on a different author’s event.

“Boy, that place was packed,” said David. My eyes narrowed. Diplomatically, Paul, my new Best Friend Forever took his leave.

Our own descent on the escalator was a fitting metaphor.

“I’m a failure,” I whispered in my husband’s ear.

“Nonsense! Take a look around, it’s dead in here!” he insisted.

On Boylston Street David pointed out the sunshine and the wonderful restaurant possibilities. Summer-clad folks teemed around us. I tried to come up with something positive, too.

“None of them know this is my walk of shame,” I said.

Over dinner, David tried to re-fluff my feathers.

“Even the best of authors sometimes have no-show events.”

“Really?” I said, eating the lion’s share of dumplings.

Out of the muck, flowers grow.

At burp’s end, I said, “Well, thanks. This was a terrific date night disguised as a bad book signing.”

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Wednesday, June 17, 2009