All We Ever Wanted Was A Blog

One of the most curious tasks assigned to a touring author is “stock signing.” This involves visiting every bookstore in a city and signing every copy of your book that they have in the store. The benefits are threefold: a) your book generally gets marked with an “autographed copy” sticker, which helps sell books; b) your newly-signed book often gets moved to a more prominent position on a front table, which helps sell books; and c) you get to meet the booksellers in person, who will then hopefully feel more of a personal connection to you and your novel, and, yes, sell books.

The other upside of doing this is that you get to visit bookstores where you’re not doing events. As such, I’ve managed to visit some of the most wonderful independent bookstores that I wouldn’t have otherwise discovered — like Elliot Bay Books in Seattle, an incredible brick edifice to books which just reeks of history; or Depot Bookstore in Mill Valley, with its wonderful cafe. Most bookstore salesclerks are happy to meet the author, want to chat about your book, clearly care about writing — including some great staff that I’ve met at assorted Borders and Barnes & Noble. But every once in a while you have an encounter like this:

Me: “Hi, my name is Janelle Brown, and I’m wondering if I could sign stock on my book?”
Clerk, chatting on phone with friend: “You wanna do what?”
Me: “Um, autograph my book?”

Clerk, clearly annoyed to be interrupted, huffs off to locate book. Returns, ten minutes later, smelling like cigarette smoke.

Clerk: “Can’t find it.”
Me, meekly: “Actually, it’s right there on your front table.”

Clerk retrieves books with aggrieved sigh. I sign books, hand them back to bookseller, who is now reading the latest US Weekly.

Me: “Do you want help stickering them?”
Clerk: “We have stickers?”
Me: “Just don’t put it over the title, please.”

Clerk begins haphazardly slapping enormous stickers on the front of the book, covering my name.

Me, still hopeful: “Thanks for taking care of my book.”

Needless to say, this is generally not something that happens at a little independent, but at a major chain store. And it makes me appreciate, more than ever, those bookstores where you feel like the booksellers aren’t just selling widgets to make money, but consider themselves stewards of literature. Places where booksellers lovingly post recommendations under their favorite books and are eager to hand-sell you an author you’ve never heard of. It’s horrifying to me that they are such an endangered species — the entire city of Los Angeles boasts fewer than half a dozen these days.