Sold three (“Count ‘em! THREE!”) books.
First, a “Cheesesteak” went to a baseball-capped fellow (“You from Philadelphia?”), from West Chester State, out of Scranton, in town to visit a brother living in Petaluma. “I’ll read it on the plane back,” he said.
Then their Dad, who substitute school teaches, stopped by the table. One of his students self-published, so he was intrigued by my DIY approach. He went for the more age-appropriate “I Will Keep You Alive.”
A couple days later, a woman in her late 60s came over. She’d seen me before, and, it seemed, curiosity had got the better of her. She was a poet, lived in Benicia, an arty town to the north, and went for an IWKYA, less the cover price of her chap book she swapped me.
Then there was “Teddy,” who didn’t buy but was noteworthy. She had a half-inch-high brown Mohawk strip down the center of shaved head, adorned by various tattoos. I could not tell if her speech was garbled or nonsensical or French. When I complimented the flowing black garment, a purple Rorsharch Test-like design on the back, which she wore like a poncho, she told me she had found it. She was most interested in “The Schiz” but had no money.
“Maybe next time,” I said.
In other news…
1.) An editor has raised objection of my description of an Hispanic woman in a piece I submitted as objectionable “racial stereotyping.” This seems to be under negotiation.
2,) Another editor has explained he has maintained silence over for a year or two since itrs submission as having been occasioned by managerial upheaval and budgetary but assures me he loves the piece and hopes to run it.
3.) There has been less success with my “distribution” connection. Instead of responding to my inquiries with excuses, evasions, blame-shifting,pleas for understanding and patience, and – I hate to admit it – lies, he has withdrawn into a veritable Cone of Silence. The next step is on me.
Fuck.