Sometimes the Magic Works
Forthcoming: March 4th, 2003 in Hardcover by Del Rey
Chapter Four
It's Not About You
The Sword of Shannara was on the market for six months in its hardcover and trade paperback formats before I attended my first public autographing. I had asked about the possibility of doing a signing from time to time, but Lester del Rey did not believe in book tours or public appearances for first time authors, no matter how successful the book. Authors who had written only a single book should stay home and concentrate on writing a second, he advised me more than once. I did not argue the point. I lacked a frame of reference from which to do so. I was impossibly naïve and inexperienced about the publishing business, so I relied on him to tell me what was best. When he told me I should stay home and write, I did so.
 Nevertheless, I was dispatched in early November to Northwestern University in Chicago, Illinois, a two-hour drive from my home in Sterling, to do a Saturday afternoon signing with science fiction author A.J. Budrys. I approached the event with a mix of trepidation and excitement. I was hungry for the experience, but fearful of coming off badly in front of an established and well-regarded fellow writer. After all, I had never done this and was not entirely certain how it worked. I would have to rely on A.J. to show me the ropes.
A.J. was there to greet me when I arrived, jovial and welcoming, aware of my uncertainty and anxious to do what he could to banish it. The book signing was being held in the university bookstore, and we sat side-by-side at a table near the back, facing out across a rather broad open space towards windows that opened onto the campus. We could see students walking around outside. They could see us sitting at the table inside. I reassured myself that I was prepared to meet and greet those who would stop in to buy my book.
Copies of The Sword of Shannara were piled in front of me, mostly in the trade paperback format, which constituted the larger printing. There were a few hardcovers, but not many. This was perfectly normal, A.J. advised, surmising my concern. This was a university, after all; no one had money for hardcovers other than textbooks. I nodded agreeably. A.J. was the professional. He had published both long and short fiction, and he knew the ropes. I couldn’t help noticing that his books made an impressive display on his side of the table. I felt a bit inadequate with my solitary offering, but reminded myself that I was new to this game while he had been a published writer for many years.
A long time passed and no one came. No one even came close. A.J. commented that the publicity for this event was a bit Spartan. A notice pinned to a bulletin board here and there and a mention in the weekly campus newspaper – that was pretty much the extent of it. Apparently the signing was thrown together in something of a hurry. I decided not to ask why.
More time passed, and still no one came. A.J. and I talked about science fiction and writing, which helped to ease my discomfort. Nevertheless, when at last someone did approach, they went straight to him and bought three of his paperbacks without a glance in my direction. I was envious in spite of myself. Then, another student appeared. This one said hello, but didn’t give my book a second glance. He bought one of A.J.’s hardcovers. When he left, I raised a suspicious eyebrow at A.J. A.J. just shrugged.
Finally, after what seemed an interminable amount of time, a young woman came over and stood in front of me, looking down at my book. The conversation that followed went something like this:
She: Did you write this book?
Me: Uh.
A.J.: This is Terry Brooks. This is his first publication, an epic fantasy. It’s a terrific story. If you haven’t heard about it yet, you will soon. It was on all the bestseller lists earlier this year. I read it and enjoyed it, and I think you will, too. Take a look at the cover.
She: Is it science fiction?
Me: Uh.
A.J.: No, it’s fantasy. You’ve read J.R.R. Tolkien, haven’t you? It’s like that, with Elves and Dwarves and magic, a quest and a coming of age, really terrific.
A.J. went on from there at great length, trying to sell her the book on my behalf. He extolled its virtues and lauded my inaugural writing effort. He told her all about the different formats, the artwork by The Brothers Hildebrandt, and the importance of getting in on the ground floor of what he was certain would be a classic. He did everything but offer her coupons. I was enormously grateful. Even after all of this, I was still having trouble getting two words out in support of myself.
Finally A.J. finished, having said everything he could to close the sale. I took a deep breath and crossed my fingers. I wanted this much worse than I had thought I would.
The young woman put the book back down and smiled at me.
Have you written anything else? she asked.
She left without buying the book. No one else even looked at it for the rest of the time I was there. A.J. and I exchanged addresses and phone numbers at the close, and I drove home in a decided funk, my imagination kicking into overdrive. My fifteen minutes of fame were up. My career was at an end. My writing life was over.
I thought like this because I had missed completely the point of the lesson I had just been taught.
There would be other signings like this one – more than a few - where only a handful of people showed up and few, if any, books were sold. This would happen even after I had a dozen bestsellers in print. It would happen with Star Wars: The Phantom Menace. After three signings in Salt Lake City where the crowds were so large I spent almost five exhausting hours at each venue, I would fly to California the next day for a midday signing at a Wal Mart where not a dozen people would show.
There is no help for it. It is an inescapable part of a writer’s public life. Sometimes, no matter who you are or how well planned the event, people stay home or go elsewhere. You learn to accept that every time you agree to make an appearance, things might not work out the way you would like. You do not take it personally because there is no point in doing so. No one involved wants a book signing to be a failure. Not even those people who choose to stay home or go elsewhere want to see you disheartened or angry. They are simply making a choice about how to spend their time and money. Sometimes you get the benefit of their largess; sometimes you don’t. You have to respect that the choice is theirs to make.
Here is what is important about book signings. It is a lesson I have learned over the years, one that helps me deal with virtually any adverse situation I encounter. The point of book signings is not to make you feel good about yourself. It is not to rack up huge sales of your work, while you stand by, beaming benevolently on an audience of clearly enlightened readers. It is not even about advancing your career – at least, not in a direct sort of way.
It is not, in fact, about you at all.
Rather, it is about making a connection between readers and books. It is about making readers feel so enthusiastic about books that they cannot wait to come back and buy more – not just copies of your books, but of other authors’ books as well. It is about generating a feeling of good will towards the bookstore and the staff. Mostly, it is about reassuring everyone that they did not waste their time on you.
How do you accomplish this? It is unexpectedly easy, once you understand the dynamics of an autographing. Believe it or not, success or failure is entirely up to you. Your attitude will set the tone for everything that happens. You are the one in control. If you don’t understand this, stay home until you figure it out. It is your obligation to be cheerful and welcoming towards everyone you encounter, from the staff of the bookstore to the readers who buy your book to the customers who don’t. If you are, there is a better than even chance that they will be cheerful back. Didn’t we learn this on Mr. Rogers Neighborhood about a gazillion years ago? Speak to everyone. Make them aware of the fact that you are grateful to be there, anxious to chat, and ready to answer questions if they have any. Never sign a book without looking at and speaking directly to the reader, and then thank them for choosing to take a chance on you.
Think about it. How can you not do this? Every one of those people has come out to meet you because they love your work. Or if they are there purely by chance, your response to them might determine whether or not you end up with a new reader. Either way, they are paying you a compliment. They are giving up their time and maybe their money for you. You are the only one who can make them feel it was worthwhile for them to do so.
The staff of the bookstore will appreciate this, too. They want to know something about you, a writer whose work they sell. You owe them that opportunity. You owe them your thanks. You owe them a good experience for their customers, who will come back to this store remembering what meeting you was like. If the experience is a good one, everything that surrounds it tends to be remembered as having been good, too. The staff of the bookstore will remember how you conducted yourself, whether two people appeared or two hundred. They will remember you when someone asks for your books. Perhaps they will suggest your book when a customer asks for a recommendation for a new author.
This is not always easy. Disappointments and discouragement await us as authors at every turn. We set ourselves up in anticipation of being knocked down. Someone is always ready and willing to tell us how our books could have been done better. Someone is always close at hand to point out how we failed. Our self-esteem is closely tied to our writing, and someone is always ready to step on it. That, too, is part of the territory. But understanding what it is that we are trying to accomplish when we throw off our solitary trappings long enough to face our public at a book signing will make us better able to set a balance to whatever happens.
Looking at it like this, it becomes clear that the failure of some twenty years ago lies not with the young woman who chose to pass up the chance to buy my book, but with me. I am the one who reacted badly. I am the one who based success or failure entirely on whether or not a sale was make instead of a connection formed. It is a hard lesson, but an important one. I have never forgotten it.
I like to think that the young woman eventually thought better of her decision not to buy a copy of my book. I like to think she went back and bought it later, became an avid reader of the entire series and ultimately introduced it to her children. I like to think she became a huge fan.
Which explains, I suppose, why I find it so easy to write fantasy.
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