The nicest thing happened the other day at a book signing in Palm Desert. As I sat signing books with my friend Gina keeping me company, a happy surprise breezed in. A young mother and her son asked if I would sign a book for her mother. It seemed her mother, who lives in Arizona has heard about the book and asked her daughter who lives in the Palm Springs area to secure her an autographed copy.

For me, selling books is a minor consideration compared to the ability to reach people. I think this is especially important when your book conveys a message about which you are passionate.

Perhaps at the end of the day, it is still quality that trumps quantity. I do not mean to sound hypocritical of course, book sales are a wonderful thing. The number of books sold is directly related to the messages sent, but every person who reads and absorbs the true meaning of the book is like a speck of gold to an author.

I am so grateful for each reader, each response and embrace each one. I imagine that is what keeps writers writing, that special connection to the reader, for that is truly a connection to the universe.

Have a blessed day.

Palm Springs Signing

Writing a book seems to be the easy part. Marketing is the punishment for the ego most authors possess when filled with the self satisfaction of sending the last line of text to the editor and smiling broadly. After the chest pounding ends, the universe conspires to reset your ego and ensure you deflate from mighty writer to manic muse withdrawal.

Meeting and greeting at signings helps reduce the pain of lower than expected book sales, lack of stories in national media and being ignored by television producers young enough to be your grandchildren. The insanity of the author is such that in the midst of this egregious disappointment they continue to push forward and finish the yet another book.

Could any other species on earth be so insane?

I think not.

And so I pack and go bathed in the fear I shall sit alone in that special place in every bookstore where authors await their public. Terrified no one will come and my humiliation shall be complete.

Promising myself my next book will be a filthy rehash of Tropic of Cancer. A pornographic nod to Holden Caulfield. Alas, a best seller that the public will clammer to read.

Could any other species be so delusional?

I think not.

Now where is that damn purse sized hair spray?