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?