The Book Signing Post

This story is linked to a drabble I wrote, inspired by an Instagram post from an author written at her first book signing:

This is the follow-up to that:

***

It had been a revelation. It was an apt word to describe it, she thought, in light of the experience she had had. Thinking of it biblically, it had been a morning filled with horror and all of it revelatory, hitting a little close to home.

Sat. Alone. Waiting. Waiting for anyone to turn up.

She had felt so stupid and so very much alone.

Her publishing company had tried to bolster her: I'm not sure what happened...there was a crash on the motorway, maybe that held people up...maybe there was a problem with social media that day...book promotions don't have the audiences they once did...

Fatuous, unfounded platitudes designed to cushion but in fact, just grating on and irritating her already sensitive ego.

She felt sorry for herself and rightly so, she thought. Here was her book, something over which she had toiled and nobody was interested, or not interested enough to come and introduce themselves, meet the author and get a signed book. She felt hurt and unseen. This combination of emotions propelled her to vent on social media.

She would be seen, even if it was just by a few.

She wrote a post:

I had my first book signing today. And nobody came.

She'd taken a photo of her set-up for the signing before she'd sat and waited. She felt a prick of sadness as she remembered how optimistic she'd been, the pride with which she had placed her book banner next to her desk, positioning it just so; the arrangement of pens on the desk and her staggered pile of first editions perched, with that freshly printed smell.

She cropped the photo, placed it in the post and launched it.

She felt marginally better but wondered what it was all for? What was the likelihood that anyone would read that? She supposed it was less effort to click on something, certainly less than getting into a car or onto a bus and going to a book signing.

She sighed. It was hard not to dwell on it but she had to try to move forward. She decided that she would go out, have a walk, get out of her head for a bit and wrapping up warm, she put her phone on mute and left the house.

The sun was bright and spring was no longer somnolent, eager to please with its array of colours, like a silk merchant in a medieval marketplace, proffering his wares. Movement felt good and soon, her mood lifted and she felt a little less dark. She resisted the temptation to look at her phone and breathed in the still cool air, expanding her lungs and her outlook.

Returning home, she thought, I think I'll make myself a milky coffee and have a nice slice of cake. I deserve some indulgence.

It wasn't until a couple of hours later that she decided to look at her phone. She was surprised to see that her post had a string of comments underneath it. They were sympathetic reinforcements which acknowledged her plight. She thanked them for their support. She wasn't good at this self-promotion stuff so she didn't add a link to where they could buy her book. She felt like it was too pushy in light of their magnanimity and she also felt a little desperate. She was desperate but she wasn't sure that she wanted that reiterated to the wider world just yet.

But there was an additional message. Someone had directly contacted her. She clicked on it, curious.

Hi. I read your Instagram post about your book signing. I would love to have a signed copy of your book. Can you tell me how I go about getting one?

She looked at the profile. Nobody she knew.

Just a stranger, reaching out.

The warmth of the gesture enveloped her and she burst into grateful tears.