For all my writer friends who will definitely appreciate this. I am reblogging a post kindly sent to me by a Facebook friend who thought I’d appreciate it. I did. It rings very true and is rather funny:
The woman at the counter in Barnes & Noble had silver hair in a bun and a smile like breakfast. I was with a friend, for whom I was buying a copy of my latest book. I do this often — buy my own books for friends, then wonder why I’m broke. “May I take a moment to sign it?” I asked the smiling woman. “Did you write it?” she asked. “No,” I said. “I just like signing books.” Unmoved, she asked, “Is this your first book?” I shook my head no, and continued inscribing. “It must be fun to write books,” she said. “Superfun,” I said.
On the sidewalk, my dismayed friend said: “A bookstore! At least you’d think they would know your name in a bookstore!” I told her not to be surprised. I wasn’t. I might have been surprised had I entered Barnes & Noble expecting the salespeople to drop their books like dishes, shriek my name and rush toward me tossing confetti. But experience has taught me that hardly anyone in or out of a bookstore will know who I am, or care. I have learned to live fairly comfortably with my writer’s humiliation, and have worn it like a second skin over my original thinner one. After all, humiliations are suffered by most writers most of the time. And — to express a thought about life in the real world, for once — a writer’s humiliations are chicken feed as compared with those endured by people who work for a living, and are grateful simply to make it home at night. Writers are already home.
Naturally, some stinging recollections rise out of the past from time to time, such as that evening at a book fair in Providence, R.I., when I stood beneath a golden banner with my name in red lettering, misspelled. It would have bothered me less had the banner not been provided by my publisher. And that evening in Washington, D.C., when I was seated at a table bearing a tall stack of my latest book while a dozen non-buyers ambled past, paused, picked a book from the stack, opened it, read a clause or two, and returned it to the stack. (Truth be told, there have been several such incidents.) And that afternoon in Miami, when I appeared for an interview specifically requested by a local radio station, and the interviewer began, “Who are you?”
Read the full post by Roger Rosenblatt’s at The NY Times …