“If I Can’t Have It, I Want To Read About it!”

 

She tottered to the table in the bookstore where I was autographing copies of my novel, Stranger in Paradise. Gray-haired and feeble-seeming, she looked ready to keel over as she approached, leaning heavily on her cane. I didn’t know whether to jump to assist her or cringe when she said, “Young lady, I have something to say to you…” Book events, as every author who’s been on a book tour can testify, are a mixed bag. Most often the people who show up are fans of yours and/or readers looking to discover a new author. But sometimes you get one or both of the following:

1) An aspiring writer who wants you to read and comment on his or her unpublished “work of genius”(they accept undiluted praise only) and provide the keys to the magic kingdom in the form of a recommendation to your agent.
2) Someone wishing to complain about some aspect of a novel you’ve written.

I worried this old lady was in the latter category when I noticed she was frowning.

I was a veteran of book-signings by then. I’d published eight novels (the count currently numbers at 18). I’d gone on a library tour with my second novel, Such Devoted Sisters, the low point of which was an event somewhere Iowa where I was greeted by a librarian who explained tearfully that my event had “fallen between the cracks” due to an oversight caused by an illness of one of their librarians. It had not been advertised, not so much as a poster in a window. It was all very last-minute, but they cobbled together a group of “shills,” made up of the library staff and their family and friends. As I stood in front of my audience, I found myself looking out at sullen faces belonging to the teenaged children who’d been conscripted for the event. I drew a deep breath and plunged in, determined to win over those kids. I did. And by the end of my talk, they were grinning and jockeying to be first in line to speak with me.

Believe it or not, that wasn’t the worst. The worst was an in-store signing I did in a far-flung suburb of Boston, at which the only person who showed up was an ex-boyfriend. Not just any ex-boyfriend but the one who dumped me when I was in my twenties and subsequently went after my younger sister. “Dick,” I’ll call him, was all smiles, acting as though we had only happy memories of our short-lived romance to exchange. Well, at least I’ll get one book sale out of it, I thought. Wrong! He didn’t even buy a book, explaining sheepishly that his wife “might get the wrong idea.” Jerk.

I got back at him the next day when I did a radio talk-show that broadcast throughout the Boston area. I told the “humorous” story of the ex-boyfriend, including the bit about him not buying my book because he didn’t want his wife to get jealous. I still chuckle imagining him coming home from work that day to find himself in hot water with his missus.

Back to complaints…Oh, yeah, got my share of those, too, usually in the form of written comments. And usually, it has to do with “language.” Either taking the Lord’s name in vain or using swear words. I can explain to those disgruntled readers that it’s my characters speaking, not me, until I’m blue in the face, yet it seems to fall on deaf ears.

The most complaints I ever got came from cat lovers, in response to my unfortunate mention of a male calico cat in One Last Dance. Dozens of cat lovers wrote to correct me, saying there is no such thing as a male calico cat, that it’s a genetic mutation occurring only in female cats (untrue, according to one scientist, who informed me it was rare but possible to have a male calico). I meant no offense, honestly! I love cats! Needless to say, I’ll never make that mistake again.

So, anyway, I sensed a complaint coming when I saw the old lady. I plastered on a big smile as I sat at the table with copies of my book stacked at either end. I’d be nice, no matter what. I’m always nice. You’d have to throw a book in my face for me to not be nice. But still, I cringed on the inside.

Given the woman’s advanced age, I feared her negative comment would have to do with the “steamy” sex scenes in my books. They’re not everyone’s cup of tea, no pun intended. Some readers prefer tame sex scenes or the … at the end of a sentence that leads to the realm of the imagination rather than the bedroom.

I was partly right. She did have a comment about the sex scenes in my novels, but it wasn’t negative. She was frowning in concentration to keep from falling and not displeasure, as it turned out. “…I love your books,” she finished the sentence, plucking a book from one of the stacks for me to autograph. “Make it out to ‘Edna.’ That’s me. I’m ninety-two years old and reading is my only real pleasure since I fell and broke my hip. Your novels are my favorite. I enjoy your sex scenes!” She leaned in closer, a twinkle in her eyes as she added, “If I can’t do it anymore, I want to read about it!”

The moral of the story: Don’t prejudge someone at a book event any more than you would judge a book by its cover. Someone you thought was the last person who’d buy one of your books just might surprise you.