Signing

The other night I was at the book reading of a friend of a friend's. She's a sharp cookie and hilarious lesbian (yes, you heard me right) as her writing and especially her storytelling deftly communicates. I was in awe. But at the same time thought, "Hey, I can do that." I can get my books published and go to bookstores and read my work and chat with the hoi polloi and sign their books and make nice. I have attractive handwriting and no germ phobias or fear of public speaking. I'm your gal.

I was feeling good about my new life as a published book-signin' author when I wandered into the conversation being held by the two warm-up authors who had read first in the evening's line-up and a third guy who was also a published author, though not a lesbian, as well as something alarmingly called a Live Fiction Critic, yikes. They were discussing how they sign their books when at their own book readings. They said things like, "If they've bought this book, I sign it this way, and if they've bought my other book I usually sign it another way." And how they always ask if the person wants an inscription or just an autograph in case they plan to resell it on e-bay. They weren't preening, they were just harmlessly swapping tricks of the trade.

I felt as if I were surrounded by earnest mid-western beauty queens trading tips on how they polish and maintain the high luster of their rhinestone tiaras.

They were generous to include me in their conversation, and perfectly friendly, I might add, especially since I had absolutely nothing to add. I suppose I could have tried to interject a dry little ditty about signing Christmas cards, but I didn't bother. Too much of a reach, and these lesbians weren't nearly as funny. So I just listened, trying to soak up the other team's play book, that of Published Authors.

I wonder if they knew I felt like an anxious puppy with my wet slobbery nose pressed up against the cage, panting and drooling with wild desire. I wonder if they know that I'm next.