Got Brass? Not I, Sayeth the Ding-DongSee, this is why I will never become a well-known author:
“Apparently signing books for six people will be a much better use of my time. Nothing against the staff of this Borders, who apparently really want me to come and have promised all sorts of advance publicity, but in my experience, chain-store signings are always an embarrassing waste of time unless you're a bestselling or local author. They stick you at a table with a little sign, and customers who apparently can't read even though they are in a bookstore ask you where to find the computer books (or maybe a copy of The Davinci Code), and you go away bruised and muttering, reminded of how little you ultimately matter in the scheme of things. Since Prime is almost as much a Dallas book as a New Orleans one, I'm disappointed that my one event there will likely be a bust. If you live in the DFW area, please, please come to this signing and prove me wrong.”
Jesus, Mary and Joseph and all their followers, and all their followers’ children, pets included. If Poppy Z. Brite can’t draw a huge, raging crowd...
Almost every novelist I know has frightened me senseless with similar horror tales. and upon reading Poppy's words regarding bookstore signings, I've come to realize that that I will forever be a spineless ding-dong whose Great American Novel will only be discovered years after my death; I will gain posthumous fame and fortune, and my great-grandchildren won't have to worry about college tuition.
I can’t even read a fucking poem in front of an audience let alone even think about the prospect of sitting in a bookstore, me a lowly nobody with a funny, nasally accent (Hi, I’m from Raaaaaayyychester -- may I have a glass of waaaaayyter?) and just...rotting. No way. I’d poop my pants then leave the store while weeping hysterically. I‘d feel sick for about, oh, five days or so, then decide it‘s time for me to move into a straw hut in the hills of Kentucky, just me, fifteen cases of hooch, and Anus, my loyal hunting dog..
Not only would the literary world lose a spectacular, wondrous, awe-inspiring talent, but my children would lose their mother.
So, I guess I’ll just stick to short stories and poems and relative obscurity, thank you very much. Praise!