THE BIG-BOX BOOKSTORE is bustling with weekend shoppers lazily browsing the shelves: new releases, bestsellers, Spicy BookTok… I meander through the displays feeling vulnerable and exposed, like I’m walking around naked among the customers. No one will recognize me, of course. But my words, my story, my heart is on the shelf, available for any of them to pick up, peruse, purchase, or dismiss. I’m scared to see Burnt Orchid sitting there, ignored. I’m scared to see it not sitting there, forgotten in a warehouse or lost on a truck somewhere. But I am here on a mission. Ignoring my discomfort, I make a beeline for customer service.
My publisher had recommended I sign local stock. This is the eighth bookstore I’ve visited this weekend. Yesterday, I covered the suburbs; today, I’m tackling the city. Like the neighborhood it occupies, this location is posh and upscale. In addition to books, they offer a well-curated selection of high-end home wares: blankets, pillows, framed prints, glassware… I join the queue of attractive shoppers who mostly seem to be buying scented candles or fuzzy reading socks.
“Hi.” I smile brightly as I approach the young woman behind the counter. “My name’s Camryn Lane. I’m here to sign copies of Burnt Orchid.”
She stares at me blankly, like I’ve just spoken to her in Romanian.
“I think my publicist called your manager,” I elaborate, aware of curious eyes on us. “My book just came out on Tuesday.”
“Umm…” She continues to look befuddled. “Let me call Britt. Can you stand off to the side so I can serve the customers waiting to buy things?”
I try not to feel like I’m in the naughty corner as I wait for Britt. Customers give me the side-eye as they pay, wondering if I’m someone they should know, or if I’m a strangely obedient shoplifter waiting to be scolded by the manager. All of the bookstores had been welcoming, some even excited by my presence. Here, I feel like a nuisance.
The tiny woman marching toward me in a white blouse, black trousers, and a shock of red lipstick has frazzled manager written all over her. But she smiles when she sees me.
“I’m Britt.” Her handshake is firm. “I loved Burnt Orchid. Really compelling.”
“Thank you so much.”
“We’ve got you set up back here,” she says, leading me away from the line of curious customers. “I hope you’ll have a decent turnout.”
“Turnout?”
Britt indicates a five-foot-long table stacked with copies of my book, and a bold sign on a metal stand.
AUTHOR SIGNING
CAMRYN LANE, AUTHOR OF BURNT ORCHID
TODAY, 2:00 TO 4:00
My heart flutters with nerves. “I didn’t realize this was an actual signing signing. I thought I was just signing stock.”
“Since you’re local, we wanted you to do an in-person signing. Didn’t your publicist tell you?”
“Umm… no. There must have been a miscommunication.”
“We put it on our socials and took an ad out in the local paper.” Britt’s tone is slightly annoyed. “We’d hoped you and your publisher would share it on your channels.”
“I can post something now.” I force a smile, but I know it won’t help. My social media presence is pathetic. Because I work with teens, I’d always eschewed the platforms, preferring to maintain my privacy. Recently, I set up author accounts on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter. To date, I’ve collected about a thousand combined followers. Many live in other cities, other countries, and some, I suspect, are not even real people. The ones who do live here probably attended my launch party and bought a signed book there. There’s a limit to their generosity.
“Please do,” Britt retorts. “Hopefully someone will show up.” And with that, she turns on her heel and hurries away.
I take a seat behind the table. Holding my book close to my face, I snap a selfie. My smile is bright, confident, and enthusiastic, but there is desperation in my eyes. Come on down and get a signed copy of Burnt Orchid! I type. I’d really love to see you! Please! I delete the really and the please—too needy—before posting. And then I sit, for an hour and ten minutes, hungry, thirsty, and needing to pee.
It’s an interesting experiment in human behavior. Some customers look me over like I’m an exotic monkey in a cage. Others avoid eye contact lest I pounce on them and beg them to buy my book. They’re not impressed by my achievement; they pity my desperation. Finally, an older white man in expensive athleisure walks up to the table, picks up a copy of Burnt Orchid. Hope buoys my heart.
“You wrote this?” he asks.
“I did,” I say cheerily. “It’s my first published novel.”
“Good for you.” He flips it over and reads the back blurb. “Not my cup of tea but hopefully someone will buy it.” He sets the book back on the pile. “It must be humiliating for you just sitting here.”
“It is,” I mutter as he walks away, likely looking for a puppy to kick.
I am checking the time on my phone—twelve minutes until I can slink out of here—when I sense someone approaching. A woman is walking purposefully toward me, her face set in a scowl. She’s about fifty, blond, with designer glasses and a pricey bag. I smile at her, but her expression doesn’t change. In fact, it darkens, the scowl morphing into a glare. My stomach drops as a possibility hits. Could this woman be Ingrid Wandry of the nasty email?
Why hadn’t I googled her? I’d been too busy (and too hungover) to bother. And it had seemed sage to erase the email, wipe the slate clean, put the ugliness behind me. But now I regret not investigating my troll, because I have no idea where Ingrid lives or what she looks like. Could she be local? Could she have seen the ad for this signing and decided to come see me? To tell me, in person, how much she hates my book? How vile I am for exploiting my students? Is she going to make an embarrassing scene, or worse? What if she’s unhinged? Dangerous?
The woman is upon me now, frown firmly affixed. “Hi…” I squeak, voice tight with dread.
Her face softens, a hint of a smile. “Do you know where the bathroom is? It’s kind of urgent.”
At least she’s not here to murder me. “I think it’s over there.” I point to a corner behind me, and the woman scurries away.
As I walk to my 2017 Mazda, a dent in its bumper from one of Liza’s driving lessons, I feel exhausted and low. Two books. That’s all I signed in two whole hours—one to a former colleague who couldn’t make it to my launch party, one to an older woman who thought it would make a nice gift for her niece. Who do I think I am, Jodi Picoult? Why would I think my signature would add value to a book? Wait a minute… I never thought that. This was Britt’s idea. Did my publicist, Olivia, even know about this event? I wonder if these signings usually work out better for other writers, if I am the lone author on their roster who can’t draw a crowd.
Climbing into the front seat of my car, I start the engine. I will go home, have a bite to eat, and then draw a bath. This negative sensation will dissipate before long, and I’ll remember that it’s a privilege to have a book out in the world. And while the signing was a failure, at least it made one thing clear…
Ingrid Wandry is not close enough, able enough, or angry enough to confront me in person.