Jami Attenberg: An Author Signature

An Author Signature

For a newly published author stock signings serve three purposes. The first, and most important is that if a book has an "Author Signature" sticker on it, it is more likely to sell. Secondly, it offers the author the chance to connect with the bookstore clerk. (I like to say "clerk" because it sounds more old-timey, like they could be wearing a bow tie and have slicked-back hair.) If you can make just one new friend, maybe they will hand-sell your book, or at least put it up near the front of the store, instead of letting it linger sadly in the rear stacks. And finally, it gets the author out of the house so they won't sit there checking their Amazon rankings every five freaking minutes.

It is also entirely possible that it is a desperate cry for attention and love from strangers.

So I took last Friday, a sunny post-Christmas sale day, and walked the streets of middle Manhattan visiting big-chain bookstores to sign stock of my new novel, The Kept Man, which had just been released the day before. (I only went to chain stores because it is easy to check if they carry your stock online, but I will definitely hit the indies after the holidays.) I walked from 82nd and Broadway down to Columbus Circle, across 58th Street all the way to 3rd Ave and down to 44th and back over to 5th Ave again. I think it was close to four miles, much of it through Christmas crowds. When I started it was sunny and I was perky, and when it was over it was dark and I was exhausted, and I was walking so slowly that as I crossed an intersection a driver waiting to turn casually said to me, "When will you join us on this planet, dear?"

(Note - the names have been changed to protect the innocent.)

Store 1: Barnes and Noble, 82nd and Broadway

It should be said upfront, that I totally dig people who work in bookstores and libraries. They love books and I love books and that is all I really need to know. If they are friendly to me then we are clearly soul mates. If they are aloof and distant, they are merely discerning human beings (and, accordingly, readers) and I just need to work a little harder to connect. (I can be totally puppy-like in my pursuit of friendships; I will keep licking that damn hand till I get a scratch on the head.) And then there are post-Christmas retail workers in New York City, and some people just do not have the time.

Barnes and Noble, 82nd and Broadway? Got no time. The woman I talked to at the information desk had a light blue vein running through her forehead that was pulsing with the blood of innocent "30% off" stickers. I told her I was an author there to sign stock and that was the last time she made eye contact with me. She looked down, tapped the name of the book into her computer, walked away from me, brought back a stack, put them down in front of me and said, "When you're done, find me." Those are totally the worst moments, when you feel like you're inconveniencing a bookstore employee to the point of pain. I was forced to go to H&H Bagels immediately afterwards and get an everything bagel to soothe myself.

Store 2: Barnes and Noble, Lincoln Center

Sixteen blocks later was a whole different story. When I said I was there to sign stock, I was excitedly greeted by Mindy, a lovely woman maybe five or 10 years younger than my mother so I kept feeling this maternal vibe. "Oh congratulations!" she said. "That's so exciting." She reminded me of that recent 30 Rock episode where Liz Lemon's parents think everything she does is brilliant. "You brought your own pen!" said Mindy. "That's so smart!" I am smart, I thought. Thanks, Mindy! Later on she said, "This is the best part of the job, meeting the authors." Clearly this is a woman who loves books.

Her co-worker, Saffron, was younger and more subdued but still willing to chat. She told me that a lot of people come in and say, "What do you have signed?" They don't care about what kind of book they are, just that they've got that signature. She also said she sees authors come in over and over again to sign new stock of the same book, which had never occurred to me before. I suppose a lot of authors live on the Upper West Side. And they're all probably terrified of that lady on 82nd Street.

Store 3: Borders, Columbus Circle

I am fond of this store because I did my launch for my first book there, and the people who worked there were just incredibly nice. This time I went into the store, they brightened when they heard I was an author, and they moved me in and out quickly. Bliss! Look how pretty my books are! And they're up front already, too. It was the perfect bookstore experience...and then I decided to use the bathroom.

Inside a woman named "Chocolate" (her real name) had sequestered herself inside a stall. I, and everyone else in line, knew her name was Chocolate because she was having a loud phone conversation where she frequently referred to herself in third person. (As in: "Chocolate knows what she's talking about, mmmk?" or "Chocolate loves that song, who sings that?") During the entire 10 minutes I stood in line she continued her phone conversation. I imagined she was just sitting there fully-clothed on the seat, the cellphone balanced between the crook of her neck and her shoulder, perhaps filing her nails. The line spun out the door, as now only two stalls were in use. Babies wept. We all knew we were being held hostage but no one could do a thing.

An older Upper West Side grande dame (who had seriously amazing skin even though she was clearly in her seventies. Man, I need a new moisturizer) did not take well to Chocolate. "Disgusting," she whispered to me. Finally she began banging on the door.

"I'm using the bathroom," said Chocolate.

"You're using the phone is what you're using," said the woman.

"This fucking lady's got a problem with me," said Chocolate into the phone.

The woman marched out, appalled. I saw her later bitching to her husband who gently stroked her arm then slowly guided her out of the store.

Store 4: Borders, 57th and Park

I walked east on 58th street. There are more fur coats and plastic surgery as one heads east. Also there was a line around the block at FAO Schwartz. Crowds of tourists everywhere took ill-conceived photos of each other in large groups. I passed Bergdorf Goodman's and pressed my nose up against the window. Also I noticed that all of the mannequins at Ann Taylor -- I am sure I passed a dozen of these stores - have nipple erections, which seems antithetical to the Ann Taylor aesthetic.

At the Borders store, the clerk was flustered and could only find half of my stock and that was fine. I didn't want to push her and I was just happy that she could help and that she promised to put stickers on them. While I waited for her I stood next to a Sony Reader display. I hissed at it. I don't think bookstores should be carrying them. The reading public does not need that option. (Although I do have a book publicist friend who likes readers because she doesn't have to haul manuscripts around anymore, but she is the only person I know of who has something nice to say about them.) I played with it for a minute. It was totally annoying and ugly, there was no pretty cover, and it did not feel good and solid in your hands and screw the Sony Reader.

Store 5: Barnes and Noble, 54th and 3rd Ave.

The young clerk leaned in close while I signed stock and said quietly, "So let me ask you a question, how hard is it get an agent?" I actually love when a clerk engages in this way. (The day before I had visited a Barnes and Noble downtown and the clerk there had talked wistfully of wanting to write a novel and then I totally encouraged her to do it. Later she spilled that James Lipton had been in recently to sign stock and had been a complete crankypants. This is absolutely the kind of information I need in life.) We began to chat about what she liked to write -- poetry and deeper, spiritual fiction -- and then she mentioned how much she enjoyed Afro-Caribbean writing, which she had been studying at school the past semester.

"I just read Junot Diaz for the first time," she said, and shiny little stars formed in her eyes.

"Oh my god, that book is amazing," I said.

A dashing man standing behind me in line said, "Are you talking about The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao? That book is off the hook."

"Actually I've only read Drown," said the clerk.

"Oh, you must read his new book immediately," I said. "Buy it today!"

The clerk covered her ears with her hands. "OK, don't tell me another thing about it. I want to be surprised."

"It's way better than his last book," said the man.

And then we all smiled at each other really hard. If we were not strangers surely we would have embraced.

Store 6: Barnes and Noble, 5th Ave @ 45h Street

My feet were completely dragging by then, and I decided to cut the Wall Street Borders for the day and just hit the one store by Grand Central. I didn't have much of a personality left anyway.

But it didn't matter, because the clerk I dealt with at the final store had more than enough personality for the both of us. He was exceptionally supportive and told me that a few customers had already requested the book. (I'm sure he tells that to all the authors, I know, but it felt good anyway.) He asked me if I was getting a Times review, because, as I have been told repeatedly, you cannot sell books in this town without a Times review, unless you're genre fiction or Jodi Picoult. (Seriously, look at the list online. You can tell who has been reviewed and who hasn't. It's fascinating.) Also he said that it's possible to sell well if you get in the Voice or Time Out New York, because they've a young, intelligent readership. He was completely cheerful and efficient and again, as I had with most people I had met that day, I got the sense that he was really passionate about reading and selling books.

And then I shuffled my way to Grand Central and pushed my way through the chipper crowds heading back to the suburbs. As exhausted as I was, I had a renewed sense of purpose about my own book, and enthusiasm about the bookselling industry. And I knew I had sold at least one book that day -- even if it was a Junot Diaz book.