Picture this: I’m twenty years old and I’m writing in longhand. I’m homing in on a brilliant conclusion for a college writing assignment. My topic is to draw an analogy between the seasons of the year and the phases of a person’s life.

I may be a baby who knows nothing of metaphorical evenings, but I nevertheless wind things up with this deathless gem of prose: “the clustering shadows of evening, and the sharp cold wind that comes with night.” Pretty good, huh? The professor liked it, and I suppose if he had been in charge of the world, I would be a world-famous essayist by now.

But I digress.

Having entered my third iteration (yes, third) of retirement, I have a running list of meaningful projects to help me through the transition.  One item on that list is, of course, writing, and that includes promoting my book. So, when the local gift shop owner, who has graciously agreed to carry my book (and asks a better price than amazon) invited me to sit for a book signing, I naturally agreed.

This book signing took place during a Friday evening event in which people visit local retail shops, listen to music, enjoy complementary snacks, enter a prize drawing, and buy stuff. The shop owner set up a table for me, and I brought a modest ten copies of my book, and a pen to use for signing. I hoped it wouldn’t be awkward, with me staring sadly at people as they walked by my table, yearning with all my heart and eyes for them to buy a copy of my magnum opus.

My husband suggested that I take my knitting, a good suggestion, as it helped me promote a veneer of casual. My sister also suggested that I put an old, dog-eared copy out for people to browse through. I’ve been to many small-town craft fairs, and I don’t know about you, but picking up an item that is for sale makes me feel guilty for not buying. I’ve never met a crafter who tried to guilt-trip me, but still, I know what I feel when the tables are turned. But anyway, maybe if potential buyers could look without picking up one of the pristine new copies, this phenomenon would carry a little less weight. And this might just be me being silly again. How can you know if you want to buy something if you don’t look at it?

Anyhoo, I spoke pleasantly to people who walked by, channeled my feelings of stress or expectation, and tended to my knittin’.

One lady picked up the “not for resale” copy, looking admiringly at the image of forget-me-nots on the cover. “Is this a book about all the Alaskan flowers?” she asked. Before I could launch into my spiel about the contents of my book, she opened it casually to see a picture of a very large spider with glowing eyes. No. It’s not a flower book.

She didn’t buy, but some other good souls did. Thank you, my friends, for your kind support. I hope something that I wrote will strike a chord with you, and you will be rewarded with a laugh and a nod of recognition.