The road between Duluth and Hackensack, Minnesota takes me past small towns, lakes of all sizes, swamps, marshes, over the Mississippi, and finally, through the Leech Lake Reservation. It’s Saturday. The sun is up, but just barely, and, instead of driving my lumbering old 2005 Pacifica, I am behind the wheel of my wife’s nimble little 4×4 Toyota Matrix. My books are stacked in boxes and bins in the cargo space of the little car. But since I’m headed to an indoor event (praise the Lord: I’ve had enough of the E-Z Up for awhile), I’ve opted for fuel economy by borrowing her Matrix. I’ve got Pearl Jam playing loud on the CD changer. It’s a live album, something I picked up at Best Buy from the discount bin. “Daughter” comes on and I find my right foot (I’m a two footed driver-blame my mother) searching for the accelerator even though the cruise is set. Despite a tremendous urge to unleash the Toyota’s four cylinders, I refrain from breaking the law…much.
I’m headed to sell books at the Northwoods Art and Book Festival in tiny Hackensack (population 313), Minnesota: So far as I know, the only specifically art and book event in the state. I’ve done this show for at least six years: At times, I’ve been in my E-Z Up outside. I’ve been inside the community center with other crafters and artisans. And I’ve had a table inside the Congregational church (the “book arts” building) amidst other authors and publishers. The benefits of not being outside in my E-Z Up are many:
1. I don’t have to worry about rain;
2. I don’t have to set up the damn tent;
3. I don’t have to worry about wind; and
4. I don’t have to worry about hauling my own tables and chair.
So inside, which is the venue I’ve managed to snare this year, is better. Inside the church, where I can hob-knob with other authors, is the best.
As usual when driving to Hackensack, I miscalculate my drive time. The festival starts at nine. I want to arrive no later than 8:30. I arrive at 8:45am.
“Mark Munger, Cloquet River Press”, I tell the lady who stops the Matrix at the saw horses marking the entrance to the festival.
The woman dutifully wanders back to the information booth to retrieve my festival packet, which includes my registration. She ends up coming back to the Toyota empty-handed.
“Sorry, you don’t appear to be registered.”
She’s nice enough about it so I don’t protest too loudly. Instead, I pull out the email I received from the book arts coordinator confirming my slot. I hand it to the woman. She nods.
“I’ll take care of it. Just go on in and find Joanne. She’ll get you situated.”
I drive to the church. Some nice fellows (seems everyone in Hackensack is in a jovial mood due to the bright sun and the burgeoning beauty of the day) help me unload. I find Joanne. She shows me to my table. I set up my display.
The day starts slowly but, by the time I call home at noon, I’m selling books. Lots of books. Mostly to folks who’ve bought my work in the past and, surprise, surprise, want more Munger to read.
I need more of these shows to keep me going.
For the past two years, ever since printing Mr. Environment: The Willard Munger Story, my little excursion in the self-publishing world (Cloquet River Press) has taken a nosedive. Or maybe I should say, developed a nosebleed: It’s been nothing but red ink for the past two years. I’ve taken on too much: too many projects, too much debt, too much time away from family and friends, pursuing an inoculation of ego.
This author thing, I think as I hand a past customer a signed copy of Esther’s Race, is a lot like being a drug addict. Doesn’t help that I’m OCD (thanks again, Mom). Oh, compulsion is a good thing in some ways. It drives me to complete what seem (like Willard’s biography: a five year project) to be insurmountable tasks. That’s the plus side of being OCD. But the downside? I stare at it every time I take out the CRP account book. Red. Red. Red. I’m a terrible businessman. But despite the downsides (including the depression that comes from sitting alone in a booth selling no books to no one) I can’t stop. I simply can’t. I guess it’s these moments, when a reader stops by and says, “I loved The Legacy” or “Suomalaiset is the best book I’ve ever read” that compels me to continue. Just like drugs, when you’re on the upswing, you forget the downside. It’s fleeting. It’s momentary. But the high is very real.
I talk to other writers around me, reconnecting with folks I’ve met out in the area doing workshops for the JackPine Writers Group (see the “Links” section under “Writerly Orgs” for the JPW’s website) and the Park Rapids Library. I always learn a thing or two, particularly about marketing and selling books, when I talk to other authors. Some of the tips work out; some don’t. But the interaction is valuable and the company is great.
By the time the festival winds down, I’ve done better in one day in little Hackensack than I have at any other event this year. These folks, many of them Twin Citians spending a last summer weekend at the family cottage, are readers. Voracious readers. The kind of folks who make semi-famous, semi-finalist novelists smile.
I pack the Matrix. There are less boxes to stack in the car; a sign I’ve sold well at the festival. I give Rene’ a call, telling her I’m back on the road. I fumble with a jewel case and pull out one of my favorite “road” albumns: Canadian folk singer Lynn Miles’ Unravel:
I’ve been living up here by the hydro towers
Trying to feel my feet and regain my powers
Living on the flight path trying to feel the ground
Trying to break the chains that hold me to this town.
I’ve been watching the crows sitting on their wires
Listening to the muscle cars burning their tires
Thought I’d stick around for a month or so
Well I’ve been here for seven and this is what I know
You can read a lot of books, don’t make you smart
Kiss a lot of fools, don’t mean you gotta heart…
(c) Lynn Miles, 2004
(See “Links” and the subcategory “Musicians” for a link to Lynn’s work)
By the time I turn onto the gravel drive leading to my home on the river, my mood has turned reflective. I’m listening to Duluth’s beloved slow rock band, Low.
It’s been a great day to be an author and a word junkie.
Peace.
Mark
