The author hunkered down in his tent at Chester Bowl.
Auf Wiedersehen. Adieu. Näkemiin. Arrivederci. Goodbye. All these words fit the philosophical place where I find myself on this Sunday morning as I type this blog.
It’s drizzling outside. Soft, cold rain patters dying grass and slides over the steel siding of our farmhouse overlooking the Cloquet River. All night long, the residue of a tough week, a week spent in trial, a week spent moving 800 copies of Mr. Environment from a rented storage unit to a recently vacated bedroom in our home’s lower level (with another 800 copies awaiting similar transit), and a flurry of heavy lifting involving Rene’s concrete mosaic benches into the Pacifica for the Fall Festival in Duluth’s Chester Bowl, reminded me that this author stuff, at least the way I’ve been at it since I plunked my white EZ-Up tent down on the hard asphalt of ManyPenny Avenue at the Apple Festival in Bayfield ten Octobers ago, isn’t for the faint of heart or the weak of spine. Advil hasn’t dented the pain in my neck or the constant throbbing in my left heel, the result of too much weight, too much torque, too much lifting. After a fitful night spent on the couch trying to snare sleep, I yield: God (or common sense) has spoken.
Time to try a different approach.
Oh, yesterday at the Bowl was pleasant enough. I had some good conversations, heard familiar compliments about my writing, rekindled some friendships with readers, and chatted amiably enough with folks under a gray, autumnal sky. My sister and her family (including two of the cutest little girls in God’s creation) stopped by to say hello. Even the disaster of a little four year old trying to use one of Rene’s benches as a teeter-totter (which resulted in broken concrete and mosaic spilled over pavement) didn’t destroy the festive mood of the day. But I knew, before the day began, Chester Bowl would be the last outdoor art and craft festival. Not just for this year. Not just for this season. But forever. Last night’s fitful sleep only reinforced my decision.
I need to rethink how I market my work.
Oh, I’ll still do indoor arts and crafts shows, writers’ conferences, and try to get into bookstores, libraries, schools and the like for sales, lectures, readings, and signings. And I’ll still keep my fingers on the keyboard of my iMac churning out stories and blogs and Lord-knows-what-else. But the day of the EZ-Up is over. I met lots of fine folks, sold thousands of books, but there comes a time when all things, good, bad, or indifferent come to an end. I know that today, as I feel the bite of pain in my neck bending over the keyboard. Writing as a contact sport is beyond my reach and beyond my old body’s recuperative powers. I’ll need to find another path.
Peace.
Mark
