The Author at Festival of Trees (Photo by Steph Balmer)
I’ve been doing craft shows since Mike Savage of Savage Press published my first book (The Legacy) in 2000. I sat in Mike’s booth at the Junior League’s Festival of Trees at Lake Superior College and signed books for customers as Mike sold them faster than flapjacks at Denny’s. By 2002, I had my own small press and my own booth at the Festival. I’ve been back, through blizzards and economic downturns and Vikings’ Sundays and rain storms and beautiful late autumn days and changes of venue every year since.
Last spring, I signed up for a booth space at the Festival that could accommodate my books and my wife Rene’s mosaic art work. That was before I had shoulder surgery. If you look really, really close at the photo of me in my booth at this year’s FOT, you’ll see the sling and immobilizer on my left shoulder. So, when Friday rolled around and it was time to set up our exhibit space, Rene’ had to enlist our son Jack to help load her very heavy concrete garden benches into her Matrix. I’d already taken a tumble in the shower and landed on my left shoulder (thankfully, I was smart enough not to extend my left arm to stop my fall) and I really wasn’t in a position to help move concrete. Instead, I set up my book display, left plenty of space for Rene’, and headed up to Barnes and Noble over the hill to kill time before joining Rene’ and Jack for dinner at Perkins.
Saturday. Traffic was heavy once the doors to the Festival opened at nine. There were so many women (the crowd was 99.9% female) packed into Pioneer Hall, the flow of traffic was something akin to the LA freeway at rush hour. Sales were brisk up until early afternoon and then, the crowd thinned and I began to pass the time by reading.
I had picked up a copy of The Writer at BN. It’s a nifty little magazine 
(that I don’t subscribe to but should) about writing. Duh! Flipping pages, I came across an interview with mystery writer, Lawrence Block, a man who has penned more than 100 books dating back to the 1950s and who has won four Edgar and Shamus Awards for writing excellence in the detective/mystery genre. I’ve not read Block but I know of Block and I respect his views on the art and business of writing fiction. I was intrigued to find out that, at 74 years old, Block has embraced self-publishing and digital publishing as ways to make his work available to the public. One passage from the interview hit home for me as I sat in the concrete shell of Pioneer Hall surrounded by crafters and customers:
I’ve found self-publishing enjoyable and satisfying, and it seems to be paying off for me. It is, as I’ve said, a slow way to get rich-and if you’re hoping for wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, there may be more fertile fields for you to plow…
His thoughts regarding ebooks versus print were similarly succinct:
The set-up cost is low, and the marginal costs are zero. So whether you do it yourself or enlist an e-publisher, its economically possible to e-publish and keep in print a book that would otherwise not return its costs…(I)ncreasingly, readers love e-books. For all the crap you hear about readers wanting to smell the paper, more and more readers find an e-reader more user-friendly than a printed book…The I-wanna-smell-the-paper-crew had grandparents who were similarly wary of the automobile; I’ll leave it to you to figure out what they wanted to smell!
I chatted a bit with a neighbor in an abutting booth and marveled at how well behaved the sight-assisting Labrador bedded down behind her table was during the commotion of the show. When I asked the dog’s name, I was politely told that, because some folks try to gain the dog’s attention when she’s working, her name had to remain unspoken. Having read Steve Kuusisto’s excellent memoir on blindness and canine companions, I understood the point being made.
The working dog at rest.
Rene’ carried in another mosaic table to add to her wares and an extra box of books to replenish my dwindling supply. The author of nine books, I had only four titles available at the beginning of the show. By the time Rene’ handed me a carton full of copies of Mr. Environment, all that I had left were copies of my newest novel, Laman’s River, and the Munger biography. That’s of course both good and bad: It shows I’ve been selling books; that’s the good. But, like Block’s article points out, the margins in printed books are so small, that when you add the costs of a booth at a festival like the Festival of Trees, factor in lunch, and gasoline, and parking, well, there’s simply not enough profit to re-print my beloved stories. That’s the bad: some of my best work is not in print. The enterprise that is Cloquet River Press is sort of like having a son or daughter in youth hockey: a never ending sea of red ink. Block’s article points to a possible solution for small operators like me: Go digital with your older work and stock only your new work in paper. Maybe he has something there.
After a long day at the FOT, I hauled my ass out of my chair, picked up Chinese at Huie’s on 4th street, and headed home. Jack, our fifteen year old, was with about five hundred other ELCA kids at a retreat in Brainerd, which meant Rene’ and I were alone. Tired to the bone, full up on good Chinese, I fell asleep trying to watch Saturday Night Live, any other intentions I might have had lost to sheer exhaustion.
Sunday morning, feeling the need for redemption, I attended early service at Grace Lutheran. Rene’ was scheduled to meet our son Matt, our daughter-in-law Lisa, and our grandson A.J. at the later service. The plan was for Rene’, Lisa, and the baby to take in the Festival of Trees while Matt went to St. Scholastica to work on his master’s degree. I made it to my booth after worship a few minutes after the show opened because I stopped in at the St.Louis County Jail to deal with prisoners in custody, part of my “real” job as a district court judge. Traffic for the first hour of the FOT was heavy and then, apparently the sun came out and the hordes of women who had been intent upon shopping found other things to do. From noon until the close of the event, the concrete cavern of Pioneer Hall was empty of anyone other than vendors. Sales were bleak and, as always happens when I am not selling books, my spirits declined. Rene’ brought me lunch from Bridgeman’s, which, of course, was a positive. Nancy, Jack’s godmother, stopped in to say hello. 3:00 arrived. Rene’, Lisa, and A.J. found their way back to the booth and we began to pack. Within a short while, everything was tucked away in my Pacifica and I was out the door.
But, for this part-time novelist and full-time dad, my day wasn’t over. As Rene’ and Lisa drove to meet Matt at the college to exchange vehicles, I climbed the hill to Grace Lutheran where Jack was waiting. I picked up my son and then stopped in at St. Raphael’s Catholic Church (where Jack’s Boy Scout troop meets) to pick up Christmas wreaths Jack sold to raise money for summer camp. Two nice folks helped cram sweet smelling balsam into the bulging cargo area of the Pacifica. And then, it was time to head home.
Peace.
Mark
