CRP Booth @ 2012 Living Green Expo
Ah, the life of a semi-famous novelist from Duluth. It’s Friday afternoon. I’ve just concluded four days of presiding over a complex and hard fought civil trial in my courtroom. I loaded the new Pacifica (not to be confused with the old Pacifica which is now living a new life in Williston, ND) with boxes of books, a few supplies, and my wife’s glass mosaic art (concrete benches and wrought iron tables) Thursday night and drove the packed van to work so I could bug out as soon as the trial ended for the day. So here I am, putting on more miles, intent upon trying to catch the public’s eye (and reach their collective hearts) with my latest book, Laman’s River, by spending the weekend selling my words in a booth at the Living Green Expo on the State Fairgrounds in St. Paul. Tires hum. The sky grays but the rain holds off as I encounter a line of stalled vehicles just north of the I-694 split. I make an executive decision and take the nearest exit ramp, intent upon finding an alternative route to the fairgrounds. Of course, even though the new Pacifica is equipped with GPS, I manage to get lost. Not to worry. We men are always steady in our belief of our innate directional abilities. I’m no exception to this rule. I weave and wind the van through Rosedale, eventually pulling into the site of the event. I spend an hour and a half setting up my booth. As I finish, the sky cries. By the time the Pacifica is heading down the steep grade of Montreal Avenue, rain is coming down in sheets of cool silver. Cars and trucks actually pull over and stop due to the lack of visibility. Not the author guy. I keep my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road as I push south towards the Schostags’ home in Lakeville.
Saturday morning. I had a fitful night of sleep (mostly because of the three beers I drank with my wife’s brother-in-law, Al Schostag). I am half-rested and bleary eyed. I tromp upstairs. I stand naked in the shower, feeling the water’s warmth ease kinks in my neck and back, wondering why I insist on doing this author thing at an age when I should be looking into condos in Taos. In the quiet of the steamy bathroom, I dress for the day. I’ve decided to go with the hat. My eldest son and his wife, Lisa, bought me a straw Panama to wear at bookselling events. I have never worn it. Today, I decide, I will.
CRP Booth @ the 2012 Living Green Expo
The Expo
Traffic is steady. By noon, I have sold enough books so that my native pessimism (a light touch of dread, if you will) is disarmed.
If this keeps up, it’ll be a hell of a weekend.
Of course, I got carried away. I’ve learned, over twelve years of playing the part of a regional fiction writer, that nothing comes easy. My work, while beloved by a small cadre of fans, has a heck of a time getting recognition from the press and critics when it’s not published by a big New York house and isn’t represented by an agent. Essentially, I live hand to mouth with each sale. That’s the deal I’ve made with the literary devil: I get to write what I want to write and put it out into the big wide world but there’s very little chance it will ever amount to much in the big stream of commerce that is America’s marketplace. I got excited when the first few books flew off the table. But it didn’t last. Though there are folks at the Expo, the rain is pouring down and few are buying. So I content myself with people watching and reading A Team of Rivals.
Another fitful night on the Schostags’ couch; this time, not caused by beer in the bladder but by horrific storms that pass over Lakeville after dark. Had it been high summer, with heat and humidity present, the winds that whipped through the Cities would likely have included a funnel cloud or two. But because it’s still spring, the storm simply pummels the house with rain. Wave after wave of rainwater pelts the sturdy house, beating a steady rhythm of storm throughout much of the night.
Sunday morning. Al makes a great breakfast, I say my goodbyes, and I’m off for a second day of selling. Again, patrons weave their way in and out of my booth but few copies of Mr. Environment get sold. Oh, I have plenty of talkers, environmental types who recognize my Uncle Willard’s face and name and want to applaud me for writing his life story. But few of them buy books. By the close of the show, my back sore from couch surfing and hauling my wife’s art, I’m happy to be back in the car, listening to American roots music on The Current, as I head north, towards home.
Peace.
Mark
