WHO WAS THAT MASKED MAN?

by John M. Floyd

I doubt it would come as a revelation to anyone reading this that we who write for this site receive our column ideas at unlikely times, and from unlikely sources. The idea for this one came to me at a bookstore signing a few months ago. I had a good day there, met some nice folks, and — thank goodness — also sold some books. But there was one huge stretch of time, right in the middle of the afternoon, when nobody was around. And I don’t mean a slow crowd, or a just a few browsers. I mean nobody. Except for me and the staff, the place was as empty of humanity as a mudflat in the Gulf of Alaska.

Was it a rainy day?, you might ask. Unseasonably cold? An NFL playoff weekend? Nope. No excuses. Folks just, for some astounding reason, found other things to do than come to the store where I was making my stellar appearance. I was reminded of the Erma Bombeck anecdote about one of her signings. She said she had only two customers approach her signing table all day — one needed directions to the restroom and the other asked her how much she wanted for the table.

It’s funny, sure, but it’s all too possible. The only strange thing about it is that we seem surprised when it happens to us.

One of the Sad Facts of the Writing Life goes like this: Although very few writers attract huge crowds at author events or make the bestseller lists, almost all writers seem to feel they should attract huge crowds and make the bestseller lists. Editor Pat Walsh, in 78 Reasons Why Your Book May Never Be Published, gives us the dreaded truth without any sugarcoating at all: “Readers are not going to care about you simply because you care about you.” All we can do is write the best stories we can, and if neither wealth nor fame happens to find its way to our doorstep, well, too bad. That’s the way the mop flops.

One of my friends greeted me the other day with “Well, if it isn’t the famous author.” I replied that I was grateful for his kindness (and I was) but that he was only half right. I am in fact an author. As for the other half, I’m famous only on Old Orchard Lane in the town where I live. And it’s a really short street.

I’m not saying I’m not proud to be a writer, or that I think what I write is undeserving of praise. I’m reminded of something James pointed out in his column earlier this week: Writing to entertain and engage the reader is a high calling. I agree completely. The thought that the stories I create might possibly brighten someone’s day is enough to make me strive even harder to do my best.

All I’m saying is, some of us writers need to pop a humble pill every so often, and take ourselves a little less seriously. After all, we’re not physicians or scientists, or even carpenters or farmers; what we do won’t result in a cure for cancer or the design of a safer automobile. If all the fiction writers in the world were to suddenly vanish tomorrow in a puff of white smoke, life on our planet (although I think it would be far less interesting) would continue without us.

On a personal note, I will admit that my head does tend to swell now and then. I can recall at least a couple of times, in my fairly brief writing career, when I felt pretty darn important. Once was when I tagged along with some movie guys while they scouted locations for a short film based on one of my stories. Filmmakers are fascinating, to me, and it was fun being introduced to onlookers as “the writer” of the project. (I must confess that that was three years ago and the movie has still not been filmed, but who’s counting?)

The other time was when I found myself seated on a long flight beside a woman who was reading an issue of AHMM that contained one of my stories. I kept quiet until I saw her reading my story, and when she was done I leaned over and asked her what she thought of it.

I was ready with two replies: If she liked it, I would puff out my chest and tell her I was the author. If she didn’t, I would nod and say, “Glad you told me — I won’t read that one.” As it turned out, she liked it (or was kind enough to say she did), so I revealed my secret identity and she was suitably impressed (or was kind enough to make me think she was). I of course never saw her again and don’t remember her name, but I still remember feeling good all the way to baggage claim.

I’m convinced that writers need that kind of ego boost from time to time, because there are plenty of occasions — most of which involve rejection slips — that can let the air out of their balloons faster than you can say, “That editor must be an idiot.”

I experienced one of those occasions about two years ago. During a trip to the grocery store, I bought three copies of a Woman’s World that contained one of my mystery stories. One copy was for my mother, one for my sister, one for me. When I was checking out, the gum-smacking clerk behind the counter looked at my purchase and said, “You got three magazines, here.”

“I know,” I said.

“But you got three of the same issue.” She blew a wobbly pink bubble.

“I know I do.” I stood up straight and raised my chin as if addressing the multitudes. “I have a story in there.”

The bubble popped. “You mean you wrote a story in this magazine?”

“That’s right.”

She studied me a moment, while I checked my pocket for a pen in case she asked for my autograph.

“That’ll be five dollars and fifty-eight cents,” she said, chewing again.

That kind of thing can bring you back to earth in a hurry.