![[Logo]](/images/101ReasonsLogo.png "101 Reasons to Stop Writing")
A little note to the wannabes who so desperately want to get published so they can look upon their adoring audience at book signings and readings: a little piece from Phil Stanford of the Portland Tribune (Oregon) on a book reading last year might be instrumental:
Author Bob Dietsche reports that sales of his new book Jumptown, about Portland’s history as a jazz hot spot, have been going quite well, thank you. Although there was that reading last month at St. Johns Booksellers out on Lombard, where a guy in the front row fell asleep and snored so loudly Dietsche could barely hear himself talk. With about five minutes to go, the guy woke up with a start and announced, “Hey, I gotta go now.” Well, you’re bound to lose a few of ‘em.
Talk to any number of writers who’ve made the mistake of public readings and signings, and they’ll give you similar stories. Considering that your intended audience consists almost solely of fellow frustrated wannabes who attend the reading to:
– you might want to consider how you’d react when your audience starts snoring like this. Better yet, you can bypass the shame of asking the person next to the snorer to “please wake up Mom and take her home” and stop writing.
Contrary to popular opinion, Paul Riddell isn’t the mastermind of this blog, but he’s perfectly happy being the perfect evil assistant, as demonstrated at the Esoteric Science Resource Center.
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Why is it that authors don’t interpret this as a qualitative judgement?
I’ve never attended a book reading, partly because my sleep patterns are perpetually non-Circadian and when not presented with engaging stimuli, I lapse into a narcoleptic stupor. So I’d be that guy snoring in the front row, especially listening to a history of jazz in Portland.
What got me about that article wasn’t just the fact that the subject matter was so dull, but that even by Portland standards, this was typical passive-aggressive behavior. Even if the storekeepers didn’t want to shoo off Sleeping Beauty because “he’s really big in the local writing community” or some such other twaddle, then why didn’t the author stop in mid-reading and ask “Could I please get a microphone so the three people who care can hear me over this jackass?” Better yet, why didn’t the author settle for something that even a Portlander can understand, like putting his hand in a bucket of warm water?
Am I the only writer who doesn’t want to do book signings or readings? I’ve never been to a reading. I mean, why would I want to listen to the writer read from his book? I know how to read; I no longer need someone to do it for me. And the writer makes his money from, yanno*, writing. Unless he’s also a professional voice actor, I can’t imagine it would be particularly interesting.
*No, I’m still not her.
OK, Anon., mea culpa. Yanno must be a regional thing. He was also a popular pianist, if memory serves.
I’d say a substantial proportion, perhaps the majority of writers don’t want to do appearances like signings or readings. Very few have any real talent for public speaking — if they did, they’d be actors or motivational speakers, even politicians. So you’re not alone. Fortunately, most writers will never be afforded this opportunity.
There are reasons, though, why readers might want to meet an author, get a signed book, listen to them read a favourite passage or something from an upcoming book, answer questions about inspiration and influences. If you can’t imagine this, you may want to stop writing now, lest your humbuggery become a real issue.
“the writer makes his money from, yanno*, writing” –
This is fundamentally incorrect. The writer makes their money from selling their writing (via a publisher) to readers. It’s an important distinction, and it may go some way to explaining why you fail.
Sadly, Anon, you’d be amazed. Just as with the wannabes who know that they’re exemplary writers without any evidence to back up their delusions, you have innumerable published writers who know they can keep an audience enraptured by reading from their work. A slight variation on this comes from the writers who insist upon appearing in movie adaptations of their work, and they tend to get rather ticked off when audiences ask “so what’s with the Romero zombie there in the back? Did he blow the director to get that cameo, or is he the writer?” (Of course, nothing beats the wannabe for this level of hubris: not only have they deluded themselves into believing that they can write, but they’ve also deluded themselves that all they need to “break through” is a public opportunity to be discovered. It’s the literary equivalent of the Los Angeles hair metal bands who bring their gear into the local McDonald’s in the hopes of being spotted by a talent scout.)