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The Book Signing

The Literature Festival is a jolly affair. Hordes of animated, chattering people are everywhere and there is a warm, friendly atmosphere. Strangers talk to each other as if they were old friends, all brought together by the love of writing, reading and the opportunity to hear about and discuss a wide range of topics: History, Philosophy, Travel, Humour, News and loads besides.

My task this week is to chat to as many writers as I can and try to get an understanding of how they feel about attending festivals such as these, and why Literature Festivals have grown in popularity over recent years, such that they are now the main marketing method for publishers (so I am told).

Each author I approach is delighted to be there, and see it as an opportunity to meet their readers, to socialize with other writers, and to enjoy the scenery of the Lake District. It’s a stimulating mini-break for writers and an escape from slaving alone over a desk in an isolated garret.

I have lugged two enormous hardback tomes written by Judith Flanders (and very good they are too) which are the products of her research into Victorian society in England. I thought I may as well get her to sign them as we were both going to be in the same place, and she was signing books anyway. I did think twice about this because they are both almost the size of breeze blocks, and my suitcase was already heavy but, why not? They’re excellent reads and I’m sure she’ll be delighted that I have bought two.

She strides onto the platform wearing casual straight leg trousers and a sweater. Her hair is scraped back and pinned tight. She delivers her talk and walks off stage to sit at the signing table in the foyer. I smile brightly and romp up to the table proffering my hefty volumes and ask her to sign them. She looks down, signs her name, and frowns as I speak.

“Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions?”

She frowns harder and glares at me. She continues signing other people’s books without looking up. She looks down, signs, pushes the books back away from her. I wait.

When the book profferers have all gone I step forward again, smiling with all the charm I can muster and say, “I’m doing a project on Literature Festivals. Can I ask you what are the benefits of attending?”

Her face is pinched up, “To sell more books!” She scowls hard. I move back a few inches.

She stares ferociously at me. “Who are you?! Why are you asking me questions?!”

I move back a step.

I explain as gently as I can so not to alarm her. It’s a small project for a local University and we’re interested in how books are marketed and promoted, that’s all.

She continues glaring but there is a miniscule lessening of the tension, “It’s just part of the deal – it’s not what I want to be doing.”

I try to look understanding and non-threatening.

“The publishers ask me to do it!”

I make a concerned sort of face but, really, I am bewildered. “Do you have to do many then?”

“I do so many a year, to sell more books!”

I feel sympathetic now, “So would you prefer to stick to the research?”

“It’s for the readers, it’s NOT what I do.”

She hates me, but I am brave and venture one more question; that is whether sales are noticeably improved.

“It is impossible to say if sales are increased,” she barks and, with that I retreat.

Not really her scene then.

I need some air.
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