Tonight I'll be
reading at Powells. I've been thinking about the first time I came to Portland on a book tour. I was speaking at another bookstore that shall remain nameless, and it was one of those events that every author dreads, where nobody showed up except for a couple of distant acquaintances I had strong-armed into attending. I felt silly standing at a podium to address an audience of two, so I just sat down with them in one of the chairs the store had set up for my no-show audience. We talked about
the book for a few minutes, and then I asked them what each of them had been up to lately, and they told me, and that was it. They asked me to sign copies of my book, and then they wandered off to the cash register, probably glad to be done with that particular chore. I stayed for a while longer, signing stock copies for the store and chatting with the staff, and then I shuffled out, feeling quite forlorn and sorry for myself.
I like to go hear other authors read when I'm on a book tour. It's not always possible, but this time my own event was in the afternoon so I had my evening free. I headed over to Powells, where P. D. James was reading from her new book at the time, Death in Holy Orders. She was magnetic. She was riveting. She spoke to a standing-room only crowd, and afterwards, the line to sign books wrapped all the way around the room. I happened to be standing near the front of the line, so I grabbed a book and elbowed my way in. She was in a chatty mood, asking each person a little about themselves before she signed their book. So I handed her the copy I'd picked up and I said, "I'm a writer, too. I just had my own book signing across town. Only two people showed up."
She burst out laughing and looked around at the crowd of admirers pressing in around her. "Oh, dear," she said, reaching out and placing her hand over mine. "It will come, it will come."