A writer's viewpoint of what it means to be "on the road" and marketing one's own book...and the funny things than can happen during those book tours/

Learning the perils and pluses of barnstorming
Victoria Zackheim Sunday, June 23, 2002
I was thrilled when my first novel, "The Bone Weaver," was published last year. After years of writing and revising it, seeing my name printed on the cover was a dream come true . Because I was with a small publisher, I understood that all public relations and travel expenses would come out of my pocket and that I was responsible for any bookings. In other words, I'd have to make the book sell. Not so easy -- it is not a bodice-ripper but a generational story about a professor whose lifelong friend has died and who therefore is compelled to understand how she came to such a lonely place. But the seeming lack of marketability did not diminish my fantasies about news coverage, popping flashbulbs and fans lined up to buy my novel. Publish and they will come, I thought.

My first book fairs taught me the true definition of schlepping (a Yiddish word that means dragging your junk all over the place). At the request of Los Angeles event organizers, I carried two cases of books onto the plane. But it turned out they had books, and I never broke the seal on either box. Without complaining (you always want to be asked back), I flew home, slept for three hours and left at the crack of dawn for Austin, Texas, grateful to be traveling without those books. After that event, the host announced, "Victoria has to catch a flight to Florida, where she'll be appearing tomorrow, so let's give her our thanks," and I was whisked away amid robust applause. So this is how Isabel Allende feels!

Arriving in Fort Lauderdale, I called the event coordinator and asked how many of my books she had. Her silence prompted a sinking realization that those cases I had dragged to Los Angeles were intended for Fort Lauderdale. Frantic, I rushed out the next morning and purchased 100 mailing labels. After my speech, I confessed my oversight and informed the audience that the book was free, but the mailing labels were $18.95 -- which got a nice laugh. That's where I learned that promoting a serious book has its advantages. If you write humor, the audience expects you to be humorous. But if you've written a serious book and happen to say something funny, everyone is surprised and you feel quite clever for having pulled it off.

Book tours are full of surprises. I was on a panel at the Wordslingers Festival in Nevada City and was caught off guard when one of the other authors asked everyone to stand and sing "Amazing Grace." Was I supposed to have a theme song and no one told me?

Then there was the great-grandmother in Santa Monica who asked me to autograph a book and then walked straight out the door without paying.

I landed in Seattle during a storm so violent that the rental car agent insisted I upgrade to the kind of full-size vehicle you see parked at the Elks lodge. Good thing, because I would have been blown off the highway and into the bay.

Fighting the storm, I arrived at the bookstore and was pleased to find an audience of eight. In a village north of Seattle, who could do better? I admit to some ego deflation when they told me a children's author had spoken that morning to a crowd of 500.

When a Knoxville book fair organizer offers to cover flight expenses and throws in four nights with a host family, how can you not accept? I confirmed the dates, contacted a handful of bookstores within a 400-mile radius and organized five extra days of readings.

After the Knoxville event, I said goodbye to my host family, who had been so hospitable I expected them to hand over the deed to the property. I climbed into the rental car and covered 1,300 miles of Tennessee and North Carolina highways, the task made sweeter because gas was selling at 81 cents a gallon.

This tour also taught me that visiting writers should travel with snacks. At an Asheville, N.C., bookstore, I sat at a little table with a stack of books and my trusty fountain pen. Had there been a plate of cheese and crackers, people might have stopped for a sample. Instead, they averted their eyes and moved on.

Fort Lauderdale had been such a success (despite the mailing-label fiasco) that I agreed to return in February, when snowbirds arrive from the north. I was offered a guest room in a private home in Plantation, 30 miles from Miami.
I had scheduled 12 events in eight days, and drove from Plantation to Miami,
Plantation to Boca Raton and Pembroke Pines, Plantation to South Miami and then westward across Alligator Alley to the gulf city of Sarasota. My last day of the tour was to be celebrated with a rousing event at a popular bookstore in Miami, but the posters didn't arrive and the events manager had taken ill -- so the reading was never advertised. Standing at the lectern, I smiled at my audience: one elderly woman who sweetly explained that she was waiting for her husband, who was somewhere in the reference section looking for information on prostate disease. We talked about my novel and then she took one from the pile and asked me to sign it. "I hope you enjoy it," I told her, giving her my most winning (and grateful) smile. "Oh, I'm not sure I'll ever read it," she said. "But I feel so sorry for you!"
If pity sells books, so be it.

Victoria Zackheim is a San Francisco writer.