Just (via Blog of a Bookslut: thanks, Jessa -- ) came across this Telegraph article about -- let's call it what it is -- signing envy. An ugly thing, especially if you catch yourself at it.
Never having been at this end of the whole book-festival process, it hadn't occurred to me that book-signing is a competitive sport.
Like penalty shoot-outs, only longer, more boring and with added hate.
...But will anyone bother writing about what it's like for the person at the other end of the table at these double acts? -- when you're the one signing book after book after book after book after book after book, without a pause, hardly having time to breathe, while the whole time you're sharing the table with another writer, who is not approached by a single human being, and who sits there desperately trying to make cheerful conversation to cover up how increasingly miserable they're feeling? When the poor soul next to you might as well have tumbleweed blowing past them, through the aching empty expanse in which no one even glances in their direction?
-- and you, sitting there, signing away for all you're worth and smiling at the signees until you think your face is going to crack, are practically expiring with embarrassment and pity for the brave and wretched person sitting next to you. If you get a few minutes to do so, you usually find yourself driven to tell them all your horror stories -- the time the same thing that's happening to them now, happened to you: the even worse time that, not only did no one show up at the signing, but even the bookstore had forgotten it -- but it doesn't really help. The other person suffers. You suffer. And you're so glad to escape when it's over. It's so, so terrible.
The experience is only a shade less horrible for you at a "gang bang", where you're sitting with about six other writers. But the more writers there are at that table, the more unbearable it gets for the lone soul whose presence at the signing wasn't properly advertised, or whatever, and who sits there playing with their pen and attempting to be brightly interested in everything else that's going on around them. Argh, anguish...
At least the only signing space I've got this time out is at the kaffeeklatsch. I fall at the feet of LACon IV programming in gratitude.
But, people, if you see one, be kind to that poor person at the lonely other end of the table...
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Comments
And I'm budgeting money just for that purpose at LACon IV.
Plus I'm screwing my courage to the sticking point and am going to turn up at things besides panels, the dealers' room, and the art show.
(there will be chocolate and prizes and ah, BRIBERY!!!)
I particularly love the way many WorldCons of late have done it: have six people signing, two of whom are big names and go on the two ends of the big autograph table, then four smaller names in the middle. (This actually worked out well at Noreascon, as it gave me and Craig Shaw Gardner a chance to catch up while we watched Neil Gaiman sign a lot of books....)
And thus another reading addiction was born...
It doesn't affect just the lesser known writers. Marcon 1994. Autograph line, and the main attraction is the artist Boris Vallejo. I got pulled out and sent to the head because I had something for the "other guest" to sign, (as well as for Boris, who, I might note, does not autograph with his "painting-signature").
That other, forgotten, ignored guest?
Only the heart and soul of DC comics, Julius Schwartz.
Yeesh.
Fortunately, I'd just been paid some overtime so I bought from all four (so around $75), not just from the big name. I only regretted a $15. purchase made from one of the two lesser lights.
Niven, perhaps trying for a little humor, said, "You know, Hal and I have never collaborated on anything, so if any of you just have books for him, why don't you come on up?" I stepped out of the line, walked up to Hal's spot, set the Big Stack Of Books on the table, and said, "All of these are for you."
I think Niven was a bit taken aback -- he may not have been expecting that anyone would really take him up on it! But Hal's whole face just lit up, and he said, "Thank you, you just made my day." It's one of my best con memories.