The Loneliness of the Book-signing Writer

Over the weekend, whilst doing some ad-hoc shopping, I wandered into a high-street bookshop to 1) look for copies of my books (- I’ve given up thinking this is a sad thing to do, as quite frankly most writers will look for their own book in whatever bookshop they go into, be it a high-street bookseller, remainder bookshop, or even second hand), and 2) look for a copy of Iain Banks’ Walking on Glass (after reading The Bridge recently, I’m going through a Banks revival).
I did find a copy of The Secret War, I’m pleased to say, though Walking on Glass seemed to be the only Banks book not on the shelf, so I later ordered it off one of the alternative sellers on Amazon (which I tend to do more and more these days – I tell myself if I’m using one of the “alternative” sellers on Amazon, and not Amazon itself, it’s not soooo bad).
What I also found, to my surprise, was an author doing a planned book-signing. And it wasn’t a signing where they’d just stuck the author in the back, hoping for people to discover them. Nope. They’d stuck her right at the front of the shop, amongst the bestseller shelves, the discount offers, and the Richard and Judy book-club displays. Stuck her behind a large table, with a large display behind her, with a mountain of books laid out on the table.

And not one shopper approached her while I was there.

I was in the store for twenty minutes, perhaps more. And through curiosity, I never strayed that far from the writer and her display. I wanted to see what happened, like some voyeur, not because I was interested in her suffering, but because I wanted to see the joy experienced when someone did approach her. But no one did. She sat behind that desk with a look of hope, trying not to catch anyone’s eye, but not being aloof either, sitting by herself, with that mountain of unsigned books about her. And it wasn’t my imagination that led me to believe she looked just a little crushed.
I could have approached her myself, and might have, but she was writing in a genre I have little interest for and the only common ground was that I too was a writer, and would ask how it’s going, knowing that it was going quite badly. That would have felt like a pity-visit, like a pat on the back for a writer that was probably ahead of me down the career-line.
So I let her sit alone, watching people come and go, some giving her a quick glance, others ignoring her completely. She watched people buy other books from the discount tables, from the bestselling shelves. I didn’t see her books on either. It was quite desperate, considering that a few months before in the same shop I saw people queuing out of the store and down the side of it for a book-signing by Wayne Rooney’s wife. And I have no doubt that whatever this author’s book was about, it would be damned more interesting that Coleen Rooney’s biography. It’s sad.

When I walked out to meet up with Sarah twenty minutes later, I said to her: “See that writer? I bet she wants to kill her agent…”

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In January 2007, while the hardback of The Secret War was finding its way onto book shelves, Will Atkins asked me what I would like to do in terms of publicity. That’s the great thing about Macmillan New Writing – other than self-publicity, MNW pimps your books around the publicity route under the secure guidance of its editor (Will) and press-officer (Sophie) so you know you’re in good hands. I suggested a couple of things, but when I mentioned doing book-signings, Will smiled awkwardly and explained that this wouldn’t be the best idea in the world. He told me a tale about an author who wanted the same thing. They had set up a perfectly good book-signing in a perfectly situated book-shop, and they waited for a few hours, with a table, and a stack of books to sign. Shoppers came and went. No one approached the table. Only a couple of books were signed and sold. It was crushing, mainly for the writer, but also for Will as he could see the confidence draining out of them. It was mortifying. A massive rejection, and in public. Thankfully, it was one that I didn’t have to experience, personally, because immediately after hearing this, I scaled down my publicity activities.

Last year, whilst visiting York, I witnessed a similar thing – a debut author, being published by an independent imprint, signing books to no one in a major high-street store. He looked hopeful that someone would come over to him, but no one did. Admittedly I was only there for about fifteen minutes, and who knows, there might have been a flood of readers prior to that, but his expression told me it was a quiet day at the office. And there’s nothing like trying to keep appearances after a couple of hours of neglect. I’ve never had to keep the mask of serenity for that long, knowing inside I want to be anywhere else but there. And it always looks worse when there’s a stack of unsigned books in front of them.

And it isn’t just mid-list or debut authors that suffer this. My sister went to a book signing of a well-known crime writer (a bestselling author no less) in an event at Manchester’s Waterstones. It was a lunch-time thing, so it would have been mercifully short, and Louise expected to be queuing around the block, waiting for her stack of paperbacks to be signed. She was pretty much the first in the queue as it happened, and she arrived in the middle of the signing. Once more, shoppers didn’t approach him. The writer was sat with his agent, pleased in that hopeful way that at least someone will ask for a signed copy, and while Louise was able to talk to him for a while at least (there was no one else there), it wasn’t exactly a successful signing for the author. The fact is, Louise was one of a very tiny minority – and that’s for a bestselling author signing in one of the biggest bookshops in one of the biggest cities in the UK.

Maybe shoppers in the UK are shy when it comes to these things, that seeing an author sign books is a curiosity, but not something that will urge them to find out more. Or maybe we are gripped too much by celebrity, that these days marrying a footballer is more worthwhile than writing something of value. Something worth queuing for. I remember reading in a newspaper (ironically) that celebrity was a cancer that was eating away at true merit, and this kind of illustrates the point.
Again, it’s quite sad.

I have nothing but the greatest respect for writers who do book-signings. But I’m not sure I am ready for one myself, nor have I the kudos to carry it off right now. So these days I slip into bookshops unannounced, ask the managers if they want me to sign their stock, and then I slip out again. Which works for me. It’s quick, and it’s painless. And because signed books sell faster, it pays too.

As for the loneliness of the book-signing writer – well I’ve decided that, should I see something like this happen again, I’ll go over. I won’t say I’m a writer, just an interested punter, and I’ll make small talk. I might even buy a copy of their book. A lot of UK shoppers are like sheep, in a way, and if they see someone queuing up for something, they’ll tend to queue too out of curiosity. Who knows, maybe they’ll get something more of out it than the insipid ramblings of a rags to celeb story of a twenty-something who has little experience of life for it to be an interesting read. Who knows?
But at least the author will get some gratification. Writers have feelings as well, you know…