Booked Solid

It's that time of the year.  The national booksellers conventions are beginning to bloom.  And just thinking about them gives me an allergic reaction.

I've been asked to attend a number of these over-the-top events throughout the years, and have represented publishers at conventions in Denver, St. Louis, and Knoxville . . . just to name a few.  And holy guacamole, do I have tales to tell.

Consider, for example, my trip to Knoxville. It was the summer of 1999, as I recall, and I set out in my 1991 Caprice station wagon (it was actually low-mileage and had air-conditioning then).  I had the wagon loaded with two boxes of books, which I intended to give away at the publisher's booth, and I had also been slated to speak at a workshop as an "inspirational" guru under the moniker: "Pastor, speaker, author, and humorist."

Naturally, I wasn't very good at any of these things.  People in my congregation would have scoffed at the notion of my being a pastor and especially by my audacity to actually claim the title of "Reverend."  Yes, I was on my way to writing lots of books, but "author" and "humorist"?  The only person I was able to make laugh on a consistent basis was my wife . . . and she only thought I was funny because of the way I looked or when I made suggestive comments or sexual overtures.  She still scoffs at the idea and rolls into hysterics whenever we have an evening alone.

But the problem with the Knoxville event in 1999, however, wasn't me.  It was the heat.  And I am not exaggerating one lick when I say, "It was hot as hell."  No, Knoxville was hell.  

The day I gave my talk, I had to trek from my car to an auditorium on the far side of the University of Tennessee campus.  By the time I arrived the sweat rings under my armpits had expanded to include the totality of my shirt and proceeded to expand down my pant legs toward my kneecaps.  I gave my talk in a two-toned suit, made disparaging remarks about Tennessee, and eventually had people filing out of the auditorium demanding their money back.  I was a hit.

I signed all of my books, eating all of the profits myself, but was so glad I didn't have to cart fifty pounds of books back to the car.  When I was finished, I stopped off at 7-11 and drank two of those Big Gulp four-gallon sized drinks, but I didn't stop to pee on the drive back to Indiana.  I was parched. Those purple Slurpees went directly into my blood stream.

Naturally, I don't have fond memories of my first book sellers convention or the University of Tennessee.  Every time I drive through Knoxville I tear up and tell my wife I almost died there.  "It was a hell hole," I remind her.  "You could have lost me."

And she, of course, scoffs at the very notion.