Wildflowers Press

You’re not going to like what I write here. It’ll likely rub you the wrong way.  You might say I’m unappreciative or that I should have run the numbers first.

You’re not wrong.  

I did run the numbers, but I didn’t care. I wanted to see for myself. 

I drove four hours to a beach town to sell my book.  I was offered the chance to sit on the front porch of a lovely bookstore in an exclusive beachside community where I could hock my books on a breezy Saturday morning.  

I came prepared: 30 hardcover copies, fancy ballpoint pen, cute business cards advertising my author website, tucked neatly into each book and an extra stack for the table. I even brought a lovely blue Kenyan tablecloth in which to proudly display my hard work.  

I dressed carefully that morning: marine blue linen top with white jeans and funky jewelry.  Even wore my silver octopus cuff to match the beachy vibe. I arrived early, fearful I wouldn’t find parking near the bookstore.  I double parked to get my books inside and returned to find luck on my side. Someone was leaving their sought-after parking spot.  I snagged it but had to pay online.  Whatever… just the cost of doing business.  

$36.00 for five hours? Ooof.  

Within the first fifteen minutes, I had customers – a young couple. They wanted to hear about my book – about my story and who I was as a writer.  They were charming and fun. They asked good questions. And they bought one. I signed it to Tyler and Savannah (that’s right, 2 n’s and an h).  I texted my husband who’s working in West Africa to tell him the good news.  He cheered me on.

I had high hopes for good sales.  

And then nothing…  For the next hour, people slunk by me on their way into the bookstore – shy glances in my direction… almost like they were afraid I’d accost them with my book.  I smiled… made sparce eye contact, trying to seem harmless and yet, intriguing.  Now and then, a few would engage.  “Are you the author? Is this your book?”  Why the Hell would I be sitting out here, pen in hand with a pile of books, if I weren’t the author?

They’d chat me up. Tell me they had a friend who’d love it. “It’s a medical thriller? Oh, this is perfect for my girlfriend in there. I’ll tell her to come out and check it out.”  Said girlfriend would come out, not even pick up the book, ask a few non-committal questions and tootle off.  Over the course of three hours, this was my experience.  Lots of Dodgers, afraid to look my way.  

Or the other extreme… the Gushers.

“This is remarkable.  Such an achievement. Can I shake your hand?”  I had more than a few of these – all women, all ages…. filled with maternal doting and false praise.   Some wanted to take pictures of the book and even me.  They snapped up my business cards like free candy.  Not one of these people, toting bags and packages from all manner of high-end stores in the vicinity, actually purchased a book. 

 “Oh, I’m not buying books today.”  Fascinating since you just came out of a bookstore.  Makes perfect sense.  My smile shrinking… bit by bit. 

It’s hard to hold a fake smile over the course of four hours.  It takes practice, pasting it on… needing super glue… even though they won’t notice because they refuse to meet your gaze. I swayed between moments of abject despair to feelings of murderous rage.  

I became so discombobulated I was unable to describe my book after hours of this Dodge or Gush dance.  

“It’s a medical thriller… about 2 people… It’s about relationships… it’d make a great Mother’s Day gift” (WTF?)  Men were better about eye contact.  The few who engaged with me seemed to want to know about what I’d written.  Sadly, they weren’t inclined to purchase it.  Even for their mothers. 

The women though…  (And I really don’t want to bash other women… but this particular species was something else.)  They wanted to pat me on the head, like a child.  My favorite said, “Oh, honey, I’m so proud of you. What an accomplishment.  You must be so thrilled with this monumental achievement.”  

She repeated this no less than three times over the course of our ten-minute exchange.  She needed me to acknowledge and appreciate her effusive, meaningless accolades.  What’s worse – she was half my age… could have been my daughter.  And I’m no shrinking violet.  I can hold my own with most people, but after hours of similar exchanges with other young, entitled women, I grew disgusted.  After she finally departed, bookless, I looked around to be sure I wasn’t on the set of White Lotus. 

The bookstore owner came out to check on me.  “It’s hard work out here.  This isn’t for the faint of heart,” she said. By this time, I knew the truth of that.  I was shivering in the shade, as a constant chilly breeze whipped up.  And I was starving.  One more hour to go. 

I discovered if I opened my laptop and worked, seeming pre-occupied (less desperate), people would approach me.  That did the trick for the next few sales.  After four hours, I took a break for lunch and to warm up.  When I went back, I only lasted twenty minutes before calling it quits.  

Total sales:  5 hardcovers ($30 each) 

Then there are the deductions: 

$16.00 – my hardcover purchase cost

$12.00 – bookstore 40% commission

My earnings: $4.00 per book

That’s right, I made $20.00 for the day… after the four years spent writing this novel. (Cry me a river, I know)

I’d have been happy selling 15 books.  Heck, 10 would have put a smile on my face.  

Really.  

I could have overlooked the cost of gas, hotel room and print costs of my hardcover.  But five books after four freezing hours of pitying looks or awkward aggrandizing?  No thank you.

If I were dependent on selling books to put food on my table, I wouldn’t have driven four hours on the off-chance wealthy strangers might buy my book.  I’ve been to a few book signing events since the launch of my novel back in December of 2024 – so I know this rodeo.  And truthfully, my dear friends have already bought their copies – so I’m not surprised by less than stellar book sales four months out.  Coming to Seaside was a chance to find new readers, new customers… and to make new connections.  I didn’t think the process would be so demoralizing.  

I hoped for something transformative.  I just didn’t realize it had already happened…. the night before.

Friday night, I checked into my Days Inn room, off US-98 in Destin.  I was hungry, looking for dinner, which can be tricky when you’re flying solo.  I found The Back Porch, an oyster bar and restaurant, about a 15 minute walk from the hotel.  

Coming into the Destin I’d been stuck in traffic for nearly an hour, so the idea of getting back in my car wasn’t appealing.  The Back Porch was hopping: families everywhere, bridal parties decked out in matching pink t-shirts, fraternity boys and sun-kissed spring breakers.  I asked if I could sit at the bar.  I was told to go to the one upstairs – lots of seats there.

I squeezed into a corner – leaving two seats next to me.  The bar was taken up by older couples, in their 50’s and 60’s.  No one made eye contact, so I placed my order and watched golf on the big screen TV.  I hate golf.  After getting my Amberjack sandwich, fries and coleslaw, the man two seats over asked if I liked my monitor.  I was wearing my glucose monitor on my right bicep.   “No, I hate it… the actual monitor is fine,” I clarified, slurping a habanero margarita. “I just hate that I have to be so careful with everything I eat.”  He laughed.  He and his wife were drinking the same sweet, spicy concoction.

We talked about food and diets and diabetes medications and then I learned they were from Iowa – drove down for vacation.  They were in their 70’s. Retired farmers.  They’d farmed soybeans and corn back in the day. I told them I was a writer and about the book signing in Seaside. Jan told me she loved reading.  Glen smirked, “That’s all she wants to do – always has her nose in a book.”  Jan wanted to buy a copy.  I told her she’d have to come to the signing.  Sadly they were leaving the next morning, headed back to Iowa.  I joked she should come by the Days Inn if she wanted one. 

“I might just do that.”

We kept talking. Told me about their parasailing adventure earlier that day.  

Parasailing?  

I was impressed. I did that once in my 20’s, off the coast of Greece.  These two, in their 70’s, talking about blood glucose monitors and heart attack scares… I laughed and told them they were impersonating people far younger than they reported to be. 

Then they showed me the pictures…  of being hoisted into the air, attached to a huge, bright blue parachute…   The childlike grin on Jan’s face said it all.  

We talked about livestock – cows and horses – of which they still had many.  We chatted about travelling and then circled back to the book – and why I wrote it.  I told them about being a former Peace Corps volunteer, where I met my husband and that I miss that kind of travel.  

Eventually I hopped off my stool and bid them farewell. It had been a great evening, sharing bits of our lives.  I wandered back to my hotel.  As I struggled with the non-working TV remote, I got a call from the front desk.  It was Jan.  She’d walked over to buy my book. 

People say they’ll do things all the time…  I had no expectation she’d walk down to the Days Inn on busy I-98 to find me, but there she was, decked out in her walking shoes and blue windbreaker.  I signed a copy to both she and Glen and gave her a quick hug.  

She overpaid me.  Told me Glen wanted to give me a tip. 

Earlier that evening, they joked they were dining with a pre-celebrity… someone they expected to see on TV sometime in the future.  I laughed, secretly wishing that to be true.  

Truth is, I’d rather spend time with the Jans and Glens of this world – farmers from Iowa who go parasailing in their 70’s and walk to a dusty Day’s Inn to buy an unknown author’s first book.

That’s time well spent.