Tooting One's Own Horn

I am trying to toot my own horn. I sit at a table strategically placed just inside the entrance to the bookstore. People must pass me to get to the videos on my left or books on my right. I hope they are here for books.

My book, Barefoot on Broken Glass, is displayed on the table. An easel holds bookmarks and promotional postcards. I designed them myself with a picture of my smiling face, covers of Barefoot and my three poetry books, and a small poem I wrote about myself. On the back is my contact information. (Even though I have a like sometimes, hate most times, relationship with computers and the internet, I am learning s-l-o-w-l-y.)

I sit here alone. I'm not famous; no lines of eager readers holding my book waiting for an autograph. I'm in a new town, bigger city, anonymous. I am trying to sell stories of a life no one knows about. My other book signings were closer to home with familiar faces. Sales went well. People gathered around my table to talk, laugh, and buy books. I evidently more than doubled the usual sales for an unknown author.

I have ventured into unfamiliar territory. I am trying to toot my own horn.

Do I now greet the customers at the door pushing my writing, placing bookmarks and postcards in unwilling hands?

Should I say, "Hello. How are you doing today? My name is Monterey. Do you want to buy my book? I think you will enjoy it. The words were birthed after a long and difficult struggle; a labor of sorts to deliver years of memories onto paper. It will make you cry. (Maybe I should offer a free box of Kleenex as a bonus.) It will make you smile. It will make you gasp in amazement at the faithfulness of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Hold on...one lady is slowing, making eye contact. I smile, say hello. She smiles (barely), averts her eyes, and turns sharply to the right before I can launch into my spiel. I feel like a salesman. With the next woman I am quicker. I get my little postcard into her hand as she walks by. She thanks me politely, says she will read it later. Success, of a sort.

It is so sad that I can't just stay in my cozy home and write, write, write, with my pen and paper. It worked for a time, but then someday came. You know; someday someone will believe in my story, my talent, and want to publish my work.

Now I have to go out into the world and toot my own horn. My publisher said I have to promote myself too, that people will buy me before they buy my book. Somehow that doesn't seem quite right, but I will go with it.

Wow! Five people are standing at my table reading the back of my book. They seem interested, but only take the postcard. That is okay, maybe they will buy one later. One man said he knows someone who has my poetry book, Faith Like A Dandelion, and he will take an extra card.

Tooting my own horn. I don't even know how to tune it, let alone toot anything pleasing to the ears. I was taught humility; always be humble, don't brag, let someone else tell of my works. Now I must tell the world I am a writer, a poet, an author, and I think I am good enough to be read. Good enough to tweak your emotions and make you laugh, cry, and want to read more.

The time allotted for my book signing has elapsed. I sold one book, but my cards are now floating around a new city. I just realized there is a big book sale going on. Some books are two for a dollar. I don't blame the customers who avoided my table. If I hadn't had to sit there talking to myself, I would have been at the sale too. I'm going there now. Nothing soothes like a good book. I will toot my horn again another time.