The Glamorous Life of an Indie Author ... Featuring Mild Panic, Crooked Tablecloths, and Exactly One Functioning Pen
There is a very particular kind of magic that settles over a book expo in the early morning before the doors open. The folding tables still wobble on the convention hall floor. Someone nearby is wrestling with a banner stand that absolutely refuses to cooperate. The scent of coffee drifts through the room in brave little waves while authors smooth tablecloths, arrange stacks of books, and quietly wonder whether they remembered to pack enough change for cash sales. And there I sit behind my table of cozy mysteries, smiling warmly at passersby while attempting, through sheer force of will alone, to psychically encourage them toward my books. Go on, little murder mysteries, I think lovingly. Be irresistible. Sometimes people pause. Sometimes they pick one up and read the back cover. Sometimes they glance at me with the tiniest bit of cautious curiosity. Then inevitably comes the question. “Oh! Are you the author?” Now, the official answer is, of course: “Why yes. Yes, I am.” Which is...