Category Archives: shopsitting

Dear John

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As people are visiting in preparation for the Author Humiliation Contest, we’re re-running the infamous Dear John letter from last year, as incentive to have fun. (Mr. Grisham can take a joke. We hope and pray….)

Let’s face it: we’ve had some good times, but they’re all in the past.

You made me laugh; you broadened my horizons; I ran my fingers down your spine and felt sexy and smart. We even shared some values. I will never forget weeping over A Time to Kill, feeling that I’d found my soul mate (not to mention this generation’s To Kill a Mockingbird).

But we’ve grown apart. Put more bluntly, you’ve changed. Try as I might, I just can’t get past Playing for Pizza. 

It’s over, John. Our bookstore won’t be taking any more Grishams–not paperback, not hardback, not written on vellum. I tried. Through the mood swings from The Testament to A Painted House, I stood by you.

“He’ll find himself again,” I said to naysayers. “Really, he’s a sensitive ’90s guy; did you read Rainmaker?” And then I read The Litigators, and wondered.

Frankly, John, it’s just not worth it to try again. Your hardbacks are clogging a desirable traffic area among the Pattersons and Cornwells. (If it’s any consolation, she’s next. You may find comfort under each other’s covers in the bargain bin; rebounds aren’t so bad if you have a traveling companion.)

Plus, your hardbacks take up an entire shelf, and can’t lie sideways because of their height. Size does matter, dude.

So really, it’s not you; it’s me. You’re just… too much. You throw yourself at every Amazon, Dick and Barnes and Noble, and then come crawling in here expecting I’ll take you back. You’re not a cheap date anymore; I need space for the next guy; you’re all over the place–in the Quick Trades, clogging the discount bin, lying under our shelves. I’m tired of cleaning up your messes every morning, after you party all night with the foster kittens. You’re just too cheap and easy.

I know, I know; you want to talk about the past, the glory days when people couldn’t keep their hands off you. I get it. I should feel lucky to have you here, with me, now. But it doesn’t work that way.

The time has come. Let’s be adult about this–no blame, no regrets. Admit it; you had fun. So did I. Shake hands before you go? No, don’t kiss me. You’re dusty. Just get out.

AUTHOR HUMILIATION CONTEST ANNOUNCEMENT

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embarrassedFor those who’d like to see them, last week’s EDIBLE BOOK CONTEST photos are here: Tales of the Lonesome Pine LLC

We are pre-empting the Monday Book (but I’ll run one Wednesday or Friday, depending on whether Jack gets me a  blog from his Scottish tour this week) to bring you

THE AUTHOR HUMILIATION CONTEST!

It all started when a fellow writer online described her recent arrival at a Very Large Bookstore in a Big City to tout her Very Good New Book. Karen Spears Zacharias had the following conversation:

Asst. Manager: I had no idea you had an event here today.
Me: Wow. Really? It was in the newspaper and on television. We’ve been corresponding about this for months.
Asst. Manager: My boss didn’t tell me.
Me: Embarrassed. Humiliated. Diminished.
Asst. Manager: Snotty. Bugged. Annoyed.
Me: This book is local. It won the Weatherford.
Asst. Manager: What’s the Weatherford?
Me: Best in Appalachian Fiction.
Asst. Manager: I’ve never heard of that.

Her post sparked a veritable wordslide of other authors describing similar incidents, and an idea was born.

My 500th blog post will be next Monday. In honor of this earth-shaking occasion, Karen and I are announcing a contest: send us, in 500 words or less, your author humiliation moments. Are you an Author who arrived on the wrong day? Walked in to find your event cancelled? Discovered they were expecting someone else? Tell us about it, or any other mortifying circumstance.

Or take it from the other end. Are you a library, book festival, individual, or bookstore that has hosted an event that just would not get on track no matter what? Or a first class A88-hole? (Y’all know what an a88hole is, right? Similar to an a**hole, only worse.)

Jack and I have looked at book signings, author visits, and all that glamorous stuff from both sides now: as the people with the book AND the people with the bookstore. We’ve seen a whole lotta love and silliness from each, so don’t hold back. Tell us your story.

First prize winner in the author category gets a 5-day stay in my writing retreat cabin, in eastern Tennessee. (Sorry, you have to pay your own way there, but the place is free and we’ll even throw in a bottle of wine. Buy your own milk.) You pick your dates.

First prize winner in the author hosting category gets a signed copy of every entering author’s book. That’s the fee for entering, folks. When the winning host is announced, you are REQUIRED to mail, at your expense, a free copy of your autographed book. (Winners may donate their books to another address if they prefer.)

Second prize for both categories is an autographed copy of Karen’s and my book; third prize… how about a free kitten?

We’ll run the first place entries next Monday. The top ten after that will get blogged once a week, probably on Saturdays. And the MONDAY BOOK will return after this coming Monday.

The rules:

Entries are due by Sunday, June 29, at 11:55 pm EST.

Send entries to jbeck69087@aol.com, with tagline specifying author or host humiliation entry.

Entries exceeding 500 words (not including title) will be disqualified.

Don’t use real names in identifiable locations. We haven’t got enough money to be worth suing, but a88s tend to do that when reality invades the self-sphere. “A Barnes and Noble somewhere in America….” is fine. Make it part of the creativity to keep the names fun and clean.

Keep all entries family friendly. Some kids read this blog.

This is cheerful therapy. Don’t just vent; entertain.

Have fun doing so.

greyAnd remember, it’s okay to talk about the embarrassing moments. Many authors have put themselves into utter self-humiliation, and gone on to live happy lives.