Happy summer solstice, BGs.
Got my electronic copy of the latest Aspiring Retail today. The magazine’s full of information on ICRS—the International Christian Retail Show—in Denver. (The performance formerly known as CBA.) I’ll be there, along with most of the other folks in Christian publishing. I’ll be meeting with folks and signing copies of Violet Dawn galleys at the Zondervan booth on Monday.
One thing I won’t be doing—going to a special party Monday night.
I’m not invited.
It’s a “Personality Party,” see. For personality-laden authors, and the booksellers dying to meet them.
Apparently I am quite dull.
It was bad enough before. ICRS used to have “personality booths.” Certain authors with the “P” distinction would sign their books in these special roped off areas, for which the publisher paid extra money. I’d just sign at the Z booth.
But now—oh, man, rub it in. It’s a party. For two whole hours. They’ll probably have streamers and everything.
In the P booth days, I'd bemoan my fate to my friends. Relegated to Dull-dom, I declared that some bright, shining day I would grow a Personality. Now, staring at the P party in bold font on the magazine’s schedule, I have given up. This is my fifth ICRS. I’ve loitered in Dullsville, while the P authors have graduated to a night’s event.
I must admit, I saw a full-page ad for three authors who’ll be showcased at the P party—and felt a twinge of vindication. I hadn’t heard of one of them. Then I remembered it didn’t matter. Well-known or not, they possessed a personality. Give them a few years, they'll take over the world.
But I'm not bitter.
Tell me, what do I have left to do? To try? For five interminable years, I’ve parked myself before a mirror, practicing expressions. Accents. Certain suave tilts of the head. Coy looks through my lashes. Nothing has worked.
I am doomed.
But not to worry. Ever the fighter am I. Somehow I shall keep my chin up at the convention. Maybe I’ll find other dull authors to hang with on Monday night. What a time we should have. Think the waiters will notice us?
Or perhaps I shall plant myself in front of my hotel room mirror. Practicing yet again. Hoping against hoping that in 2007, that bright and shining year . . .