Robert Young

Book signings are those curious events that can buoy your spirits, drop you to the depths of despair, or just leave you wondering. Last weekend I did an event at the Gilbert House in Salem. What an appropriate place to sign books about A.C. Gilbert, who spent his early years there. There were a sprinkling of kids (mainly preschoolers) and parents that came around, and I had many interactions during my two hours there, but one stands out.

A middle-aged woman, wearing graying hair and a jeans jacket, sidled up to the table where I sat. I told her a little about the book, what it’s about and how I came to write it. The woman picked up the book, examined the cover, then opened it up and began reading it to herself. No skimming it, or paging through and scanning. She read it, every page of it.

As she read, I sat there uncomfortably, much like at a garage sale where someone is examining one of my prized (although I’m willing to sell it) possessions. But a book – my book – is harder. It is not merely a possession; it’s a creation. My creation, from start to finish.

After what seemed like a month, the woman finished reading, closed the book, and set it back on the table. What was she thinking:

“Gawd, what a boring book!”

“I could have written this myself.”

“I already read it, so why buy it now?”

Patiently, I waited for a critique, a comment, a question. But, I got none. The woman just turned and walked away. What did she think of the book? I’ll never know.

So it goes at book signings.