Last night, I had my first quasi-official public book-sale-sort-of thingy! My local running posse, the fine people of Breakaway Running, are an overly generous group, as they allow my slow-ass self to crash their outrageously athletic weeknight runs, and they train me for the St. Jude Half-Marathon every year free of charge, and they even give me free beer.
And now my fellow runners (who gently look upon me as "that slow girl who's a writer") are snatching up copies of I'm Stalking Jake! at a rate that makes absolutely no sense, but is heartily appreciated by the author nonetheless.
Last night, I was asked to bring a card table and copies of the aforementioned book to an exciting women's only sale at the store. Not having any idea what the hell I was doing, I walked into the middle of a rather professionally-organized expo looking like Ellie May Clampett seeing the big city for the first time. It was one of those truly inspiring moments in life...you know the type, when grand revelations like, 'Christ, there's a reason why I'm not a salesperson,' pop into one's head and then show up in one's facial features in photographs posted later on Facebook:
I'm not easily sold on anything myself, and this seems to translate into an inability to pretend that complete strangers - who have no idea who I am - should be excited by something I'm selling them. While I'm dutifully giving my spiel, my brain is filled with a running commentary about the statistical unlikelihood of running across someone tailored-suited to my subject matter in such a scenario...
It's horrifying, really, to think that I should be let out into the world with the task of selling anything to a non-targeted audience...
But I'll be damned if I didn't sell a few anyway! Well, primarily to the girls who were stationing the wine table next to me, but still. And then I spent all the money I made on running clothes before I left the store.
Thank you, Breakaway!!! (You are all entirely too nice to me. No. Really.)
Picture from Facebook.