The Face of an Author
I had my first for-real book signing a week ago. My publisher arranged for my book launch party at the Tattered Cover in Lower Downtown Denver. The Tattered Cover is one of the premier bookstores in the country and a local institution. Scribes of every type--hell, ex-presidents even--make sure the TC is on their itinerary.
It was with immense pride that I took center-stage that night. A bookcase full of my books, topped with a huge poster of the book cover, faced the audience. Extra chairs were brought in and the final headcount for the evening was 150.
I pulled out all the stops to get that crowd. Whenever the subject of writing came up, I'd whip out a postcard invitation. In every organization I've belonged to for the last five years, I've kept names and addresses. I volunteer with El Centro Su Teatro, a Latino theater group, and they offered their mailing list of donors. A lot of friends obliged me and I was flattered by the attendance.
Some took photographs of the long line to get my autograph (and not to use the bathroom), of my beaming face, and a few snapshots of my head from unexpected angles. Those photos prompted me to ask, what's up with my hair…or lack of it? Meager graying strands lay across my brown scalp. Above my forehead, fluttered a pathetic tuft marking what was left of a proud widow's peak. It seemed every camera must have had the mode setting on "geezer."
Embarrassed, I asked my women friends what they thought of the pictures. You look nice, they said.
But my hair!
What about it?
I look awful.
And you've noticed now? You always look like that. It makes you appear distinguished, intellectual. Sorta like an author.