And people think a writer’s life is glamorous, why?

On Saturday my husband and I drive two hours to a bookstore in another town for a book signing. We stop at a quaint restaurant, but it’s too busy and we don’t have the time. So with a growling stomach, I make my way to the little bookstore in a building filled with lots of festive shops. The air is electric (and cold). My spirits are high.

The people at the bookstore are very kind. They give me a table to set up out in the hallway where lots of shoppers pass from one store to another. We cover the table with a pretty cloth, stack on the books and colorful candy bowl for chocolate treats.

Women pass, pointing and laughing at the title of my book (Hot Flashes & Cold Cream). An hour goes by. No sales. The woman at the bookstore comes out with two books for me to sign for her (I think she feels sorry for me). People come and go, all the while smiling, pointing, laughing.

A man comes and asks me to move across the hall so some musicians can take my spot. I move and settle in to enjoy the mountain dulcimer music across from me.

Another sale. Life is good. The clock ticks. My smile stays in place. More ticking. Lots more ticking. Finally, another sale. More ticking. My stomach howls. A man asks me why everyone is ignoring me. Smile waning here. More people than I can count ask me where the bathroom is. Another sale. Tick, tick, tick. I consider pulling off my watch and throwing it away, but it’s powder blue with white polka dots just like my book cover, so I can’t part with it.

My husband checks in from time-to-time. Brings me a drink (non-alcoholic). Though if I were a drinker . . . Okay, I’m kidding, but let me just say at one point I consider smearing on cold cream just to get someone’s attention.

All in all, I sell seven books and pass out more promotional fans and bookmarks than I can count.

Still, the day is good. Glamorous? No. Good? Yes.