I am standing, rather visibly at a table adorned with my newly published book, Aussie, Actually at the entrance of a busy Brisbane bookshop in the heart of the CBD. It is noon. The streets are full of relaxed shoppers and workers enjoying a lunchtime break. I on the other hand, am quite terrified.
My daughter Lara, otherwise known as Chief Illustrator, has been practising her signature for weeks and is nonchalantly sitting at our publicity table, quite comfortable with her illustrator status.
We have arrived by train and not without minor mishap.
In the mild panic leading up to this event, I have obsessed about my own book-signing outfit, but it is only upon leaving home that I realise I have totally neglected my illustrator’s outfit. Lara has dirty Dunlops, old shorts and a sombre grey T-shirt for her debut signing. This won’t do.
We make a panic stop at the local shopping centre by which time my hair has begun its predictable slow, limp descent and lost any vestige of body it may have had earlier that morning.
A blow-dry and shampoo is in order for this potentially famous person. My daughter’s outfit will have to wait. We find a hairdresser and I imagine I will be in and out with full bodied, chic hair and swiftly resume our journey.
I am not destined to escape that easily.
‘What shampoo are you using on your hair?’ the hairdresser asks the dreaded loaded yet casual question.
Knowing full well that answering incorrectly is right up there with ‘yes, I did cut my own hair,’ I say in a small yet brave voice, ‘Well, supermarket brand, actually.’
There is a shocked pause. (I am sure they re-enact this little scenario in hairdressing schools the world over).
‘Right class, we have a customer who has admitted to using supermarket brand shampoo. What do we do?’
The class no doubt answer: ‘We gasp, gather ourselves and proceed in a calm, informed tone that their shampoo is the cause of all their hair problems. Then, once we’ve disarmed the wretched souls, we go in for the kill and sell them the most expensive shampoo on the shelf,’ would be the correct answer.
‘Jolly good, class, full marks!’
I fully expect a loud siren to go off and a thunderous loudspeaker to announce to every passerby that: ‘The blonde with the distressed locks is using supermarket shampoo! Whooop…whoop!!! Attention all shoppers! I repeat: The blonde with distressed hair is using supermarket shampoo! Whooop! Whoop!...’
Instead, in a tight, professional voice, my hairstylist says, ‘Well, the outer protein layer has been badly damaged – you will have to build it back up again. See how when I pull like that, it doesn’t snap back like normal hair?’ I nod obediently.
‘Coincidentally, we have the exact product you will need on special – you get shampoo and two treatments instead of one. All for the price of $39.99.’ I read the label: ‘Intensive care for extremely dry and highly unmanageable damaged, stressed hair.’ That must be me.
‘A few weeks and your hair will definitely repair itself,’ coaxes the stylist.
No pressure, it’s just that your hair will fall out if you don’t follow my advice and buy the friggin’ shampoo!
‘Of course, you’re right,’ I say meekly, vulnerable and totally without an ounce of fighting power. ‘I’ll have the treatment.’
Seventy-five dollars later (plus forty dollars after daughter’s new debut illustrator’s outfit), we leave the centre.
The walk to the station is hair-raising. Literally. A sudden gust of wind threatens to disarm my carefully coiffed hair. Disaster threatens. ‘Please, Lord, let the wind go away,’ I will.
We finally arrive at our destination, I change flats for heels, quickly assess makeup and hair (survived, just) and present myself to the bookstore manager and her team.
The idea, they kindly tell me, is to stand and engage the public.
‘Stand, rather than sit and make eye contact, smile and encourage them to buy your book. It’s your first time, so just enjoy the moment,’ they encourage.
‘I’ll do my best,’ I smile, knowing full well selling myself is right up there with public speaking in my personal terror stakes.
I am told that former Wallabies captain George Gregan had a line of book buyers halfway down the street. So big was his queue that assistants had to go down the line with a notebook asking what the fans would like His Rugby Lordship to write in their newly purchased George Gregan biography. I am not to expect the same sort of adulation. As a parting encouragement, I am also told that famous Australian children’s author, Andy Griffith once had only one fan at his book signing. Now he has millions.
I smile bravely and do a little self talk.
‘Lo, you can do this, how many people do you know have actually written a book and are standing at a busy city bookstore potentially signing their name in their very own book?’
Breathe deeply….
‘Ooh, I wonder what that’s about,’ I find my mind wandering after five minutes. Dawn French’s Dear Fatty stares tantalisingly at me from a book shelf…
’Mmm, am sure it wouldn’t matter if I had a quick page through…love Dawn French…ooh and there’s Jamie’s latest offering…Jamie’s Ministry of Food – sounds sublime… And Dr Phil…Real Life, now what’s he on about now?’
‘What am I thinking?’ My sensible self asks.
‘How would it look paging through someone else’s book when you are presenting your own to the general public?’ Not a good move.
‘Concentrate, Lo…concentrate…smile at the nice public…’
A familiar face.
‘Sarah!!! Loyal, lovely friend, I love you!!!!!’
Sarah has brought not only herself but my son’s entire soccer contingent with her. They want to buy my book!
‘So kind of you to come, thank you so much! What a sweet thing to do…you really don’t need to buy two…I so hope you like it…’ my effusive self bumbles.
More passers by. Some have a quick look and refuse to make eye contact.
A pony-tailed elderly man asks whether ‘they are free’.
‘No, actually, they’re not,’ I say, adding hastily, lest he leave empty-handed…‘But the publicity postcards are.’ He takes a postcard.
‘Danke schon,’ he says.
My dear friend Sylvia whom I will love forever arrives and I almost leap over the table to greet her.
‘You came! Thank you so much! Keep talking, chat, pretend you don’t know me…blah blah blah!’
I have my own spruiker with a loudspeaker and he’s talking about me, my book and he’s encouraging people to buy! He is standing at the entrance to a famous bookshop and he is actually saying my name and telling people to come in and meet me!
The absolute absurdity is quite profound. Little unknown me!
My-in laws have come too!
‘Love you! Thank you sooo much for coming. Sooo grateful!’
‘Kristine!! So lovely to see you – Ronel, thank you so much for buying one, you really don’t have to!’
And suddenly, the general public actually come. I sell not one, not two, but more like twenty copies (actually I’m told sixteen to be precise) of my funny little book. Two hours flash by. Lara is signing for her life. Her signature, I note, is far more evolved than my own. And she adds a quirky smiley face that looks far too professional for an 11 year old rookie.
My unimaginative offering is: ‘Enjoy the read! Love Loisx’
And I hope to goodness they do.
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