Signing with the Stars

On Saturday night I had the privilege of being one of 38 Oregon authors at the annual Authors and Artists Fair at the Eugene Library, a major event that often draws 3000 people. I was feeling rather proud about all this until I found my designated spot--right beside Jane Kirkpatrick!

Well, way to be humbled. I set out my one book while Jane and her husband Jerry set out stacks of about 15 different books, and before they were done setting up they were mobbed with fans. And on the other side of me, Joe Blakely, who I seem to land next to at book functions, was also beset by the hordes while he was still taking plastic wrap off his books. So I sat there sadly and ate my pumpkin bar.

But, guess what, pretty soon I was too busy to notice how Jane and Joe were doing or finish my bar, because nice wonderful people started coming by and saying hello and "Please don't stop writing" (did they all somehow sense how often I'm tempted??) and even buying books!

Andrew, the talented signing-coordinator from Barnes and Noble who gave me Godiva chocolates came by and introduced me to his wife.

Shirley Tallman showed up in her wonderful early-1900's costume and thanked me for linking to her website after we met in August. She couldn't believe how many hits it generated.

Our neighbors from several miles down Substation Drive, the Imuses, came by. I have biked past their place many times but had never met them.

Various friends from the Red Moons writing group stopped with encouragement and good wishes.

To my complete and utter amazement, a man with a slightly crooked nose came by and asked if I remember him. Oh. My. Goodness. It was Mr. Newman, who taught a write-your-life-story evening class I took at Lane Community College almost ten years ago. One of the horrible experiences of my life was when he took one of my stories and absolutely ripped it to shreds (verbally) in front of the whole class. It was trite and cutesy, he said. It was shallow, it didn't say anything, I was trying too hard, what on earth was my purpose in writing this. I went from there to my friend Rita's house and cried stormily into her sympathetic ears. One of the harder things I've done was to hold my head up high and go back to that class the next week.

And here was this same man humbly complimenting me on my writing. "You write what the spirit is all about," he said. I scrambled frantically for a response, feeling that he wanted me to say that I learned a lot in his class, but I couldn't bring myself to say any such thing, so I just smiled and thanked him, and now I need to figure out if I've really forgiven him from my heart.

I was hoping to meet Jan Eliot, but I didn't have time. But I did see Val Brooks, who was the inspiration for Val in Jan Eliot's comic strip, Stone Soup.

Paul and the three youngest children came to give me a break halfway through the evening. I took the children and went downstairs to say hi to Bob Welch, who still remembered Jenny from three years ago when he wrote that she had a smile as bright as the September day. Oh, did she ever love that.

Every writer I met passed Mom's high standard of "nice and common." I hope I did too.

Jane Kirkpatrick's husband is a small, quiet, unassuming, white-bearded man and not at all a tall, dashing western-romance-novel hero. For some reason I found this comforting.

And I never did finish my pumpkin bar.

Quote of the Day:
"I didn't think I would connect with you. Our lifestyles are so completely different. But I do."
--a wealthy-looking lady in a black coat