My grandfather’s 100th birthday party took place on board a chartered boat near my father’s house. There were eighty guests, but only a fraction was from my branch of the family tree. The other guests were more distant relations or friends of either my dad or my grandfather. They were people who knew my name, but not necessarily my story and as a direct descendant of the guest of honor (and the host), I was expected to mingle.
For the last decade, if you asked what I did, I would tell you my day job title. Two years ago I might have also admitting doing a little writing on the side if it came up organically in the conversation, but I rarely lead with that information (unless I was specifically at an event promoting the book). Perhaps it was the fact that my second manuscript is done and I’m seeking beta readers (please check out my Coming Soon page to learn more). Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps it was because we were simply celebrating an achievement of a lifetime. For whatever reason, on that day, I decided to introduce myself first as an author.
I almost instantly regretted it. A man in the buffet line with me asked if I had read a particular bestseller. I hadn’t. I had however seen the movie (which is a pretty big accomplishment for me considering how rarely I get to go out to the movies). I thought the storytelling was pretty great, and even though I assumed that the book was better, I just hadn’t gotten around to reading the source material. He named another book. It was one I hadn’t ever heard of, but the title sounded like something you would see on the New York Times Best Seller List. When I admitted to missing out on both, the man responded, “and you call yourself a novelist!”
He meant it as a joke, but I was crushed. Doubts danced in my head. What if he was right? Was I a fraud? Was I, in some way, a less legitimate author because I chose to enjoy a movie without reading the book first or because I chose to pick other reads over more popular critical darlings?
I wanted to run and hide, but we were surrounded by water and the buffet line was barely moving. After an awkward pause, the man asked, “well what do you read?” I named some of my favorite authors and some of my favorite books. He blinked. He’d never heard of them. I described amazing world building, their original thinking, and intricate plotting. The man grew quiet as my book nerd flag flew high. By the time we reached the food, my mojo back was back.
The experience reminded me that there is no guarantee that a great book will be a bestseller or vice versa. I knew before I ever started writing that I wasn’t going to sell my work to everyone and this man was not a member of my target audience. He could judge me based on my literary taste if he wanted, but in my opinion, by sticking to only the best seller list he had missed out on just as much, if not more. Perhaps he might never pick up on of my books (ahhhh – the plural sounds so very nice). That’s okay. It won’t make me any less an author, but if I convinced him to try out at least one other unknown then I will consider the conversation a success.
I began hurtling over the side like a penguin sliding on ice. Man, did I ever pick a bad day to wear a skirt. I was going to crack my head on the floor. My body wouldn’t be found until the evening with my hind quarters up in the air for all the world to see. My friends would toast my memory with a ‘bottoms up’ and wouldn’t even pretend not to giggle. It was just the way I always dreamed of going.
Allie Potts 