Lois gave her first signing in Brisbane in 2008 ... here’s how she described the experience.
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.
