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Health & Fitness

Author or Salesman?

Author or salesman? Writers tend to be thought of as introverted, ascetic individuals who retire to garrets after writing a book where they sleep on straw pallets and eat gruel three times a day. Whatever happens to their books is in the laps of the gods. Once the authors have laid down their pens, they have nothing more to do with their manuscripts.

Oh, so wrong. The authors' work is just beginning. Like Superman, they must slip into the nearest phone booth (if one can still be found), strip off their writing clothes, and don the outfit of Super Salesman, aggressive promoter of their written work.

If the stereotype of the writer as a sensitive introvert is in any way correct, that conversion to salesman may be a shock and not come easily. The name of my new book is Outtastatahs: Newcomers' Adventures in New Hampshire. As the title implies, I am a relative newcomer. I grew up in the Midwest where the virtues of modesty and humility are greatly prized. It is an unforgiveable gaffe  to brag or go on about oneself. Self-deprecating humor is very much admired.

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However, now I am expected to march into bookstores; grab owners by the lapels, and coerce them to carry my book. I do it, but not easily or happily. Likewise, I am suddenly cast into the role of public speaker, where I must appear before groups to publicize Outtastatahs (though. I must confess, as a former teacher, I don't find public speaking difficult). And I must also ask people for favors. That goes against the Midwestern grain. We don't like to be beholden to people.

Last night, my wife and I attended a large dinner in Portsmouth. I had to ask the organizer of the event if he minded if I sat quietly in a corner with my wife and displayed (and sold) my book. He is a good friend, and readily agreed. According to Midwestern logic, I now owe him a favor, an obligation that will burn my conscience until I satisfy it.

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Before the dinner and afterwards, I sat at a table displaying my book, feeling more than a little foolish when friends passed by me. They were kind. "Oh, I liked your book." "It was a good read." Were they like me newcomers to the Granite State who liked having the story of their adventures (and misadventures) here told to the world? Or were they just being polite?

Before the program began, I had to ask the master of ceremonies if he would mention my book during his remarks. He agreed. Cringe. Another favor owed. But the emcee did a good job, leading several people to buy the book.

So, in the end, this business of promoting the book I have written is a necessary evil. It's just something I must do. If you want to spare me further agony, just go the Water Street Bookstore in Exeter; River Run Bookstore in Portsmouth, The Woods campus store at RiverWoods, amazon.com, or barnesandnoble.com and buy a copy of Outtastatahs: Newcomers' Adventures in New Hampshire.

If you do, I can stop promoting my book and retire to my garret where I will sleep on a straw pallet and eat gruel three times a day. Did you know that gruel tastes surprisingly good?

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