Yesterday’s post was pretty gloomy — which is no way to get a novel written.
So today, something more upbeat. I’ve been signing copies of Murder by the Slice — and Slices, too — lately.
I’ve been signing them for my kids’ friends. I’ve signed some that folks have given as gifts. I’ve signed several for my friends who are taking a chance on the book.
I gotta tell ya: I love signing books.
This is probably because I love having books signed. My home is filled with books with authors’ signatures inside, collected at readings and author interviews. I have a few books that I’ve purchased signed (though I prefer not to do that while an author is still living). I have books signed by the famous and the obscure in rare first editions and in beat-up paperbacks. I have personal inscriptions and unreadable scrawls. I have books I love signed and I have books I didn’t particularly like signed.
All of them are important to me.
And so when I have the opportunity to sign a book for someone, I always feel as though it is a great privilege. I know not everyone values signed books the way I do (witness all the signed books — my own included — that end up in used bookstores), but signing something I’ve written is nonetheless validating.
It would be mighty nice to sign copies of It’s All About the Dough someday.