Preparing
for the Lowertown Pop event Saturday in Saint Paul. I'll be there at
the Union Depot trying to sell my books. I wish I was doing a
reading, maybe from a high-wire, naked, over a flaming gorge—something
less stressful. I believe I'm the only writer selling. The
advertising makes no mention of booksellers. I'm an experiment.
I
already asked the woman who gave me my tax ID # if I still had to
file if I made no sales. Yes, I do. At least I got that covered.
Zero
sales aren't my worry. At least then I wouldn't have to worry about
the damn Square Reader stuck into my phone that seems to work with
every fifth swipe of a credit card.
My
sister, Susan Tinkham, has worked hard on a looping video with photos
and blurbs about the novels. Even now she's scrambling to create a
poster to bring the customers in. My boss, Carin Olson, volunteered
to assist me in this venture. Here's hoping she doesn't spend six
hours watching me hand out a bunch of business cards—the cards,
again, my sister's work.
Okay,
I'm making a big deal out of nothing. Got the card reader. Check.
Stole
easel and table from work. Check.
Priced
books at $9.29, $10 even with tax to limit change making.
Check. Business
cards.
Check.
Books. Check.
Signed.
Check.
I
keep thinking, I'm
a writer not a retailer! Guess
it's time to lose that attitude.
