Tuesday, January 29, 2008
I'll never be a diva
I did a booksigning on the weekend. Now, you may think this involves long lines of adoring fans, a cushy chair, an assistant kneeling next to you presenting each book to be signed, and a fountain pen. Maybe this happens in someone else's world, but not in mine. Yes, I did my job. I dressed in my best, put on a big smile, and greeted customers in the bookshop as though they'd really come to get a copy of my book.
Then I went home and mucked out the chicken coop.
Portrait of the author: lumber jacket, stained pants, flat-bladed shovel in hand, tossing out gobs of you-know-what, surrounded by interested hens looking for seeds to fall out of the newly opened hay bale. Now, this is real life!
It's also why I'll never be a diva. I used to worry about this, believe it or not. I used to be concerned that I'd take myself too seriously, would forget my old friends and where I came from. That was before I got chickens. They keep me grounded. Anytime I think I deserve someone else's contract terms, someone else's eight-pocket floor display, or even the rose my RWA chapter gives for every new sale, I just remember that I have to get out there and clean the coop every other week. It keeps me humble.
It's hard to be a diva with hay in your hair. And I'm glad.