by Nancy King
I’m an author, Nancy King—no relation to Stephen King—but if I were, this story might be different. As it is, I travel to independent bookstores in nearby cities, each time hoping I will find a room full of people waiting to hear what I have to say about my new novel, Changing Spaces, and wanting to buy my books.
In one bookstore, a few people wander up to the display, pick up copies of my books and thumb through the pages. This is promising, I think. There aren't many people, but at least looking and thumbing are a prelude to buying. I grin broadly when a petite, well-dressed woman approaches me. “Are you the author?”
“Yes," I reply expectantly.
“I don’t read,” she announces.
Stunned, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “What do you do?”
“I write novels,” she says, looking pleased with herself.
“What do you write about?” I ask, not really interested, but grateful that someone is talking with me.
“Well, I don’t really know.” She looks at me, as if expecting me to tell her what she writes.