Sarah E. Moffett

Barnes & Noble (Short Pump)
CBS 6
Fountain Bookstore
Richmond, Virginia
Week Five

Elie Wiesel said “I write to understand as much to be understood.” I wonder what he said about promoting books . . .

Richmond. My other East Coast home.

May 19. Barnes and Noble of Short Pump. Ever been a greeter at a retail store or in a church? Now just imagine you were greeting random strangers surrounded by flyers, signs, and books with your name and face on them. This would have been me from 2 to 4 p.m. on a recent Saturday afternoon. Hello, my name is Narcissus, come hither to buy my book.

It only took the eternally gracious and kind community relations manager four walk by commentaries of “if you’d just smile and ask them if they like memoirs” AND plying me with seven uber-caffeinated iced-teas to get me to cease with Tolkien’s final masterpiece, look up, smile at approximately 7 consumers, and then return to Middle Earth’s latest literary disaster. Despite my goodwill and enthusiasm, the book still sold to everyone from a Virginia House Delegate to an Iraq veteran, who is drafting his own memoir entitled “From Bagdad to Rehab.”

Whether from kindness or bribery to just leave, the CRM ushered me out the door with a parting gift of Godiva chocolates and after exacting a promise to return soon for another “successful event.” I should send her flowers. For putting up with me.

May 22. First TV appearance. After a leisurely breakfast and calm morning, I sauntered over to the local CBS studio on Broad Street for my first television appearance, which went remarkably well. (Read: I had such a complete outfit crises at my best friend’s house that my breakfast consisted of an unidentifiable 7-11 concoction and 32 ounces of Gatorade, showed up 15 minutes late, and had to console myself with intense blackberrying while awaiting my primetime doom.)

Fountain Bookstore. Same evening as TV debacle, errr, debut. In short, if you have never been to Fountain Bookstore, GO. It is the essence of why independent bookstores are the backbone, grace, and beauty of literary America. Fountain Bookstore is run by an industry genius, Kelly, who personally picks each of the brilliant books held within the paneled row house wedged inbetween an antique shop and eatery on Richmond’s historic Shockoe Slip. Reading Growing Up Moffett there was a dream. And they gave me a podium. God help them.

On a tangent, the two book events and TV appearance took on epic feel thanks to my contemporaneous reading of Tolkien’s Children of Hurin, which, incidentally should be sold with two Prozac and a surgeon general warning for depression. We must come to the end of all things, but finishing in the middle of darkness is a promise without light.

Now I’m in the midst of preparing myself for a return to the book’s roots. Raleigh this weekend. The Midwest for nine days in mid-June. I’ve reached one gigantic conclusion. Here’s the thing with people. They talk. They move. They want things. And I lack Vonnegut’s time travel to escape them, Kerouac’s manic energy to just rush through the situation, and Coehlo’s universal wisdom to make it worth their effort. Clearly, I’ve been shoring up on my reading time in preparation.

In the end though, I find my personal mantra inbetween the lines of Jack Kerouac’s observation that “. . . the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn . . .”

Acknowledgments. Megan, your B&B hospitality, clothing indulgences, and grace amaze me. Cole, for being you. Erin, my hair sends its love. Erinn and Mrs. Raborn, thank you for showing your support. Ebanks. The name says it all. Aunt Betsy and Anne, you get the book as only those with Booth blood can. Joan, bless you. And for everyone else who made Richmond a wonderful experience, blessings.

[Listening to Ingrid Michaelson.]

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