Sold two “Schiz.” One went to an octogenarian, indiosyncratic (to say the least) writer/friend at the health club. (“Feels good,” she said. “Opens good. Nice paper. Nice ink. Nice margins. Looks like a pleasure to read.”) The other went, with an employee’s discount, to a staff member at Logos Books, my NYC outlet. (Logos, it turns out, identifies itself as a Christian bookstore. This was of more than incidental interest to me.) I gave a “Cheesesteak” to a fellow a year behind me at Brandx, with whom I’d re-established contact after I’d heard he’d broken my Pac-12 record for most cardio-vascular stents. And one morning, when it was hot inside the café, I moved with my wares to an outdoor table. This led in passer-by in a floppy hat and sun glasses to recall the Berber who had sold his book outside Peet’s several years ago. My remarking that I’d bought his book did not lead her to buy mine, but she did recount for me all the other Berbers she had met in Berkeley, of which there were a surprising number.
In other news, a major agent turned down “Heart” because, while well-written and moving, publishers only wanted memoirs by celebrities or people with a national platform.
I suppose I am building mine, one reader at a time.