The Crafts Fair: Blog #2
In the dark days of the Coronavirus lockdown, it seemed that the fall season’s spate of crafts and Christmas fairs would be sorrowful victims. But an enterprising crafter found a place, the spacious parking lot of Tony’s Pizza on Hwy 178. I signed up, eagerly anticipating the first chance at trying to sell my latest mystery novel, Body in the Orchard. All of my other novels were set in exotic places and interesting times, and did not seem to be on the top of Bakersfieldians reading lists. But Body in the Orchard is a Bakersfield book, set among the familiar haunts of Chester Avenue, Panorama Park and the noisy dining room of the Woolgrower’s restaurant. This crafts fair seemed an excellent locale for its debut.
The night before the fair, with all my books packed up and a new set of business cards, book marks and snazzy poster ready, I found myself having doubts about the wisdom of the enterprise. With a 94-year-old mother at home, I could take no chances with catching the dreaded virus and bringing it home. I had nightmares of the last vision of my mother being taken away in an ambulance, to die alone in a hospital. NOT ON MY WATCH! But even though she seldom ventured out, could I trust people to mask up, respect distance and bathe in hand sanitizer to protect me? I threw in a bunch of face masks, thinking I could hand them out to people who had forgotten or needed one, and a bulging new package of sanitary wipes. Off I went.
I was late. All the best places were taken, but as I needed only one small table for my paltry offerings, I lucked out and got one of the last spaces. It sat between a woman selling her homemade fluffy scarves and another woman with a variety of used offerings, things she variously called junk or antiques. I set up in 15 minutes and then looked around. Everyone surrounding me seemed to be wearing regulation masks and indeed, the single most popular item for sale was masks. Homemade, colorful, big, small, with ties instead of elastic around the ears, big ones for people with big noses, small ones for children. They were all around me. The woman selling fluffy scarves even had sets of mask holders, lanyards with snaps that hold your mask on your chest while you eat. She offered to give me one. “Choose one you like,” she said shyly.
Not being an outgoing person in general, I have great trouble trying to sell anything. Even cajoling my students into doing homework (“you’ll get extra points if you turn it in on time!”) always felt pushed and faked. But if I was going to get rid of these books I’d lugged all the way from home, I needed to find a pitch. The book was free online for the weekend, so I tried this line. I asked if people had a Kindle, and then pointed out they could get a free download. When they answered that they didn’t read books, I felt silly, so I tried another pitch. “Are you a reader?” That didn’t work either. Maybe I offended them by implying that they couldn’t read? I was saved by the junk stuff seller next door to me. She seemed to think that the offerings I had were even better than her own and she neglected her table by pitching my book. “She wrote the book, she’s the author. It’s all about Bakersfield. They find a body in the orchard. The next one is called ‘Killer Kern’ and they find a body in the river!” She asked me when it would be ready so that she could pitch that as well. Getting into the swing of the things, I said with confidence, “Next summer.” I couldn’t admit that all I had was a cast of characters in my head and a few situations. And 128 words of Chapter One. It had taken me three years to write Body in the Orchard, would I be able to churn out another 70,000 words by next summer?
As the time crept to two o’clock, sellers began to pack up. The fluffy scarf lady declared she would never go early. The antiques and junk seller said she had taken two hours to set up, so she began to repackage some of her goods 45 minutes early. The three of us compared takings. We had each made about $150 for the day. We said we were pleased. The junk stuff seller gave me a package of Christmas cards with a cat on them. I gave them each an autographed book. I hope they read it. After all, that is why I write, so that someone will read my books.