On my birthday, at a wobbly table covered with a plastic table cloth (flower design-brown and orange) in a small mall in Huron, South Dakota, during a wellness fair on the first day of pheasant hunting season as Englebert Humperdink warbled from the speakers:

She (ambling over after getting a free foot massage at the booth across from the bookstore): You're selling these books?

Me (attempting that famous self deprecating author humor): Nah. The bookstore is selling them. I'm just signing them.

She: Why are you signing them?

Me: Because I wrote them. I'm the author.

She (with puzzled look): These are your books, huh?

Me (pointing to a stack): Yep. This is the newest one-- only been out a month.

She (picking one up, still puzzled): Are you Tory?

Me: No, I'm Kathleen.

She: You're not Tory?

Me: No, I'm Kathleen Taylor. I wrote the books.

She (confused): You're Kathleen then?

Me: Yes. I wrote the books. They're mysteries.

She: Mysteries?

Me: Yes, mysteries. You know, fiction.

She: Fiction?

Me: I made the books up. They're fiction.

She (turning the book over): Oh, fiction.

Me (thinking we've made some progress): Yes.

She: Well, who's Tory then?

I'm not even going to bring up a reading last year in Fargo when the 13 people in the audience were actually 11 bored in-laws (3 of them under age 8), one fellow who couldn't speak English who was only sitting there because it was cold outside, and a man who asked questions until his wife led away by the ear. Literally.

P.S. No, she didn't buy one, but she took a magnet

Kathleen Taylor
ktaylor@basec.net
http://www.basec.net/~ktaylor
April 13, 1999