|
When
I first started writing, a
fire ignited in my soul—until others spoke about marketing—and the
embers faded fast.
Don’t get me wrong. I have no
problem opening my mouth or penning my thoughts on paper, obviously,
but I don’t like to be seen. I even sit in the back pew at church on
Sundays.
After this gruesome discovery
that I would need to market my work, I almost quit the craft, until my
husband came to my rescue. “Don’t worry about it, honey. I’ll be your
marketing manager. I’ll take care of everything.”
And I knew the man would, bless
his heart, so I agreed. He’s run his own business for years, and God’s
given him wisdom in such matters, so I felt secure in is words. I put
all notions of marketing on a shelf and continued writing.
When I recently published
another story, he took it upon himself to mess with the notions on my
marketing shelf. We were riding in his truck one afternoon when he
decided to display his intentions. For some reason, he likes to spring
things on me in closed spaces.
“How about doing a book
signing, Deb?”
I stared out the window. “It’s
not my book, honey. It’s an anthology.”
“But . . . you could still do a
signing.”
Yes, I could, but I’m
not going to, dumpling.
I turned and eyed him. “I’ll
pray about it, okay?”
Now, when someone tells me
they’re ill and need prayer, I tell them I’ll pray for them, and I do.
When my husband is pressuring me and I don’t want to hear what the
man’s saying, I tell him I’ll pray about the subject, which means I
probably won’t concede.
He knows this about me, though,
so I should probably come up with a new line. Now that I think about
it, I’ll bet that’s why he corners me in his truck. I can’t run, hop
away, or anything. All I can do is pray.
God does have a sense of humor.
Anyway, the following day, as we
were tooling down the road in his truck again, his cell phone chirped.
Not wanting to disturb him, I stared out the window, admiring the
passing farmland, until I overheard him mention a book signing.
I waved my hands—I could do that
in the truck—and practically hissed. “What are you doing?”
He fixed his eyes straight ahead
and kept talking. “Saturday?” he said. “What time?”
I prayed. Please, please,
please, please. Okay, begged is more like it, but at least I kept my
word and tried some form of praying.
He slapped his phone shut,
looked at me, and grinned. “You said I could be your marketing manager,
so that’s what I’m doing.”
“But a signing is for when I
publish my book.” I flipped my hand. “You never ask me about nothin.’”
I spoke in the true Southern dialect and words of Loretta Lynn’s
character from the movie Coal Miner’s Daughter when she was chewing out
her husband, Doo. (For those of you who haven’t seen the movie, it’s
the part where she yells at Doo for always making decisions without her
input.)
Ahem.
But Doo loves Loretta, just as
my husband loves me, and Doo had her best interests at heart. If not
for Doo pushing her, Loretta might not have been famous at all. That
should account for something.
Only I ain’t Loretta Lynn.
“Well, everything’s all set up
now,” he said.
I drummed my fingers on the
armrest. “I don’t want to go.”
|
“Look
at it this way, honey.
You’re sticking your toes in the water and getting your feet wet. When
the time comes to do a signing for your book,
you’ll be ready.” He smiled as though the problem had vanished.
To make matters worse, he not
only had moi trapped in his truck, but we were on
our way to a friend’s house, for a fancy dinner, which meant I had to
wait until we returned home before I could really blast him.
Oh, wait. Good Christian women
don’t blast their husbands, do they?
Like I said, I had to wait until
we returned home before I could appropriately discuss the situation
with him.
I ate like a sow at the dinner
instead.
But I did later discuss
the situation with him, and let me tell you, the man wouldn’t budge.
The dreaded day arrived, and I
climbed into my husband’s truck. Off we went to the book signing. My
heart thumped, thumped all the way there.
Two hours later, after forty
copies had sold, he beamed. “See, honey, aren’t you glad you did this
now?”
Refusing to let my little cat
swallow the canary, I forced a grin. “All I know is I’m ready to go
home.”
I wish I could tell you the day
ended happily ever after, that I’m raring to do another book signing,
but I’m not. I have issues, I tell you, just like Loretta.
But you already knew that,
didn’t you?
The main thing?
I pushed through my fears—I
survived.
And trust me, if I did it, so
can you.
|
