Why Do People Attend Book Signings?

By Christie Aschwanden, 4-08-05

I was visiting Sun Valley, Idaho a few years back when I saw a notice in the local paper about a reading by James Galvin. I couldn't believe my luck. Galvin wrote one of my favorite books, The Meadow. I wasn't about to miss a chance to meet the man who'd penned this masterpiece. The reading would take place in a small gallery and promised to be an intimate affair. As I headed to the gallery, my head spun with anticipation.

What would Galvin be like in person? Who was this man who had so elegantly molded truth into words on the page? What exactly was I expecting to get out of meeting Galvin? I had some specific questions about the details of his book. But I also sought something more elusive. I wanted to turn the connection I'd made with the book into something tangible. By meeting Galvin, I thought I could somehow capture the world I'd experienced in the book and make it concrete.

After a brief introduction, Galvin appeared from a side hallway. In his navy sweater and blue jeans he fit right into the crowd of about 75 whose attire ranged from ski hats and flannel shirts to skirts and dress shirts. Galvin's voice wavered ever so slightly as he began speaking. He was a tad older than I expected, and he wasn't as tall as he appeared on the book jacket. But a gentle kindness surrounded his voice, and his smile evoked a humble charm that made him feel like an old friend. He read from his latest novel, Fencing the Sky, and as he began reading the familiar words his voice grew smooth and his face relaxed.

When he finished, he asked for questions from the audience. I was the only one to raise my hand. As I questioned him about a character in The Meadow he gazed at me as if we were the only ones in the room. His thoughtful answer made me want to ask about twenty more questions, but we weren't alone, and I didn't dare monopolize the discussion. "Any other questions," he asked. Not a peep. As the staunchest fan present, I felt annoyed. How can you people have no questions for this master?

After the talk, I approached him starry-eyed and tongue twisted, like a high school girl with a crush. "This is one of the most beautiful books I've ever read," I told him as he opened my copy of The Meadow to the title page and signed his name. "Um, that's Christie, spelled C-H-R-I-S-T-I-E." I wasn't about to walk away with just a generic signature. And I wasn't done gushing either. " The language was so beautiful. I found myself stopping to read some sentences over and over." There was an embarrassing silence. He was certainly flattered, but unsure what to say so I nervously blurted out more flattering babble. "I'm a writer too. Oh but not like you. I don't write fiction. I can't even begin to imagine how you create such compelling characters." I felt myself cringe. I sound like a pathetic groupie. During the awkward silence that ensued, I gained a sudden insight.

Reading Galvin's book made me feel close to him, but he didn't know the first thing about me. I had a relationship with the book, not the author. What I was seeking lived on the page, and talking to Galvin wasn't going to make it come alive. He was a very nice man, but I was looking for something no author could deliver. I thanked him for his time, grabbed my coat and made a beeline for the hors d'oeuvres. [End of article]