I carried my box back to the car, still full of books, but minus a few bookmarks.
Yesterday I attended an author event, one I have routinely been a part of for the last four summers. There was a big change this year. The event was part of the town’s summer concert series. We were indoors just across from the bandstand. The room was full of indie authors and artists selling their projects. The street was closed off. There were food trucks, games for kids to play. A classic summer time event.
I gave away a few bookmarks.
From what I could tell, there were only two books sold. No artwork left the building.
I drove home contemplating this writing thing.
Now, I did get to talk to people. One person shared her story of losing her mom after reading my poem “While Death Waits.”
But still, the question of what I was doing ran through my head, through my heart. Something I’m pretty sure all indie authors ask at different times.
And deep down I know I will continue to write. I actually have a new collection of poems ready to go, just need to finalize a few things. I’ll keep flinching every time I get a rejection email (read one last Thursday). I am a writer.
Maybe today someone picked up their new bookmark and thought about the poet they met last night… of course they are using it in a book I didn’t write…
It is all Connected 