Long ago in a continent far, far away, my mother took me to the Frankfurt Book Fair. For a greedy reader like me, it was Hell. All those miles and aisles of books spread out before me like water, water everywhere and nary a tome for sale.
I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t understand it. And I drove my mother crazy whining, “But why can’t we buy them?”
Her explanations of “floor samples” and “demonstration copies”, which could be ordered (in bulk) but not owned because they hadn’t been printed yet, didn’t make sense. How could the books not be printed yet? They were there, on the shelves, printed and bound and everything.
She might’ve had an easier time trying to explain the principles behind quantum physics. Or magic, because her explanation turned the books into fairy gifts, phantom objects made of twigs and leaves, which only appeared to be real. Why else would apparently rational grown-ups pay the business-suited sharpers running the booths fantastic sums in Deutschmarks and dollars, then walk away empty-handed–and happy about it? The people paying the money must be under some kind of magic spell. They’d been deceived into buying something that didn’t exist because, as everyone kept telling me over and over, none of the books on the shelves were for sale. Still, the salespeople seemed to be making a heck of a lot of money selling the books that didn’t exist and weren’t for sale.
I pondered this for a few minutes. Mom relaxed. She should’ve known better. Nothing is potentially more hazardous to a parent’s position in the world than a thoughtful child.
After I’d been quiet so long my mom forgot why I’d been fussing in the first place, I opined loudly, in both English and German, this completely legal shell game was infinitely better than the ones my uncles took me to see in Atlantic City and I wanted a piece of it now. Fortunately for both of us, one of the booksellers came to Mom’s rescue by bribing me–er, presenting me a beautifully illustrated book on the Maori. I didn’t know the Maori from beans, but the pictures were gorgeous enough to distract me from my pursuit of ultimate riches through the sale of books that didn’t exist and weren’t for sale.
Instead a new monster took up residence in my warped little brain. It whispered in my mind’s ear the magic words that make all the women in my family sit up and take notice–and were probably the reason my mom finagled her way into a closed trade show in the first place.
Free Stuff, the monster cooed.
I’ve been a trade show junkie ever since.
This year, thanks to my brand spanking new RWA Published Author Network membership, I got the opportunity sign copies of With Nine You Get Vanyr at the American Library Association’s (ALA’s) annual conference. The conference, which ran from June 23-26, was held in the Washington DC Convention Center, home to last year’s Book Expo America (BEA).
Although the center’s conference rooms were all booked and the center’s three-block-long exhibit space was filled to capacity, the ALA conference gave off a very different vibe than BEA’s desperate marketing frenzy. Partially it was the lay-out. Aisles were wider. People cruising the displays had the option of strolling, stopping for a chat or snagging a soft pretzel from one of the carts making the rounds.
Google, Ingram, Demco and a few other tech service outfits mounted expansive displays, but they were the exceptions. Publisher stalls were smaller and simpler than they’d been at the 2006 BEA. Simon and Schuster, for example, occupied only a quarter of a single aisle. Harlequin’s booth didn’t take up too much more floor space than some of the stalls occupied by the independent presses. Inviting arrangements of reading chairs and whimsically upholstered children’s furniture (care to recline in a padded notebook?) interrupted the booths at convenient intervals.
But the more relaxed atmosphere owed a lot to the crowd. As Wildside publisher Sean Wallace said, “ALA is all about readers.”
The attending librarians came to look at books, not just for their libraries but also for themselves. The publishers sought to oblige them. There were some giveaways, but not enough to stress about. Most of the books and educational DVDs were for sale at half price or less to anyone attending the show (even stray Vanyr signers). Or free after a certain time on the last day.
Books and DVDs weren’t the only things for sale either. I saw South American knits and marbled scarves, writer-themed umbrellas, hand cream, jewelry and the ever-popular book bags–which sold despite the fact that a lot of exhibitors were giving them away.
A purveyor of traditional music CDs and DVDs brought in a country fiddler to serenade the crowd. I caught up with the fiddler as he was launching into a reel. A little boy no older than four stood at the man’s feet. The child stared, enraptured, as the fiddle dipped and swayed in the fiddler’s hands. Music spilled from the strings in sparkling, almost visible, waves.
When the reel spun to rest and the small crowd’s applause broke the spell, the little boy blinked and jerked his head like someone waking from a charmed sleep. Watching the child’s reactions, I understood why people said the Devil was a fiddler. The little boy was enthralled as surely as anyone captured by a sorcerer’s magic spell.
We tend to dismiss fantasy as an escape, the outgrowth of super-heated imaginations inalterably opposed to the boring world of monthly bills, interchangeable offices, annoying bosses and rush hour traffic. How can the extraordinary possibly co-exist with the cash register? Yet there in the middle of book sales and CD racks, right in front of who knows how many rational, responsible, tax-paying grown-ups, a fiddler bewitched a child–and the rest of us right along with him.
Not only that, they were selling those books that didn’t exist too. I was standing in the booth when it happened, just like I did in Germany all those years ago.
Who says fairy gifts aren’t real?
