Fifteen minutes before the LA Festival of Books officially opened, I arrived at my booth. A close friend helped me haul boxes of my two books, banners, and standees—none of which had arrived at the right address. We stared at the filthy, wobbly eight-foot table in my empty booth, a tragic sight for anyone hoping to sell books instead of stage a flea market.
The banners came without ties, and the standees required an engineering degree—or possibly a séance—to assemble. I felt defeated, wondering if the attendants arranged by my publisher were stuck in LA traffic or abducted by aliens. They were supposed to handle payments and set up while I just met people.
Fifteen minutes after the festival started, shoppers began trickling in. My attendants were still missing. I was on the verge of an adult tantrum when a man in a green T-shirt appeared out of nowhere, crouching on the brick pathway. Sunlight illuminated his blond hair like a halo. He held a handful of zip ties.
“Are you a descendant of the banner gods here to save me?” I asked, on the brink of tears.
He laughed. “Otherwise known as a volunteer,” he said, pointing to his shirt. “Getting a bit of a late start, huh?”
With the wave of his nimble hands, he strung up the banners, assembled the standees, and pointed me toward the supply tent. Within thirty minutes, I was ready to greet readers—only one major panic attack later but, miraculously, no heart attack.
Just as I sat down to take my first deep breath, an old woman with a crooked nose and a hood over her graying hair dragged a suitcase into my booth. She smelled faintly of blue cheese.
“Honey,” she crackled, “mind if I take a seat next to you?”
I furrowed my brow as she opened the suitcase to reveal a collection of used paperbacks with 1970s covers.
“I’ll give you a dollar if you sell my books for me.”
Tempted as I was by the entrepreneurial opportunity of a lifetime, I declined, wishing her luck. She bared her teeth and vanished into the crowd.
After that chaotic first hour, the rest of the two-day festival was incredible—filled with hundreds of readers and friends who stopped by to say hello. Still, the most common question I was asked had nothing to do with my books.
“Excuse me,” people said. “Where’s the bathroom?”