As I walked the length of the rain-soaked sidewalk, I hoped to get my book signed and meet my favorite authors. Only book lovers like me will understand why I braved the rainy day to be around books.
The temperature had dropped in the low 60s. I looked up at the low-hanging gray clouds that drenched the city and determined to ruin the party.
I, including thousands of other people, were committed to keep the festivity going.
Visiting each the booth, I met authors selling their books. It was overwhelming to think that a small area with the size of a city block, was overflowing with a large collection of talented writers.
Writing although exciting, can be a lonely affair.
As a fiction writer, I wanted to be around other writers who like I, are in the trenches of creating the next bestseller.
I began to envy the authors sitting behind the desk and signing their books away while the wide-eyed adoring fans with smiles stretching across their face pose for pictures.
Maybe one day, I will be in their spot. I will be signing hundreds of books until my hand cramps and until my cheeks freeze from smiling.
I approached a publishing booth. A man walked up to me and asked if I was interested in writing a book. I paused and beamed, then answered, I already did.
An airplane flew overhead. I can only imagine that at least half of the passengers have books in their hands as they try to entertain themselves with the boredom of flight. That’s when I realized writers like me exists.
I walked around some more—pretending to be just like one of the book lovers roaming the pathways and looking for the next great read.
Before I found the love of writing, first I discovered the love of reading books or perhaps listening to audiobooks.
An author stopped me. He was explaining what his book was all about. His information was too much to take. What was he talking about?
A lot of people, including readers will never understand why a writer would slave away until the wee hours of the night to come up with the right word and construct the perfect sentence that no one would probably read.
Seeing the people with a bagful of books, I understood that laboring away to come up with an entertaining story wasn’t useless after all.
There were lines of people waiting to get their books autographed by their favorite authors with umbrellas in their hands and ponchos to keep the rain out of their face. I wonder if they will even read the books that they purchased.
Is it just for collection?
Will it collect dust on their bookshelf?
Is it something that will be shown to friends invited for dinner as a conversation piece?
I could hear the band’s singer from a distance crooning at the main stage—the drum beating; cymbals crashing, the bass guitar thumping and the sound of the guitar distortion entertaining the crowd.
I wondered who’s the author sitting behind the desk. Is he famous? Or his he just like me?
Then I realized as I started to walk away from the event—it was all about the community of readers and people producing books being together.
I saw droplets of rain dance on my phone’s screen. I looked up. The clouds were getting dark and signaling it was time to go.
The music was fading in the background. The chatter of people was fading away too.
With my knapsack heavy with books, I rushed back to my car.
The impending rain wasn’t a spoiling the event when all is said and done—it was reminding all of the readers like me that a perfect moment was with a book in hand, curled with a warm blanket and reading our favorite books.