Sam's Dog House

There is a little hot dog shack located on Route 22A in Hampton, NY. If you are far from home and need a place to feel welcomed and part of the community stop by the little enterprise with a huge sense of hospitality. For the next three Tuesday nights, take in what is nothing more than the community coming together to entertain and amuse itself. It is called open mic night at Sam’s Dog House – Sam Jam. Grab a coke and ice cream cone or order a hot dog or two and then walk outback to have a little fun. Calvin a precocious eight year old will kick the event off, but the hostess and owner of this happy little place is Mary Holland. Young artists like Mike and Keegan will kick out the tunes and for good measure share their own original music. The audience comes and goes and if you are lucky so will the passing thunder showers that drift in from time to time. It is summer time in upstate.

The village of Hampton is not found on Long Island. This is not the Hamptons. Look further north, near the Vermont border. Next week, on August 5, the whole community has dedicated the day to raising money for the local fire department. Stop in, sponsor a duck in the duck race and have a good time.

Mary read from my book The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin at last week’s Sam Jam. It sounded great to me, experiencing the book for the first time through someone else.

RV Boot Camp

For the past couple of days my dad has walked me through the secret workings of the RV, known as The Rig. He has shown me how to turn on the gas for the stove, oven, hot water heater and refrigerator. Without blowing up The Rig, my father or me, I lit the pilot lights to the oven and water heater. I cranked up the gas-powered generator, which can be used to power everything in the RV except the air conditioner- a luxury not found onboard the Cosmic Muffin.

I drove The Rig up to Moreau State Park where we did a dry run “dump”. The holding tanks were empty, but dad walked me through the steps. Remember to dump the black water before the gray, which flushes out the sewage from the toilet. It is important to watch the gauges that indicate the levels of fresh water, black and gray water and battery power. Of course, if I am plugged into electricity at a campground, life is sweet. But I am not planning to spend too many nights in campgrounds.

We fixed a few leaks around the camper’s sleeper, dabbed glue in a few places, tighten a couple of screws and replaced a fire extinguisher with a 1986 date. I vacuumed rat poison—left over from winterizing, but not enough to deter the varmints from chewing the heck out of electric wires which put the RV in the shop for three weeks and thus the need for RV Boot Camp—out of all the nooks and crannies and gave all the cabinets a good cleaning.

For twenty months after my dad’s retirement from “The Saratogian” where he was a printer, my parents traveled from NY to California, from Alaska to Mexico and most places between. It was a time I claimed that my parents ran away from home. They planned their trek over North America so they were in a near perpetual spring. They were campground hosts in Davidson River, NC, got scammed in Wyoming, rafted rivers in Alaska, wintered in Mexico and met people from all over. Holly, mom’s sheltie accompanied them throughout the trip. She even kept the Federalles out of The Rig when she started barking, making them think twice before “inspecting” the RV at the border. Sometimes it seems like mom and dad just finished their trip, but in reality it was twenty years ago. Each year, they have used The Rig less and less as they have grown older and older.

As I unloaded all the pots and pans, other kitchen utensils, old maps and campground guides from the 90’s collected by my mom and dad over the years, that I realized that the likelihood of my mom ever going on another RV trip long or short is remote. Dad, 82, is still in good health, but is slowing down. Mom, 78, in poor health and in a great deal of pain due to a bad back is not physically able to get into the camper unless she crawls in on her hands and knees.

Most items I removed from the camper would not be repacked. I am traveling as a minimalist (except for my computers, printer, office supplies and 286 paperback copies of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin). I don’t plan to bake muffins, brew coffee, or cook meals beyond opening a can of something and pouring it in to a sauce pan, or boiling a pot of water for pasta. I have backpacked with one pocketknife; I don’t see much use for a slicing, a paring, a carving, or a bread and butter knife much less a cleaver, unless Jack Nicholson is stalking around outside. Nevertheless, I will have an ice pick with me. Why? Mom says you never know. I might get into an ice storm and have to hack my way out. If that happens I am driving to an airport and going to Hawaii.

I stood in the basement looking at my parent’s stuff and felt a sense of sadness. I was preparing for my four month tour in their RV when I was hit with the sinking realization that they will not RV again. Indeed the sadness was due to knowing that they have fond memories of their trips—long and short—and now neither are as active and capable as they once were. May I carry on where they left off.

Dad shared some words of wisdom. We had just finished turning on the water heater pilot light when he said I was a fast learner. I laughed, thinking of another man who tried to teach me things onboard his boat, but failed. I told dad this and he responded that some people teach like they don’t want you to learn. Yes, I think he was right. Then dad gave me his tool kit.

I graduated from RV Boot Camp, but just like after graduating from high school, there is still a lot to experience first hand. It is time to fly.

For the Record

Signing books at the Cambridge Farmers Market. Photo credit to John Carlson.

Revolutionary War

The day did not look too promising. A thick gray cloud cover spitting rain and dropping tails of fog into the Hudson Valley clung to the eastern sky. I crossed over the Champlain Canal and the Hudson River in Schuylerville, New York, where the Battle of Saratoga is considered by most American historians to have been the turning point of the American Revolutionary War as well as one of the most decisive battles in history judging from its consequences. The defeat and capture of a British army in the Saratoga campaign by American forces secured the northern American states from attacks out of Canada as well as preventing New England from being isolated and defeated in detail. It also convinced the rulers of France (and later Spain) that it was worth extending a significant measure of their military, political, and diplomatic support to the rebel American colonies.

However, if you live in Shelby, South Carolina, you would argue that this is the place of the Historic Turning Point of the Revolutionary War, 1780. The Battle of Kings Mountain, which took place on October 7, 1780, is considered the turning point for the Americans in the South. Frontiersmen from the Carolinas, Tennessee, and Virginia gathered to defeat Lord Cornwallis and end the British advance into North Carolina. The Loyalists and English Army were forced to retreat back to Charleston, ultimately to lose the war.

Since I am from New York, I will stick with the Yankee point of view.

I was on my way to the Cambridge Farmers Market. There I sold four books, an astonishing feat for a non-book event. My reception was positive, noticed by the other vendors near my display. I have been told that for a no named author I can expect to sell about four books per signing, if lucky. I ain’t lucky. I am blessed. God also kept the rains away, but it was chilly enough that I had to try real hard not to shiver in front of my local patrons. I hate freezing. I kept eyeing the coffee being sold two booths over from me, but had no idea where I could pee, so I refrained from seeking its warmth.

One lady spied my display set up under a tent borrowed from Paul Gowen, local artist. She made a quick fly by and then returned to take an even quicker sneak peek at my photo album. She looked a little agitated and left. Moments later she circled back around and picked up my book. I read somewhere that when a customer has a book in hand and is reading, do not speak, let them read. I stood patiently and she spoke. She told me she lived with a guy for twenty-seven years. One day he up and sold everything she had, bought a boat and left without a word. Whoa. She checked out the photos again. This sort of looks like him she continued. She put the book back down, said something to the effect that I was crazy for sailing and walked off. Bad memories.

A guitarist, Gary Moon http://www.garymoontunes.com/ who sounded just like James Taylor, but maybe a little better, asked me how many miles per book do I get in my RV. I think it is 45 pages per gallon of gas and the RV gets 17 miles per gallon. You do the math.

Several people asked if my book was available at the local bookstore. The bookstore was located right behind the market, so all I had to do was jump over two sets of railroad tracked and walk around the corner of the building. The sidewalk in front of the building which also housed a lawyer’s office was a replica of the board sidewalks in the Wild West.

Margaret Waterson, one of the two owners of Battenkill Books, an independent bookstore, happened to be in the store with some visiting friends. It wasn’t officially opened, nevertheless, she welcomed me into the store and asked me for a copy of the Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. I wasn’t expecting to sell it to her, but she offered. Except, I did not know how much to sell it for; I have not sold any books to a book seller, yet. She explained several options including consignment, but said that the normal price she paid for books from the distributor was 40% off of retail. It sounded good to me. So I now have my book available in a bookstore. YES.

The encounter was also valuable as I had another book seller email me wanting to know how to order books. Ordering wasn’t the problem; I just did not know what the industry practices were.
I could have skipped all the way home. Instead, under clearing skies, I drove north along the Hudson River enjoying the lush greenness of the valley’s corn fields. The air was clean, free of the oppressive humidity that had permeated the air for several weeks. A change was coming. A turning point perhaps?

For the Record

I sold my first book (non-internet sales) in person to a Linda Barber, who had me autograph the book to Robert. She did not tell me her name, but her cousin Serena, an artist also from Whitehall told me her name. Serena wants me to go to Tuesday Night Open Mike "Sam Jam" at Sam's Dog House, Route 22A, Hampton, NY.

Other The Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin buyers at the Whitehall Farmers Market were George Armstrong and Michelle.

When I get back to Hawaii, I am going to take a snap of Mike and Sandra Braham. Mike bought the VERY first book.

By the way, check out Serena Kovalosky's work at www.kovalosky.com.

Cambridge Farmers Market

Check the Cambridge Buzz out at www.cambridgebuzz.blogspot.com.
I'm so there.

Medical Emergency

Dr. Richard Noonan wanted to know what my book was about. He was in the middle of gathering information for his charts and records, and had been asking my mother about her condition.
“So what exactly were you doing when you first felt the pains in your chest?”
“I was sitting in the chair. I had the phone book and was looking for a number.”
“Where was it located?”
“The number?”
“No the pain. I can see I’ll have to be more specific with my questions.”

I guess he was multitasking when he asked me about my book—mom told him. I am too. Listening and watching to the medical staff tend to my mom while I try to send an email through my wireless broadband on my lap top. The hospital has some sort of force field surrounding it because neither my cell phone nor wireless connection to the Net works. It is now after 11 PM and we are all waiting—mom, dad and me—in the emergency room. Mom is alert, currently has no pain and just announced she is beginning to feel buggy.

Dr. Noonan is related to my seventh grade social studies teacher, Mrs. Noonan. Nephew, I think. She was a high-energy, high-pitched cross between a Carol Burnett and Ann Coulter. She once asked the class for a show of hands in response to how many of us thirteen year olds were going to leave town when we turned eighteen. Nearly all of us raised our hands, including me. She laughed and said that wasn’t going to happen. Most of us would stay here in the area. Maybe fifty miles, tops. I vowed right then and there, I would not live here. What was wrong with my home town? Nothing. But the rest of the world was out there waiting. I had a list of places to see.

On the United States Department of Agriculture’s web site I found every farmers market in the country. Visit www.ams.usda.gov/farmersmarket to find one near you. I looked up markets in the towns I am planning to visit, but I had a hard time matching market dates with book signing events.

Since I have not been welcomed with open arms by the “farmers” of Saratoga, I thought I better call the head of the Cambridge market before I headed out there on Sunday. It is a long ways to go for a rejection.

It took a couple of calls to track down the decision maker (not all the info on the USDA’s site is current), but what personable and helpful person he seemed to be on the phone. “I don’t see why not,” Paul Gowen said when I asked if I could set up. Plus he was sorry he did not know about this sooner. He could have put a notice on the blog, in the newsletter or in the paper. He even offered to make a tent available in case it rained, or just because it is going to be hot. Paul suggested I email Debra and Cambridge Buzz to see if I could get an announcement on the blog. I was in the middle of writing her when I heard mom gagging.

It is disappointing to experience the lack of support in my hometown, but it is nice to know that other places are open to providing venues to authors and artists in order to provide a richer event for their patrons.

My mom’s finger was becoming numb from the clip that holds one of the numerous monitoring wires to her body. When the doctor returned, she complained, and he transferred the clip to another finger. Mom noted the impression left on her finger and complained. The doctor calmly responded, “You can sue and buy your own sail boat.”

Midnight: My butt is sore from sitting here. The sounds from down the hallway outside of the room are chaotic; voices crashing over each other sounding like reckless clatter of dishes dropped in a pile on a kitchen floor.

Later -

Mom did not want to stay last night and I could tell she was upset. She fretted about The Booter, her cat. The Doctor said he could not force her to stay, and she did not want to stay, but to keep her there dad and I left before she was admitted and taken to a room. We got to bed about 1:30 after making sure The Booter was fed.

Enzyme test is not back yet this morning, and I guess that is the tell tale foot print left behind when the heart goes nuts. I still don't suspect she had one, but I can’t tell you what caused last night’s pain. I did cook dinner…

Dad slept well after taking a Tylenol PM and I guess I did too, except I had a ton of dreams I can't remember. I got up early to run when I heard little splatters of rain on the leaves outside my bedroom window. I wanted to beat any heavier rain. It started sprinkling again after I finished my four mile run.

I keep a horsefly kill tally when I run: mild attacks today. I got bit twice, but I nailed five of the little bastards. I have had mornings when the kills have been as high as eleven and I got bit six times. I have to constantly look over my shoulders to ward off their assaults. This distracts my running. Sometimes, I swear they are flying in fighter jet formation.

Anyway, mom will most likely be discharged this afternoon.

Snooty Farmers of Saratoga

Would you rather go to the Saratoga Public Library and hear, “With No Apologies to Oprah, The Truth Hurts” or “The Story behind the Cosmic Muffin: The Truth Hurts?” Apparently, the librarians decided Oprah’s story had more of an appeal than mine. None of them had any interest in The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin, but Dan suggested I try to see about an event at the coffee shop located on the first floor of the library. I didn’t know there was one in the library, which was built way after I left town. I checked into the coffee caffe (that is the way they spell it.) but Kimberly, the manager, was not in. Left a message. Something tells me…

Another attempt at the Saratoga Farmers Market proved futile. Boy are they a bunch of snooty “farmers.” Each time I go, I am directed to another person “in charge” so I think I am making my way through the entire board. This time I was given the story of the lengthy application process, the insurance costs, the limited space, the fees, the requirement to be “farm” relevant, blah, blah, blah…the typical bureaucratic response to any request. There was no consideration of how local authors (not just me) could appeal to their customers or attract other potential buyers. Books cost more than onions and green peppers, but I don’t think anyone coming to the market with $18 in hand and in need of food for their children would make a choice to buy a book instead, thereby denying the “farmer” their livelihood.

I had flash backs of Hawaii and the condominium association run by the very identical anal retentive individuals who live and die by rules and who could never imagine the realms of possibilities much less sail across the ocean or run across the street without an umbrella on a rainy day. With Nazi-like zeal they adhere and enforce these rules, and protect them as if they were heirlooms. It is too risky and definitely not a notion that occurs to them as a possible feat because they are mentally confined within their rules. But maybe I am wrong. Maybe they are just plain snooty farmers who are all down at the library tonight listening to the “With No Apologies to Oprah…” presentation. You know, their blueberries were not any bigger or better than the ones in Whitehall and Whitehall was half the price. So if you are shopping…

With two local strike outs, I attacked my Northeast Bookshop list and called twenty-three stores. Making these phone calls was not as hard as I expected. Once I started I got on a roll; I kept plowing through my call list. I had only one flat out rejection. I left a lot of messages, several had not read the book yet, some were on vacation, and others asked me to call back next week or in two weeks. But I got another yes—at The Bookend in Gloucester, Massachusetts August 3rd from noon until 2 PM. Plus she is ordering ten books. Holy Cow! The day is the first day of the town’s Sidewalk Bizarre, so could have some potential.

In a bit of celebration for landing another signing and in a bit of consolation for another rejection from the Saratoga Farmers Market and the Public Library, I went to Stewart’s Ice Cream Shoppe on south Broadway and got a Death By Chocolate ice cream cone. I sat in the park enjoying the cooler temperatures and watching the ducks waddle around the pond. There was a momma duck taking her young ducklings for a foraging. Seven furry bodies seemed to aimlessly wander around her until she decided to cross the road. Somehow she communicated to her babies that it was time to get in line and follow her across the road. Although some lagged behind her and other wandered ahead of her, she got their attention, they lined up faster than soldiers in boot camp, and she marched them across the park’s road as squarely as any drill sergeant. It was about that time I tried to pop the last bit of cone and ice cream in my mouth and dropped a blob on my white shirt. Time to go home.

The RV should be ready to pick up from the shop tomorrow.

Go Jump in the Canal

My cats each had adventures today. Ones that I don’t wish to repeat. This morning they both got outside when the maintenance man came to work on the furnace. Although the northeast is in the grips of a heat wave, the summer is the best time to service the furnace because winter is just around the corner. Anyway, he left the door open during one of his trips out to his van and the cats made a break for it. Dad spotted Phoenix and came to tell me about her escape, but being the smarter cat of the two she waltzed back inside before I could dash out. Diablo was another story. She was nowhere to be found.

Diablo is a grazer—loves eating grass and becomes so absorbed in chewing the greens that she doesn’t pay attention to where she is wandering. I called and hunted around for her and got the food can out and shook that, hoping the familiar sound would coax her home. Sure enough she came prancing across the backyard as if she has done this everyday.

Cats found and Jeep packed, I was off to Whitehall peddle my wares at the farmers market. I needed ones so I planned to stop at a bank in Fort Anne. As I pulled in my cell phone rang. It was great timing, because it is illegal to use a hand held phone while driving in New York State. It was Raymond Brody, host of the radio show Camping in the Zone, and owner of Campers Corner in Nashville and Knoxville.

He wanted to know where I was and the status of my RV adventure. I brought him up to date, explaining the RV was still in the shop with a manifold problem, but I was scheduled to hit the road at the end of July. He is ready to have me on the show and wants to do a fifteen minute interview either this Sunday or next. He’ll call me tomorrow with an identified time. YES!

So tune in. Listen to the show on the web by going to wnoxnewstalk.com and clicking on the Live Link in the upper right hand corner. The show airs 8-9 AM Eastern Time on Sunday. Or if you are in Knoxville listen to the show on WNOX 100.3 FM and in Nashville 104.5 FM, The Zone (remember that is Central Time, so that is 7 AM). I know for you who live in Hawaii this is awfully early or darn late, depending on how you look at it.

Fifteen minutes later I met George Armstrong under the big tree across from the Rescue Squad in the park alongside the Champlain Canal. George greeted me warmly and invited me to set up next to his truck where he put out his produce and plants. It was brutally hot. At first, it seemed that it was going to be just George and me. But shortly before 1 PM, Michelle and Bob showed up and we had a real farmers market going. As George promised it was small, but I sold my first three books! I didn’t jump into the canal despite the heat, however, I took pictures.

This was a good test run, for I learned that wind does blow my poster stand down and no one eats goldfish crackers which I had out on my table. My photo album was a hit and it was a great way to engage people in conversations.

Three hours later I came home all excited about my day. Besides the sales, I had a couple new leads on more farmers markets and a Hot Dog Shack that has an open mic (possible reading?) on Tuesday nights. Yes, tonight is Tuesday, but I wasn’t about to drop in without some preparation. Maybe next Tuesday, but this is way out of my comfort zone. I don’t like reading out loud.

I landed my first book signing!! Got an email from Annie Philbrick of Banks Square Books in Mystic, Connecticut saying she would love to have me come on either August 26 or 27th.

God has blessed me greatly. I just have to remember one step starts the journey.

Tomorrow I have to buckle down and follow up with my Northeast Book Stores. I am running out of time.

Canals

Communications from Borders: Ann Arbor’s New Acquisitions Department has received my request for national distribution and I won’t hear from them again unless I am approved. Darkness. Total darkness. If declined (and I can only assume this after a couple of months of silence) I’ll never know why. On a little smaller scale I heard from the Barnes & Noble store in Bay Shore. No go. They don’t carry my book and the policy is “No carry, no event.” Any questions? Makes me feel like a young job seeker who finds that without experience I am not eligible for a job. How do you get experience if you won’t hire me?

I needed to have a little fun today so I went to Whitehall, NY. Located on the Champlain Canal, it is the birthplace of the US Navy—factoid of the day. Growing up in the area, I had no interest in the locks and canals of New York. They were subjects in my seventh grade history class, and anything studied in a history class made it ancient. I always thought these were defunct waterways. After all, once the railway came into its own the mule teams were retired, and the canals became nothing more than breeding places for mosquitoes—or so I thought. Now leisure boats cruise the extensive waterway system, and towns and villages lining the canal ways are capitalizing on tourism.

Whitehall is located on lock 12, has a museum and the wooden hull of the Ticonderoga, a couple of marinas and a musty smelling bookstore. It is a town on the brink of boom or bust, I could not tell which.

Playing on the marine theme I approached the museum the marinas and the bookstore, and while I had some interesting conversations with several people, including with some boaters cruising the canals, I sold no books. However, I managed to get my first venue. It took a few inquires at the town hall and museum, and a phone call to Vernon who referred me to Farmer George Armstrong. I got a hold of his wife, left a message and tonight, once he returned from the back forty, George gave me the thumbs up. “Now this is not a big market,” he informed me. I don’t care. I’ll make your little farmers market famous someday. I don’t expect to sell more than two books. It is suppose to be in the nineties again tomorrow. I’ll probably melt. But if I sell a book, I’ll jump into the canal.

Don’t forget to bring a camera.


Some days are harder than others, and today was a tough day. Let’s face it. I ended the relationship without so much of a whimper. Change the name and move on. But there are days when I become weak and wonder what he is doing. Hanging around marinas and water ways, albeit fresh water, I kept thinking of him. He would have liked the setting. I hope his dream comes true—to build that old-man boat and do the rivers. I got to get my grip back.

It is a marathon

It is a marathon, not a sprint. I must remember this. I have had my books for a little over a week, failed to secure one venue and managed to sell just two books—to my cousin.

I got depressed this afternoon when I visited Borders in Saratoga. Books. Books. Books. With nearly 500 new titles coming out every day that makes about 5500 new books since I got my book. Holy Crap, how do I get noticed?

While making cold calls to booksellers down the coast, I get a hold of one grumpy guy who snarled at me that I was wasting his time. If I can’t get something in the paper, forget coming to his store. The fact that I use to live in the area “don’t mean a hill of beans”—well actually, he was a bit cruder than that, but I am trying to clean up my mouth. I sent him a book anyway. Maybe he will be transformed. Yeah, like into a Transformer Toy.

Thirty or more phone call made last week, thirty more press kits printed, thirty more free promotional books given away, thirty more letters written, envelops addressed and licked (yuck) and a little more than $60 in postage spent. Time? Time means nothing. This is my job. Or at least my father remarked that I have worked pretty hard at this. To him it seems like my job. I tell my dad it is my job, but I have this feeling I have a very expensive hobby that involves licking a lot of stamps.

I was in Borders on a mission of sorts, to find out if I can do anything else. I have a book, I am calling bookstores, I have submitted my press kit and application to the Big Boys, I am knocking on alternative venues, I have a small feature call in on a radio show in Nashville and Knoxville, I am working on getting a newspaper article in the hometown paper, I’m tapping into a radio interview, I have sent out my press release (I could use a new one) and I have created three blogs. (Good Lord, do I admit I have one on My Space?) I have signed up on several writers and author websites which I am sure will get me more junk email than I care to have, but I wisely did not use my primary email account. I have tapped the Net—I have a site and anyone can buy my book from me through the site, and on Amazon for less than $13.00. I am even offering new signed books on Amazon for $25.00. Still I went to Borders looking for guidance. I perused through the marketing section looking for guerilla marketing techniques. After thumbing through a few books I concluded I am just getting started. It is a marathon, not a sprint. Focus on the goal. Keep knocking. And have fun. I left Borders before all those books made me sick.

Is anyone reading this?

Personal notes: Tomorrow is the captain’s birthday. The toad turns 54. And I have officially passed into menopause. It took three years. But when are the hot flashes suppose to stop?

A Bank Job

Mike continues to read my blog, so I’ll continue to write. Thanks for the encouragement, Mike. If you see Oprah, let her know I am still available. The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin is original material, not plagiarized, nor is it woven of the fabric of myths, lies and false assumptions; although there is a certain sea-captain who would spurt out his morning coffee while reading this claim as he sits at his computer dressed in his sweats and bootie slippers.

I hit the bank. Adirondack Trust Company is a hallmark institution in Saratoga Springs. Long run by the Waits, a prominent and influential family in Saratoga, but one that once hailed from my neck of the woods in rural Kings Station where the Perez and the Wait kids grew up, it is the very same bank of white Vermont marble, heavy bronze doors and tall lobby ceilings that commands a reverent silence among patrons and dedicated employees, where I opened my first passbook savings account. I was eight and had ten dollars worth of dimes that I had saved in a toy metal replica of a cash register. Each dime pushed through a slot turned a mechanism inside the toy and recorded each ten cents to a sum of $9.90. Then, the next dime flipped the dial back to $0.00.

Charles V. Wait a cheeky man with eyes that always glinted with a sparkle of knowledge deeper than most and an outward trust that probably should not be found in a banker, is the Chairman, President and CEO. But to me he is Charlie, the little kid with glasses who was a Boy Scout with my older brother—the awkward kid my dad took to Lake George for his canoeing merit badge.

My approach in my proposal was casual. A couple of days earlier, I dropped off a copy of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin at the bank. I had no intentions of asking for Charlie, but requested that the book be delivered to him. I assumed he was somewhere deep within the bank behind the bonze, and the marble and in the rarified air of the upstairs in an office tucked behind the balcony where gray haired men counted every dime I ever deposited. Now I made a phone call to the Chairman and after passing through two female voices, I was talking to Charles V. Wait.

I thought it would be a good idea if the bank gave away my book to customers who opened a new account, or maybe a 50 Plus free checking accounts. Hey, I have seen banks give $75 cash for opening an account. And what bank hasn’t given away a free toaster or coffee maker? The Adirondack Trust Company could give away a twenty dollar book. I am not so naïve that I think new customers will storm the bank for my book, but as a local author the gesture is a good community connection and the bank is all about that. Always has been.

At some point in time, I can come to the bank and sign the books for customers and maybe sell a few more. Charlie thought about the idea, but admitted he would like to read the book to see if it reflects his customers’ values.

The cool thing about my conversation with Charlie was that I learned he had a sailing experience last year too. Except he went across the Atlantic in a 100 foot boat, a replica of an old sailing vessel. Like me, he used the patch, and tasted the same truck-stop floor flavor in his mouth as I did. I did not dare ask him if his pee stunk to high heavens.

Under Consideration

My book tour begins August 1 in Rockport Massachusetts. I have already heard from one book store, Toad Hall Bookstore. Their calendar is full. This information is not a huge set back, but an excuse to see the marinas and resort hotels. Toad Hall had seemed like a perfect place to begin since the captain of the Cosmic Muffin tended to be a toad.

Unless I get the RV out of the shop, I’ll be touring in a Jeep with 307,000 miles and living single tent. Sounds homeless to me, especially if I take the cats. My dad is getting frustrated with the Toyota dealer. They supposedly are working on the manifold. It has been two weeks. Time to Fold-A-Man–that is kick butt.

I did not go door to door today, unless I count knocking on the door of Ben and Jerry’s in Saratoga. After cruising by the ice cream shoppe on my way to the Saratoga Public Library to beg for a presentation (it is under consideration), I noticed that there is a rather large and shaded seating area outside the shoppe. On a summer evening, they get busy. What a nice place to set up and sell books. So I went into ask. The young girl behind the counter, although she was the assistant manager, was not in position to make the call. Recognizing the need for the manager who was not on site, she gave me a pad of paper to write him a note. “Dear Patrick,” I began…(it is under consideration).

To be honest, I have stayed away from the Big Boys – Borders and Barnes & Noble. With press kit in hand, I ventured out. After all, I have not had much success with the alternative venues, but I have not stood on a street corner with a sign saying, “Author – has book. Will sell for food.” At least not yet. So I hit the book stores—those intimidating places with 45,000 plus new titles on their shelves and more employees than people I have sold books to.

What happened? Crystal at Barnes & Noble was helpful and said they would consider me for a local author event scheduled September 12. At Borders the District Manager, Michelle, was not in, but returned my call, and later emailed the guidelines for author book signings. Once she gets that info it takes at least six weeks for a decision, and it is “don’t call us, we’ll call you.” Meanwhile, I am sending my information to Borders in Ann Arbor to be considered for national distribution. Can’t get them local – go national.

Rob called me today to tell me he received his book. Not being a reader, he surprised himself by cruising pleasantly through the first 100 pages. He said I exceeded his expectations and Rob’s standards are high. He went on to say that if people will read my book, their lives will be touched and changed. I did not write the book for that purpose, but if that happens, well then God truly has used me for His purpose.

Lawyers and Pigs

After a five hour deposition (with no lunch break), I jumped into my Jeep and headed off to Ballston Spa to see about selling my wares at the country fair. Yes, along side the prized blue-ribbon pigs and juicy homemade raspberry pies, you’ll find a trade paperback titled The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. After being told I would have to exhibit all eleven days of the fair, man the booth from 11 AM to 11PM, show proof of registration to collect sales tax (my permit ends on July 15) and acquire liability insurance—in case someone gets a paper cut on one of my book’s pages, I guess—I decided it is financially and logistically impossible to peddle paperbacks in the middle of carni-ville. Besides, if it rains, I don’t have a ten by ten tent. It looked like a $650 investment. That is a lot of gas, even at $3.00 a gallon.

Still feeling like I wanted to bug someone about a venue for my book, I once again approached The Saratoga Arts Council, hosts of an upcoming art fair. I asked the director last week, but unfairly hit her with my request when she was up to her eyebrows in musicians and patrons. I managed an audience with both the director and assistant, but received no commitments. The concern is that they have never been approached with this type of request. (Come on, I am not a marketing genius. No one else ever thought of this brilliant idea?) If they honor my request, the flood gates for requests might be opened from other authors and limit the space for the visual artists (Congress Park is huge). I await an answer, and hope I get a break.

Maybe door to door? Shivers.

I Have Books

I won’t make a very good famous person, because I get too excited about almost nothing. My books came two weeks ahead of the expected delivery date. I was so excited about it I took ten books down to the Farmers Market expecting to sell them and was told no. Not to be deterred I took my whole display down to the Market on Saturday while the vendors were setting up and again was told no. Well carp. Before, I was an author without a book. Now I am an author without a venue. If I was a famous person, I’d have a venue and I’d be really excited.

This week, after I give a deposition for a dispute of the past—not book related—I am going to hit two book stores, two coffee shops and maybe a bank. Hmm, I don’t mean I am going to rob them, but approach them for a book signing. I’ll also go back to the Saratoga Arts Council to see if I can participate in an Art Show in Congress Park. I have already been told no. (Yeah, doesn’t sound like I have a good trend going.) No matter, as it is too early to quite.

Oh yeah, I am going to see if I can sneak into the Saratoga County Fair.

I feverously worked on sending out books to twenty-seven book stores in New England and Long Island. And I have filled the orders of those who ordered paperbacks. Although I have planned what I wanted to right as a personalized autographed message to each person, it did not prevent me from working up a sweat of concern and nerves that I was going to mess up a book. What will I be like when I sign my first book at a book signing? How do you spell Sue?

My finger is healing nicely, although I have a half inch sore with dead skin remaining. My sister, who is not a doctor, scared me with stories of her stitches growing into her skin and when removed hurt really badly. She asked me if my stitches were loose. I said, “No.” She thought I had them in too long. So the next day I took scissors and tweezers to the black nylon and played Nurse Valerie. The surgery was successful and my sliced finger seemed to be holding together until I took a shower. That was three days ago. Now it looks like I won’t even have a scar (clean cut,) and since the finger is no longer numb, I think I’ll have a full recovery. Just like a gecko replacing its tail!

Coming home

By 3 a.m. I was looking at Maryland in my rear view mirror. I had flown through the Old Line State, there just long enough to have two hot flashes. A minute later I whizzed by the Pennsylvania Welcome Center cruising north on Interstate 81. Behind me was yesterday, Knoxville and 535 miles of interstate.

First light came about 4:30 a.m. By 5 a.m. after driving all night to take advantage of cooler temperatures since the Jeep’s air-conditioning stopped working 150,000 miles ago, I left the interstate looking for a place to take a short nap. There were still six hours of road ahead. Thirty-five miles south of Wilkes-Berra high on top a mountain and well above any potential flooding, I pulled into a deserted shopping mall, turned off the engine and listened to the chirps of a few early morning birds out to get their worms. I slumped behind the wheel to catch just enough z’s to chase the cobwebs out of my head. The morning’s air was cool, dry and smelled fresh as a new front brought a clearing sky to a soggy northeast.

For the past six months while writing, editing and preparing to market my book, I have torn apart and remodeled a kitchen, repaired a roof, and torn through three layers of a bathroom floor to replace rotten joists and leaky tiles. I have employed circular and reciprocating saws, sheet rock and utility knives, chisels, drills and other instruments of destruction and not once incurred a serious injury. As I waited for the movers to put my stuff back into storage, I picked up a box and got attacked by a knife packed inside the box. It is a good thing I won’t be signing books this week, because I nearly sliced my left index finger off. It took three stitches. Geez

Throughout the night I felt my heart beat in the fresh cut on my left index finger.

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The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin is being printed and I have ordered 1000 paperbacks to be sold, bartered and gifted on the book tour. The books should arrive in New York the middle of July. I’ll immediately sign them and send them out to those who have pre-ordered the books.

Now anyone can order the book through Amazon.com, Borders.com, BookSurge.com and Abebooks.com At 264 pages, the price ended up at $18.99. The advantage of ordering through www.ValeriePerez.com is that I will have books ready for autographing and immediate shipment. Other sellers will have to order books and wait 4-6 weeks and they can’t send you an autographed copy.

The hard cover is going through the pre-print quality check and should be ready for print by the end of the month. I expect to have your copies for autographing by mid-September.

During my last week in Knoxville, I contacted twenty seven bookstores in New England and Long Island to inquire about arrangements for book signings. As expected, I need to send the book. I feel like I am the only author in the world without a book. So, my wait continues. Meanwhile I’ll start contacting the bookstores down the coast.

I am without an RV. Mom and Dad’s RV was towed to the shop after a chipmunk or some other rodent gnawed through wiring. I think it will be fixed after the Fourth of July. Then I want to take it out on the road for a shake down.

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A few hours later I crossed the swollen Delaware River and I was back in New York, three more hours to Saratoga Springs. The familiar and ugly orange and pink signage of the Dunkin’ Donuts called me in for a latte and a vanilla crème donut. Both tasted delicious and further pushed a wad of cat fur that had been accumulating in my throat since Roanoke Virginia. While Phoenix and Diablo had settled down for the eighteen hour road trip, their fur flew around the car. Nothing makes a cat shed more than stress. Diablo had given up on giving me that look of total disgust and had crawled into a box deep in the bowels of the Jeep. Phoenix, the ever curious cat who would eventually figure out how to roll a window down, took to watching overpasses fly over her head. With a constant snapping of her neck, I was sure she would be paralyzed by the time I pulled into my parent’ drive way.