I Hate Selling

Today at the doctor’s office – on my first visit, I bring my proof of AFTER JEWEL, my newest novel in process. I point it out to him toward the end of our visit when he asks me about my grandparents, how they died, when they died. I mention my paternal grandfather, how he “chain smokes and works outside in sunshine” himself to death. Then I point to my book, say, “I’m writing about him and my grandmother right now.”

“Are you?”

“I am.”

I’m like a little kid with a favorite toy. I want to show it off.

The doctor, who I’ve just met, asks me if I’ve written other novels.

“Oh yes,” I say. I proceed to tell him about THE EIGHT-FOOT BOY. The doctor mentions discovering an aortic aneurysm in a young man with Marfan syndrome. I tell him about my main character, who happens to have Marfan syndrome.

“Perhaps you’d like to buy my book.”

The doctor sidesteps this skillfully, completely changing the subject.

I confront him in my typical joking manner, “I like the way you dodged that.”

He laughs.

I give him my business card – yes, I carry a business card! He takes it, says he’ll have to check my novels out, get a signed copy. Here he has slipped up. I say, “Oh then you should buy one now. I can sign it right now. And it’s only $10 if you get it today.”

Ten minutes later, I’m signing THE EIGHT-FOOT BOY to my new physician.

Goodness, I hate selling.

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