Scandihoovian
Well, it's that time of year again. The time when people in the Wisconsin town where I live put on tall red hats, play in the snow, drink beer and enter a spelling bee. (Sometimes in that order.)
As part of the festivities, I'll be signing books at the Grumpy Troll Brew Pub in Mount Horeb, WI on Sunday from 1-3 p.m.
And in honor of the Annual Scandihoovian Festival, here's a little taste of one of the stories I'm currently working on:
I expected many questions when my first book was released. I ran the most probable ones through my mind and carefully readied answers that would sound spontaneous, witty and magnanimous.
I thought two questions seemed most likely: “Why is your writing so amazing?” and its cousin, “Why are you so great?”
The question I actually get most is slightly different, and I have not yet come up with a clever response.
“Where can I buy your book?”
“Well, at bookstores,” I usually say. “Or online. You know, wherever you usually buy books.”
“So,” one friend replied thoughtfully in the frozen foods aisle at the local supermarket, “can I buy it at the gas station? The gas station is right by my house.”
“I don’t think they sell books,” I responded. “I mean, I know they sell roadmaps, which are kind of like very messy books, but I don’t think they sell the kind of book I wrote.”
“Hhhmm,” he hummed, pondering laboriously.
“Do they sell it here?”
“Here?”
“Yeah, here,” he continued. “At the grocery store. I mean, not right here with the popsicles. That would be ridiculous. But maybe over with paper towels and things?”
That aisle does have a lot of paper in it. He had a point. And what’s the difference, really, between my book and the napkins, except that the thing I made has pithy observations about fatherhood printed on it, while they just say “Bounty” over and over again. Neither one is destined to win a Nobel Prize in literature, I suspect.
“No, I’m sorry but I don’t think they sell it here,” I said.
People usually look at me like I’m really going out of my way to inconvenience them. Like they asked where to find my book, and I told them they must first locate the Golden Fleece and the Ark of the Covenant, and only then can they obtain a book of stories about a plump man-child and a cute baby.
Or like I told them it’s primarily sold in brothels. On Mars.
“Where do you normally buy books?” I sometimes ask. “They probably have it, or they could at least get it for you.”
“If you don’t want to go to a physical book store, you can always get it from Amazon.com,” I offer. “That’s like a bookstore that also sells dish towels, batteries and diapers, and you don’t have to stand up, walk or drive a car to get there.”
It’s at this point I start to feel like I’m asking too much of them. Like this is a charitable endeavor. Like this is just another iteration of the program through which I bought a massive raspberry cheesecake that I couldn’t fit into my freezer in order to help the local high school kids take a trip abroad.
As part of the festivities, I'll be signing books at the Grumpy Troll Brew Pub in Mount Horeb, WI on Sunday from 1-3 p.m.
And in honor of the Annual Scandihoovian Festival, here's a little taste of one of the stories I'm currently working on:
I expected many questions when my first book was released. I ran the most probable ones through my mind and carefully readied answers that would sound spontaneous, witty and magnanimous.
I thought two questions seemed most likely: “Why is your writing so amazing?” and its cousin, “Why are you so great?”
The question I actually get most is slightly different, and I have not yet come up with a clever response.
“Where can I buy your book?”
“Well, at bookstores,” I usually say. “Or online. You know, wherever you usually buy books.”
“So,” one friend replied thoughtfully in the frozen foods aisle at the local supermarket, “can I buy it at the gas station? The gas station is right by my house.”
“I don’t think they sell books,” I responded. “I mean, I know they sell roadmaps, which are kind of like very messy books, but I don’t think they sell the kind of book I wrote.”
“Hhhmm,” he hummed, pondering laboriously.
“Do they sell it here?”
“Here?”
“Yeah, here,” he continued. “At the grocery store. I mean, not right here with the popsicles. That would be ridiculous. But maybe over with paper towels and things?”
That aisle does have a lot of paper in it. He had a point. And what’s the difference, really, between my book and the napkins, except that the thing I made has pithy observations about fatherhood printed on it, while they just say “Bounty” over and over again. Neither one is destined to win a Nobel Prize in literature, I suspect.
“No, I’m sorry but I don’t think they sell it here,” I said.
People usually look at me like I’m really going out of my way to inconvenience them. Like they asked where to find my book, and I told them they must first locate the Golden Fleece and the Ark of the Covenant, and only then can they obtain a book of stories about a plump man-child and a cute baby.
Or like I told them it’s primarily sold in brothels. On Mars.
“Where do you normally buy books?” I sometimes ask. “They probably have it, or they could at least get it for you.”
“If you don’t want to go to a physical book store, you can always get it from Amazon.com,” I offer. “That’s like a bookstore that also sells dish towels, batteries and diapers, and you don’t have to stand up, walk or drive a car to get there.”
It’s at this point I start to feel like I’m asking too much of them. Like this is a charitable endeavor. Like this is just another iteration of the program through which I bought a massive raspberry cheesecake that I couldn’t fit into my freezer in order to help the local high school kids take a trip abroad.
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