by Nancy King

It was dark at 6 a.m. when I struggled to wake up so I could get ready to sell books. Would anyone care if I showed up or not? I was wondering what difference my books made in the world as I ate a hasty breakfast and drove to the farmer's market. Wishing I were still in my warm bed cuddling my cat, I set up my display and sat down at a table with three other authors, each of us trying to sell books to people as they passed by carrying bags of lettuce, tomatoes, and corn; they were interested in eating, not reading. Was the effort of writing a book worth it? 

Just as I was thinking I’d rather sleep than try to sell books, a woman in her early fifties came up to me and said, “I’d like to buy one of your books. Which one do you recommend?”

“Tell me a little about yourself,” I said. 

“I just put my mother in an assisted living facility against her will because she can’t take care of herself. It’s one more reason for her to hate me. We’ve battled all my life.” She wiped away tears and added,  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”

Knowing all too well what it is like to have mothertroubles, I assured her, “Please, don’t worry about what you should or shouldn’t say, I’m happy to listen.”

Suddenly it was as if there weren’t authors sitting on either side of me, or a table between the woman and me. I was totally focused on her as her despair and frustration poured out. She didn’t talk long, maybe a minute or two, but when she stopped, her face looked more relaxed, or at least relieved.  I told her I had no doubt that my novel, Morning Light, the most autobiographical of my novels, was the one I’d recommend. She read the back cover and laughed. “No wonder you’re such a good listener, you’re a kindred spirit.” She bought the book, promising to let me know what she thought after she finished it.

Next, a man approached me and said, “I’m looking for a novel about relationships between men and women, but not the fairy tale kind. You know, the ones that end ‘happily ever after.’”

I laughed. “Can’t write what I don’t know about.” He asked what kind of relationships I did know about. I joked, sort of. “Bad, horrible, abusive, weird, unusual, impossible . . .”

He nodded knowingly and then, once again, despite the lack of privacy, told me about his last two relationships, which were very different but both wildly problematic. “If you’ve never had a good relationship, are all the ones you write about bad?” he asked me. 

“I write about complicated relationships. I guess it's for each reader to decide if they're good or bad.” He read the back covers, flipped through the pages of each novel, reread the back covers, put them down, looked at the front covers, walked away, then came back and bought one. I smiled at him as he left. 

Shortly afterwards, a woman came up, agony etched on her face. “I need a book that’s joyful. I can’t stand any more misery. Any of your novels fit the bill?” 

As I was thinking about which one to suggest she blurted out, “My daughter is dying of an inoperable brain tumor. She has two young children. I can’t stand any more pain.”

I gasped, knowing I had to say something, but what? When I mustered the words, “That’s unbearable—all your choices are terrible,” she started crying and looked in her purse for a tissue, but couldn’t find one. I gave her one, holding her hand for a brief second. It was if a dam broke—words spilled out. I listened intently, our eyes focused on each other, creating a bubble of privacy amidst the bustle of authors hawking their work. After she stopped speaking, her eyes locked on mine, her face a little less stressed, she apologized for taking up so much of my time. I assured her there was no need for apologies.  “I know something about dealing with cancer,” I added. 

“Maybe that’s why you’re such a comforting listener.” She bought my newest novel, saying it looked good, thanked me again and left.

Just as I was beginning to pack up, a pleasant looking woman in her 50’s approached and said, “I had a dream about going to Santa Fe. When I told my therapist, he said I had to come, that there was something here for me.”

“What do you think it could be?” I asked.

“I don’t know. My husband of over thirty years and I are divorcing. This is the first time I’ve ever traveled without him. Maybe it has to do with that.”

 “My latest novel is about a woman whose husband tells her he wants a divorce after forty years. She grew up being told that what mattered was her husband’s happiness and in the process lost her sense of self.  The novel is about the life she makes for herself, aided and abetted by the friendship of three amazing Santa Fe women. Here, have a look,” I said handing her the book.

She read the back cover and then some pages of the book. “This is definitely for me. After she bought it we talked about what it is like to be one after so many years of being two, and the complicated process of reclaiming our selves. Our connection felt so strong, and the conversation so engrossing, I said I hoped she’d let me know what she thought about the novel and how she was doing. 

Some days later I received an email from her informing me that when she had lunch with her ex, he felt the reason she had to come to Santa Fe was to meet and talk with me. She said our conversation had touched her deeply, and that my writing paralleled the changes taking place in her life. She ended by saying that their divorce had become final, she was feeling as if a burden had been lifted, and she was loving her freedom.

In my email to her I wrote: “I was as moved by your email and what your ex said, as I was by our encounter at the market. When I think about our connection and the intimacy of our conversation it seems like a bit of magic. The setting was hardly conducive—me selling books across a table, authors selling books on either side of me, people coming and going–– and yet, it was as if we were in a bubble of privacy, talking about issues that matter to both of us.  I feel so privileged and grateful.”

While marketing my books, I am reminded of scribes in markets who read and write letters for people who cannot read or write. They develop a quality of listening that allows them to gauge the way they should read a letter to their customers or how to help them craft a fitting response. Selling my books is no longer a burden, but an opportunity to be invited into the lives of readers, to bear witness to their struggles and triumphs. I think that my interaction with readers is a nourishing counterbalance to lifelong feelings of worthlessness. People are letting me know that I matter and that what I write matters. Our bubble of privacy brings healing to the readers and to me. 

Nancy King is the author of 7 books of nonfiction and 4 novels: A Woman Walking, Morning Light, The Stones Speak, and Changing Spaces. She lives in Santa Fe and can be reached at nanking1224@earthlink.net. Excerpts of her latest books can be read on her website: www.nancykingstories.com. She welcomes comments and questions.