I had a new experience this week. I went to a Book Talk. "Hah!" you say. "New experience, indeed. Why, I have been to millions of those. I watched Oprah all the time. I got books coming out the wazoo...."
Before you get carried away with colorful and possibly offensive language, let me reassure you that this was not just a book talk, in the theoretical sense of the word. This is a the kind of book talk that if you look it up in Webster's New World Dictionary, you will see a picture of my book, Wrinkles, Waistlines and Wet Pants.
'Tis true. I went to a Book Talk all about my own book. What a cool concept and what an honor it was. First of all, having 10 or so women all in the same room who were willing to read my book ahead of time and talk about it. Positively. Laughing. Enjoying themselves and making me laugh at their comments and stories. It is what authors dream about. Instant audience. An audience that related.
They were there in the moment with me. Did I have to tell them the significance of Wet Pants in the title? No! Did I have to explain my uber-embarrassing life episodes that glue my stories together? No! They had stories of their own that rivaled the most humiliating of mine. I could have written a book that night.