Those Boring Authors
Yesterday I had my author photo taken for the paperback edition of the book. When the publisher requested an author photo from me for the hardcover edition I was actually smack in the middle of labor (and, yes, still checking my email) so I just found an old vacation photo and sent it to them. I'd long imagined my author photo, even before I knew that I would write a book, there in my mind was the photo. I would be smiling ever so slightly. I would be wearing quietly fabulous clothes. I would be in my spacious Greenwich Village apartment. I would have a makeup artist come and make my skin look flawless.
And I'm sure that somewhere out there, some other author is living my fantasy. Instead, what happened was that I threw on some clothing and ran down the street to the nearest make up store because, sadly, I am out of makeup. Even sadder, the store was closed. So then I ran back home and dug out that tube of concealer that I bought in 1994, and the foundation that I bought for my wedding and that has since developed a slightly disconcerting crust, and did my best to make myself look presentable.
I met the photographer on a street corner and we took some pictures in front of a beautiful brownstone. After a while a woman and her teenaged daughter came out of the brownstone next door.
"Are you the new owner?" asked the woman.
"The what?" I asked.
"Someone just bought this house and we haven't met them yet. We thought maybe you were the new owner."
"She's an author," said the photographer. "We're taking an author photo for her book."
"Oh," said the woman, clearly disappointed. "Okay." She turned around and went back inside her house.
This scenario played out in about seven different variations over the course of the afternoon. And this is the problem with living in Park Slope. When you can walk down the street and run into Paul Auster or Gary Shtynegart or that guy with the bow tie who does the really dry commentary on The Daily Show or any of the annoyingly successful Jonathans (Ames, Lethem, Safran Foer), who cares about just another published author. Unless you're, like, a famous published author. And even then, people are just hoping you bought the house next to them so their property value will go up.
And I'm sure that somewhere out there, some other author is living my fantasy. Instead, what happened was that I threw on some clothing and ran down the street to the nearest make up store because, sadly, I am out of makeup. Even sadder, the store was closed. So then I ran back home and dug out that tube of concealer that I bought in 1994, and the foundation that I bought for my wedding and that has since developed a slightly disconcerting crust, and did my best to make myself look presentable.
I met the photographer on a street corner and we took some pictures in front of a beautiful brownstone. After a while a woman and her teenaged daughter came out of the brownstone next door.
"Are you the new owner?" asked the woman.
"The what?" I asked.
"Someone just bought this house and we haven't met them yet. We thought maybe you were the new owner."
"She's an author," said the photographer. "We're taking an author photo for her book."
"Oh," said the woman, clearly disappointed. "Okay." She turned around and went back inside her house.
This scenario played out in about seven different variations over the course of the afternoon. And this is the problem with living in Park Slope. When you can walk down the street and run into Paul Auster or Gary Shtynegart or that guy with the bow tie who does the really dry commentary on The Daily Show or any of the annoyingly successful Jonathans (Ames, Lethem, Safran Foer), who cares about just another published author. Unless you're, like, a famous published author. And even then, people are just hoping you bought the house next to them so their property value will go up.
posted by Hana @ 10:44 AM
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