Anybody can stand outside Shakespeare & Company, but taking one of your books and getting it on the shelves can be fairly daunting. The proprietor, George Whitman, is a tough old bastard, and generally speaking I've never felt at ease with the literary people.
My novel The Flagship of Eternal Stupidity, had made it in to a few good stores. 250 were on shelves from Vancouver to Amsterdam, while the remaining 250 were gathering mildew on the garage floor of Chink's RV Vehicles in Chilliwack, British Columbia.
A dark-haired Irish girl stood at the small cash till at the front of the store.
"Is Hillary in?"
"No, what can I do for you?"
"She's agreed to take three copies of my novel."
She flipped over the book and examined the blurb.
"Sounds okay. Binding's good. Good title."
I handed over the book and watched her place them prominently on a table, dead centre of the store.
"See ya."
George didn't seem like a hard bastard anymore. I tucked a receipt from the store confirming purchase of the book. The Flagship of Eternal Stupidity was now perched on the shelves of Shakespeare & Company. It felt better than the day I first got published.
