Funny Scribblers

Writers, or at least the ones that produce fiction and poetry, tend to be odd folks. Some are reclusive, and were it not for social media and blogs they'd have no interaction aside from angry communication with agents and editors. Others are social to the extreme. They attend every possible conference, festival, and book reading. One of my favorites, both for his work and for his downright charming personality, tells hilarious stories about writers. Jerry Craven, press director for a couple of East Texas presses as well as a widely published novelist and poet and semi-retired English professor, fits somewhere in the middle of the writer's spectrum of social engagement, but his stories about fellow writers are unparalleled.

A recent favorite involves a writer who attended the Texas Book Festival in Austin. The festival has been around for less than twenty years, but for authors and bibliophiles alike it's an event like no other in the Lone Star State. For many writers, inability to attend the festival can make for a sad October. For others, the festival can offer incredible and unexpected monetary savings. This year was a sad October for me. I could not attend the festival, but I did have the opportunity to see my friend Jerry, albeit for an unfortunately short time. In that brief time, Jerry, storyteller extraordinaire, passed along a yarn about a scribbler. It seems a writer attended the festival and purchased twenty books. Impressed, I asked, "Which ones did he get?"
Jerry answered, "The one he wrote."

After a good deal of laughing about a writer who bought twenty copies of his own novel at a book festival, I and the other scribes who heard the story learned that the joke was on us. First, the writer got a generous discount from the publisher's price. Second, the writer avoided paying any shipping charges. Third, the writer had over twenty family members and friends who wanted a copy of his book, but he had already given away all the free copies his major publisher had provided. After the giggling subsided, the group that heard Jerry's tale became divided into two camps: those that wished they had books for sale at the festival and those that did have books for sale at the festival but had not thought to reap some savings by purchasing their own work. In my case, I realized that I had neither books for sale at the festival, nor the intelligence to buy my own work, nor twenty friends who would want to read my books.

My pal Jerry doesn't tell stories only about other writers. Some of his best are autobiographical. Recently Jerry got coerced into setting up a table at a local farmer's market. Jerry is not a farmer, and he does not produce vegetables. It seems some locals thought that having a writer present at the tiny rural East Texas market would lend some cultural flair. Though he thought it a bad idea, Jerry agreed to scrap his plans to go fishing in his jon boat in the Angelina River and donate some time at a farmer's market. Assigned a place next to a pickup truck emblazoned with a sign advertising "Yard Eggs," Jerry sold a couple dozen books in a couple of hours and met scores of colorful locals. He attributes much of the popularity of his books that day to the sign he fixed to the table. It read, "genuine unknown American Novelist."

Jerry said the yard egg truck did much more business than he did. He also said that yard eggs aren't something the lawn gnomes eat. Yard eggs are just eggs, apparently.