The corners of my mouth twitched. Holy shit. Am I going to cry? Please don't let me cry.
I'd finally got myself to the big Indigo bookstore in downtown Montreal and got the gumption up to speak to the Store Manager. The place was bustling and he was busy, but he stopped long enough to listen.
"How can I help you?"
I gulped air. "I'm one of those authors who's wondering how to get their book on the shelf in this store." My cheeks throbbed with the blushing.
The store manager's eyes glazed over; he inhaled deeply and released a long rehearsed verbal instruction about somehow getting into the category-something-listing-thingie via the main Toronto office. As if I could do that. A tear leaked out the corner of my eye and made itself known.
But then he said there was another option. "Consignment!" he declared, his eyes softening, "here's the name and email of the person to contact..."
I dove into my purse and whipped out my trusty Micron and an old envelope and, in my excitement, I stabbed the Store Manager in the hand with my pen. In a store named after a type of ink. Fuck.
We both stared at the tiny 0.3 spot probably now tattooed on his hand.
"FUCK! I totally just stabbed you with my pen! I'm sorry!"
"Haha, it's okay," he said rubbing his wrist, "here's the email address." He was that busy.
I started scribbling the info.
"Oh and by the way..." he added, "...they're now taking applications for February."
As if stabbing the Book Store Manager of the biggest book store in Montreal wasn't enough, you can now taste, nay, savour the bitter irony of having your beautiful hardcover books ready months in advance, but being too shy to talk to someone about getting them onto Indigo's consignment list in time for Christmas.
I draw stories. I fail at getting them out there. But I win at drawing stories about failing at getting them out there.
* * * * *
If you want the hardcover edition of The Last Snowman, you have to email me directly. For now.