“No,” I said, adamantly. “I was raised by libraries. I shall not accept a single penny.”

Silly me.

Fear not, I’ve had a change of heart in the intervening years.

I dove in and cobbled together materials: documents I’d hand out and papers I’d walk the group through on the writing and publishing process. With 20/20 hindsight, I see where my strategy went wrong. My author chat would be as exciting as an extended session on goal setting at some sales conference in Podunk, Nebraska. And I’d brought along a box chock-full of handouts in which to bore the audience of bibliophiles to death.

“Please turn to page four in your syllabus,” I’d instruct the horde of attendees. “Also, turn to the corresponding page in your workbook.”

On the day of the event, I drove forty minutes across town, arriving at the library with an hour to spare. The place was bristling with activity. I lugged my box inside, went to one of the many librarians frantically checking out books, and asked if Susan was there, as Susan had been the one who’d set up the event.

“Susan never works Saturdays,” the librarian informed me.

I told her who I was and asked where I should set up shop.

She disappeared, off to find which room I’d be presenting in. Five minutes later, she resurfaced and led me to a good-sized conference room off the entrance hallway. We entered to discover that the tables had been set in a broad circle, and on each tabletop sat mostly empty cartons of Chinese takeout. There’d been a lunch meeting sometime in the past millennium, and evidently, participants were not required to clean up after themselves.

The librarian and I spent fifteen minutes getting rid of white containers and wiping down tables. Just an FYI—if cement or asphalt is too pricey, might I recommend filling a wheelbarrow with chow mein and shoveling that into your pothole. Then, allow it to set overnight. At least that’s how solid the stuff appeared as I chipped away at it.

The librarian and I then moved the circle of tables back into their original rows, facing the front of the room. After that task was complete, the librarian nodded and stepped away, likely back to her checkout station.

I was nervous. I waited at the front of the room, leaning against the table containing the various handouts, trying not to pit out my dress shirt.

At quarter to, I snuck into the restroom and spent a minute in front of the mirror, rearranging my face, and trying to memorize certain quips. I returned to the room, a sham of a smile plastered across my features. Five minutes before my presentation began there came a muffled announcement over the loudspeakers. I recognized my name and the name of the conference room.

The clarion call had been made.

It was showtime.

I watched as the minute hand hit the top of the hour and . . . and no one had yet to enter the conference room. Not one living soul was seeking out a chair, stepping forward to say hello, or saving a seat for a friend.

There were no attendees.

I stood there all alone.

My faux smile melted into a look of confusion as I repeatedly checked my watch against the clock on the conference room wall.

Ten minutes later, a man opened the door and peeked inside. I smiled back at him. He quickly shut the door and disappeared from my life forever.

After an excruciating half hour, I collected my materials, set them back inside the box, and snuck out to my car with tail planted firmly between my legs.

So, in review, I drove across town, scrubbed clean a couple dozen library tables, rearranged them in the conference room, lingered like a groom abandoned at the altar, before finally saying screw this and heading home.

Once home, I booted up my laptop and emailed Susan, thanking her for setting up the library talk, and letting her know I had a wonderful time.

I’ve chuckled at this over the years; however, in retrospect, I may have dodged a bullet.

At future library talks, book clubs, and other speaking events, I realized I wasn’t there to provide some kind of snoozefest seminar on how the publishing industry worked. Attendees could google that for themselves. It turned out what worked best—what participants enjoyed, the secret sauce—were chats about my writing journey. Attendees appreciate the personal touch, stories of the ups and downs, the successes and failures, and some of the mortifyingly crazy, wonderfully awkward, and sincerely delightful occasions that have cropped up along the way.

Gone are the days of forcing tedious handouts on unsuspecting bookworms. I took great joy in shredding the mind-numbing materials I’d concocted. Instead, I’ve a dozen or so memories I enjoy sharing. I show up with nothing more than a half sheet of bullet points, each point consisting of a single word. The list keeps me from forgetting anything I want to touch on while allowing me to speak extemporaneously; no canned lines or handouts are required.

I also leave ample time for questions as I love the give and take. Most queries tend to be about my books, the characters, my writing process, my love of dogs, where I get my ideas, and what’s coming up next. But, keep on your toes, as you never know where a reader’s inquiry may lead.

Finally, I do my best to loosen up, to be myself, and tell my tale in a laidback, conversational tone . . . as though I’m spending the hour drinking coffee and chatting with an old friend.