Ashoke Ganguli, in Jhumpa Lahiri’s debut novel, The Namesake, says ‘That’s the thing about books. They let you travel without moving your feet.’ He is responding to Mr. Ghosh, an elderly man, who is advising him to travel the world while he is young.

I’ve liked the quote ever since I read the book many years ago. However, having just spent the weekend attempting to flog books at a fair, Saturday in Hertford, Sunday in neighbouring Ware, I now take issue with the phrase ‘without moving your feet’. 

The Herts Book Festival is an annual event wherein thirty or so writers of all genres get together to sell their words so painstakingly put into print. It is a lively weekend, with a melange of voices—writers and punters, interspersed with high-pitched children’s squeals of delight at some of the less polite terms bandied around for all things lavatorial by those who cater to the younger reader. 

Book-laden trolleys clatter over the cobbles, or across carparks, to be at the starting gates when they open at 9 a.m. so that by the time the public enter an hour later there is a feast of all things literary awaiting them. Tables are artfully draped, books are propped and prepped in appealing fashion, realia—that word so loved by ESL teachers—offer tangible objects in an effort to provide a tactile experience between abstract concepts and reality, especially useful for children’s books and, so I learned, books on magic and magical dystopia. Think Helen Rose and The Supersonic Fart or Roxy Eloise and The Guidal Series. Some tables are softened by floral arrangements, others attempt to bribe the buying public with free chocolates. Anything is fair game in trying to draw a reader to a writer’s table.

But here’s the thing about books at fairs and festivals—the bookseller’s feet are constantly moving. To and from the carpark, at least twice for set up and break down. Feet move back and forth in an attempt to ensure a book banner is visible from all corners of the hall, or at least not blocking someone else’s table. Feet continue to move once the doors open as the author sits, then stands, then sits again, only to leap to his / her feet when someone shows interest. 

Therein lies another conundrum. Should one stand? That might seem intimidating to the height-challenged reader with a cane and tight grey curls who has picked up the latest historical fiction, perhaps The Woman in the Red Cheongsam by Sarah Jane King. Should one sit behind the table? That could appear to show disinterest in the chap who has picked up a comedy sci-fi offering, perhaps a Toby Frost book. Did you know, by the way, that the two perennially popular genres are sci-fi and romance, followed closely now by romantasy! None of which I write, but I digress. 

Then the eager writer wonders how long does one wait before speaking? If the punter is a book-lover he or she is, or they are, quite capable of reading the blurb on the back without the author’s interference. Again, is it disinterest or overbearing? And all the while, the feet shuffle in anxious indecision.

During lulls in reader footfall, the authors wander up and down aisles checking out who’s writing what, or scurry to the nearest café for a caffeine fix, or a sausage roll. And that’s another thing, you can be sure that the minute a mouthful is taken, someone will embark on an earnest and erudite discussion about some element of one’s research, or ask a pertinent question. It is difficult to look and sound knowledgeable while brushing pastry flakes from one’s bosom or chest. Here’s a tip for would-be booksellers at fairs or festivals—never ever have spinach quiche, or spinach anything. The mortification of later finding a leaf lodging between front teeth will stay a long, long time.

We writers suffer grievously from imposter syndrome. The ‘who are we’ to expect someone to buy our book and, I am told by far more successful writers than I, that it is a universal authorial affliction. Little comfort as our feet teeter to and fro with indecision.

So, today, as I unpack the unsold books—I never get the numbers right, too few of one, too many of another—I consider another quote that makes me smile. This one from George R.R. Martin, author of the series A Song of Ice and Fire, ‘A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one.’

But, I wonder, which person walks the most? The reader or the writer?