The Sales Pitch

 What comes after a book award? I'm trying to figure that out. 

One thing, however, came immediately after the award--a sense of obligation (to the book) to sell it. Even though I am not a salesperson. Even though I don't enjoy pitching products. Never have.

You see, I worked in a fabric store once. It was many, many years ago before I started graduate school in social work. Although I am a capable seamstress who enjoys picking out just the right fabric for a project of my choosing, I was not by any means, the ideal employee for that fabric store. In fact, I quickly grew to detest selling fabric.

The store was one of those fancy fabric stores (I rather doubt they even exist anymore--haven't seen one like it for decades) where the employee is not a "sales clerk." Oh, no, no...that would be far too paltry a title. I was hired to be a "customer service specialist." The pay was minimum wage, but I was assured that I could double or even triple my take-home pay in commissions. I'm hyperventilating now just thinking about it.   

I was trained by a silver-haired, perfectly coiffed woman in her fifties or sixties. I had little ability to guess the age of my elders in those days. I don't remember her name, but I'll call her Dorothy because it feels right. No doubt Dorothy had had her colors "done" which was quite a popular thing in the 1970s and 80's. She was, unequivocally a 'Winter,' absolutely stunning in her deep reds and purples, vibrant greens and blues. How I envied her color palette.  Sometimes I caught sight of the two of us, side-by-side in one of the store's large mirrors. I tried not to look startled when her richly colored, impeccably tailored clothing in close proximity to my skin made me look sallow. As if I ought to crawl into bed and drink chicken broth until I'd regained my health. Yes, my co-worker, Dorothy was indeed a striking figure. No slouching, freshly applied lipstick after lunch, and always walked like she knew just what she was doing. Which, it turned out, she did.  

Alas, I was a 'Spring' and for a long while, mistakenly thought I was a 'Fall ' which prompted me to wear browns and rusts and golds, entirely wrong for me. As a 'Spring' I was relegated to cool reds and clear blues. I wore my assortment of pull-over sweaters from my college days along with all those leftover mistakes from my 'Fall' days and a dark-colored pair of pants. I rarely wore make-up. As opposed to Dorothy's shiny hair that may or may not have been molded to her head, my hair was a disaster. Thick and curly, even wiry, with a determined mind of its own. No doubt I slouched too, as tall girls sometimes do, in hopes of appearing shorter.

My job was to greet shoppers as they entered the store and ascertain the purpose of their visit. "What is the darling project you have in mind today? May I see your pattern? Oh, yes, that will look just lovely on you. What color do you have in mind?" Then (and this was where I failed miserably) I was to show the customer a selection of fabrics that would be ideal for her pattern (and skin tone) and sell it to her. 

Dorothy had demonstrated this to me many times. With her captured customer in tow, she walked directly to the correct aisle where the perfect fabric was waiting. With a bullfighter's flourish of her manicured hand, she unrolled the top of the bolt and proudly displayed the fabric between the customer and herself. She had perfected a facial expression that she unrolled for display at the same time.  It said, "Here it is! This is just the thing! This will be beautiful in your pattern. I am so thrilled to be able to show it to you. You will love it!" Truly, Dorothy had a very expressive face. 

If there was a day when Dorothy did not make the sale, I didn't see it. Customers obediently followed her to the aisle of Dorothy's choice, and her confidence in her chosen fabric was infectious. How could a customer decline such an obviously perfect choice? Dorothy was, indeed, what you would call an expert sales clerk.  Excuse me-- an expert "customer service specialist." 

Driftless on Amazon

It didn't take me long to recognize that Dorothy had acquired several skills in salesmanship which I would very likely never have. The skill of getting there first to greet the customer was one that she, magically, it seemed, possessed.  And if there were two customers entering the store at the same time, she high-tailed it to the one that was dressed the nicest, more often than not, a middle-aged customer. I couldn't walk that fast without looking as if I were running. Further, Dorothy knew to skip the moderately priced fabrics. A well-dressed woman deserved to have the very finest fabrics presented to her. Obviously.  When Dorothy "allowed" me to take a customer, I discovered that it was frequently because she had another customer in her sights, a little way off. Someone she recognized. Someone that would spend more money than the customer I was helping. So, while I sold interfacing, linings, percale, and flannels, Dorothy sold Pendleton, silks, and velvets. 

Dorothy taught me a few lessons. The most important one was that I was not destined to be a salesperson. Even so, I'll continue to cart my book here and there to independent bookstores and I'll say, 

"I am an author and I've written this book." Then I place a copy of Driftless on the counter. "It's a historical novel and it won an award. Perhaps you'd consider carrying it in your bookstore?"   

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"What's it about? Well, it takes place in Minnesota but not the Land of 10,000 Lakes part of Minnesota.  The bluff country of Minnesota. The characters are farm families in the 1940s. A few of them speak Norwegian."

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"Why? I guess they like their native tongue." 

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"Oh. No.  They'd lived in this country since the 1870s--they're fifth and sixth-generation now, well, third-generation in the 1940s, in Driftless."                                       

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"No, no car crashes I'm afraid. No gunfights. And there's a young woman, a mother, who develops a mental illness and has to be sent away to a state hospital."

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"Yes--that part is sad, tragic even, but it's more than that. Most of the reviews about Driftless are glowing with praise for the book."

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"Yes, frankly I'm astonished, too. But well, there it is."