So I got on my dusty steed yesterday morning and made for Florence on the Oregon coast for the Florence Festival of Books.
I won’t talk about the accumulation of events that got in the way of an early start, or describe my grumbling over that slow car on the winding coast highway that loomed as the last impediment to my much-desired progress. Could I make it in time to set up before the 10 o’clock opening?
Happily I made it with minutes to spare, although a determined attendee bought both my books before I had entirely arranged my display. She didn’t quibble. Nor did I.
She presented her two memoirs describing her experiences as a solo camper, The Route from Cultus Lake and Vagabonda. I presented my two Oregon Trail stories, A Place of Her Own and The Shifting Winds.
The organizers do a nice job with this event. About 50 individual authors participated, as well as several writers groups and publishers. From 10 o’clock in the morning until 4 in the afternoon we pitched our stories and heard many intriguing tales from people who came by our table, and we signed books for our buyers.
After it was all done, our table cleared, and things packed up, we were ready to kick back.
And I got my clam chowder while watching seals and waterbirds play in the bright-blue Siuslaw estuary as the sun lowered and gilded the Florence bridge. A calming moment before I took my dusty steed on the long, beautiful drive home.