Before You Pay for That Author Table…

A few years ago, a friend of a friend knew the owner of a witchy shop in Chicago. I was going to be in town for a week, and the owner invited me to do a reading and book signing.

Great!

The coordinator and I exchanged enthusiastic emails. She joked that she didn't know there were witches in Texas. (It's a big place, darlin'.) We discussed the reading. We discussed the event. We even got down to the important details of the after-party: Did I prefer red wine or white?

I bought a new dress.

When I arrived at the shop, I discovered they hadn't advertised the event. At all.

“Oh,” the coordinator said. “I expected you to bring your posse.”

My posse? I lived in Texas. Did I miss the part about chartering a bus and dragging my posse to Chicago?

There was no after-party, either.

Financially, it wasn't a disaster. I was already in Chicago visiting a friend. My major investment was a new dress, which I got to keep. So, lesson learned. A venue is not an audience.

I've been thinking about that experience lately because my social media feeds seem to be filling up with authors, artists, and performers announcing that they won't be appearing at events where they were previously scheduled. Sometimes the venue has suddenly changed. Sometimes promised advertising never happened. Sometimes the warning signs don't become obvious until a week or two before the event.

Which reminded me that Chicago wasn't the last time I had to learn this lesson, because the universe wasn't finished with me yet. Only a few months later, I had the opportunity to participate in a "book festival" in a small town near Austin.

FYI: I LOVE selling books in small towns.

In Austin on any given weekend, there might be as many as five witch markets, a few craft markets, and a million farmers' markets. (A million might be a slight exaggeration.) That's a lot of competition for the same weekend shoppers.

In smaller towns, I sell a lot more books. I almost always have one customer who buys a copy of every book I've written. That one sale usually covers my vendor fee, and often my gas and food for the day.

Anyway, this small town book festival had been operating for two or three years. It had a well-known, respected Central Texas business lined up as a sponsor. The town seemed to be plugged in to the point of closing off streets and having city workers help with loading and unloading your setup. (If you've ever loaded and unloaded boxes of books, you know what a sweet benefit this is.) The local library was also listed as a sponsor. There were 100 author spots available. By the time I applied, more than 80 were filled.

It all seemed very legit.

Festival day was a breezy, October day, not a sweltering Texas summer hell hole. The city workers were great; it was one of the easiest setups ever. So, there we all were, ready, willing, and eager to talk about, sell, and autograph our books . . . .

And then, nothing.

Literally less than 10 people came to the darn thing. I'm pretty sure six of them were just wandering down the street on the way to the park with their kids. By noon, authors were congregating at each other's booths, each conversation starting with "Can you believe this?" The only books we sold were the ones we sold to each other, and even those were mostly trades.

Apparently, 100 authors had all forgotten to bring their posse.

By two o'clock, my friend, who'd come to assist with the onslaught of eager book buyers, and I were walking around town, visiting coffee shops, a bookstore, and the well-respected central Texas business that had provided gimme bags with their logo to all the authors.

We didn't see any flyers.

We talked to the proprietors. They all pretty much said, "There's a book festival this weekend?"

Even the library only admitted to having heard "something about it a while back."

This event was a little more financially devastating. I'd paid $100 for a booth. The small town was a one-hour drive. I had to roll out of bed at 5 am to make a 7 am setup, with a hard-and-fast ready-to-go at 8, according to the organizer. I wasted a weekend day, and I spent a fair amount on coffee, pastries, and lunch.

But I learned something important about author events: Pay attention to who the organizer is marketing to. A full vendor list is not an audience. Big-name sponsors don't guarantee an audience either.

This organizer had successfully recruited nearly 100 authors, a recognizable sponsor, a library, and an entire town government. What he hadn't recruited was an audience.

So, what is today's homework assignment? When you're evaluating a book signing or sales event:

• Ask for attendance numbers.

  Not followers. Not “reach.” Not vendors.

  How many people actually attended last year?
  

• Look at the photos from previous events. Are all the photos nicely composed images of EMPTY vendor stalls? That's probably not a great sign. We want customers in those booths/tables/stalls. Of course, an empty booth photo isn't automatically a red flag. My prettiest booth photos were taken before the customers arrived. Look for the other photos. Are there crowds? People browsing? Customers actually interacting with authors?
  

• Find out who the organizer is advertising TO. Do most of their posts say, Authors! Vendors! Apply now!  Or do they tell potential customers why they should come? They should market to buyers as well as sellers.
  

• Check the neighborhood.

  Is there natural foot traffic? Or does everyone have to deliberately drive there? A destination event requires destination-level marketing.
  

• If you can, visit before you commit. Some vendor opportunities are monthly or even weekly. Visit them. Pick up on the vibe. Check out the crowd. Are people browsing? Are they buying? Talk to vendors if you can.
  

  What sounds great on Facebook or Insta may not withstand the eyeball test.

  Or it may turn out to be the regular home you've been searching for.
  

• Look outside the event's social media.

  Does the local bookstore know about it? The library? Local event calendars? Local media? Community groups?
  

• Know your break-even number.

  A $200 table isn't a $200 expense if you're also buying books, signage, meals, travel, and giving up two days that you could be writing your next book.
  

• Audience fit beats audience size.

  For me, five hundred people who come specifically for books/witchcraft/romance is worth far more than several thousand generic festivalgoers.
  

• New event? Adjust your risk accordingly.

  Every successful festival had a first year. But if there are no previous attendance numbers, photos, or vendor experiences, you're buying a promise. Decide how much you're willing to spend on one.

Finally. . .

Not all my events were lessons learned the hard way. I've done events that worked beautifully. (Looking at you, Witch Fest.) The organizers had a track record, the fee was reasonable, and—most importantly—they brought in people interested in the books I sell.

So, no, I'm not giving up author tables.

I'm done paying for the privilege of supplying both the books and the audience.

REMEMBER: You don't need 500,000 people in town. You need 500 of the right people in the room.