Local bookshop gives local girl writer hope

Living, as I do, in a non-English speaking country, one which just doesn't have the bookshop culture that is what makes New York or London far more bearable places to spend time in, I had assumed that I wouldn't really be seeing my book on any shelves around here. Then yesterday I was on my way to a new pottery class (is there no end to this woman's talents? I hear you cry. I am pretty crap at it, but love that Zen feeling of sitting at the wheel with my hands on wet clay) and I was early. So I thought I would pop into the little bookshop next door, which had an interesting bargain bin. I had decided, spurred on by a UK small press asking me whether I knew any good Israeli short story writers apart from Etgar Keret, that I should try and read some short stories in Hebrew. I asked the nice woman behind the desk, timidly, if she had anything to recommend. Her enthusiasm almost knocked me over! Yes! she cried, leaping out from behind the cash register, a new collection had arrived last week, she had taken it home and read it in one sitting! Edna Shemesh, she is the author, and I now have her slim volume to read when I feel strong enough to approach pages and pages of Hebrew text with no pictures (I read the newspaper, but that has pictures, it's just not the same).

As I was paying, I shyly mentioned that I, too, was a writer, and that I, too, had a slim volume appearing soon. Could I...? Might I...? Yes! cried the enthusiastic Rachel, I love short stories, please do bring it in. Perhaps we could do a consignment. She said this all in Hebrew, with the last word in English pronounced with an Israeli accent. A consignment. Blimey. Thrills ran through me. I thanked her profusely and left, clutching my book, besumed and delighted.

This beautifully illustrates the wise saying: Don't ask, don't get. Or something like that. Or, Authors Must Try to Sell Their Own Books. Or all of the above. Wheee!