Updated: Apr 2, 2019
So, here’s my latest publishing concern. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had a problem remembering faces. This is an actual thing with an actual name. Prosopagnosia. Loosely translated it means: Up the creek.
It is a particularly distressing condition in cocktail party situations where I’ve been known to introduce myself to someone standing in the drink line – even though we just spent twenty minutes chatting over by the hummus and chips.
The recurring faux pas inevitably triggers a moment of social horror and then make-up melting embarrassment.
It’s not only the recently-met that I draw blanks on. One time I was plodding along on the treadmill when I happened to glance up at the TV. A doctor from a local hospital was being interviewed.
He looks familiar, I thought.
I looked again. It was my husband.
Which brings me back to my latest worry.
Book signings are nothing more than the perfect set-up for people with my issue. The chance to screw up, repeatedly. Unlike a receiving line at say, a wedding, where all you have to do is enthusiastically thank the slightly familiar guest for coming (neighbor? new in-law?) book-signings are high-stakes pop-quizes. A single file group of people whose books need to be personalized. One after the other.