On the Perks and Pitfalls of Signing Books

The Guardian lays it out for you.

From the piece...

It was only with my next couple of books that I began to see that a signing life is not necessarily a happy one, and that for every few pleasant experiences, there is also likely to be a humiliating one. These humiliations – I have resisted a weaker word – are of various sorts. The worst, probably, is when you perform for an audience at a literary festival, retire afterwards to the signing area, and no one comes. There is plenty of space in front of you for an orderly queue, the same as those for the other authors sprinkled about, signing away. Only no one fills it. You sit there for a time, more in hope than expectation. Check your emails on your iPhone, look at your watch, cruise the internet, look at your watch again. Drink your glass of water. Request a refill. By this time, if they have any human feeling whatsoever, the bookshop manager for the festival will have turned up with a few copies for you to sign for their stock. With pathetic gratitude you sign them with a flourish, announce limply "must get on", and slink away. The other authors, bent on signing, affect not to notice that you have left.

It can be just as bad when people, however few, do turn up. At first I had the usual problems: do you inscribe "To" or "For" the recipient? What do you actually say? "Best wishes" stinks. I often use, instead, "Here at the [for instance] Hay festival," with a date. That will satisfy most of the requests.

What is hideously embarrassing, though, is when you recognise the person who has asked for a signature, but cannot remember their name.