This last weekend was the Tucson Festival of Books. And for the fourth year, I had a booth, and I offered my pirate books, the three volumes of The Adventures of Damnation Kane, for sale to anyone who: 1) Saw my tri-corner hat and pirate-themed shirt; 2) Noticed the name of the booth, or 3) Paused to look at the INCREDIBLE art that my wife Toni DeBiasi created for all three Volumes of the series.
And that was a LOT of people.
I went there with, I think, about 65 books.
The first day, Saturday, I sold 42 of them. (The Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything!) I sold every copy of Volume I I had with me. I went home, got the four other copies of Volume I at my house, also grabbed my VERY FIRST copy, the first printed copy of any book I have ever written, and brought that on Sunday. I used the very first copy (which was NOT for sale) as a display copy.
I sold the other four. And six more copies of Volume II and Volume III. And I unfortunately had to turn away a few other people because I didn’t have a copy of Volume I to sell them, at the end of the day, or else I would have had at least two or three more sales.
I now have 13 copies left of the 69 copies I brought with me to the Festival.
I have never done that well. The Festival has always been pretty good to me: I have a good book (Three of them, I think), I have a good hook — “Can I tell you about my time-traveling Irish pirate?” — and the aforementioned three attention-grabbers (sign, cover art, and stylish chapeau) brings people close enough to get drawn in by my elevator pitch. But my previous record was, if I remember right, 29 books sold. So I almost doubled that.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who came and bought my books. I am honored beyond belief. And now I am anxious as hell that you all won’t like the books, or that you won’t like the third book, or — I dunno, something. So if you could see your way clear to tell me if you do like the books: go to the Contact link at the top of the page (Under the three lines, on mobile), or click on the Feedback link that should be floating in the bottom left corner of the page, and send me a message. Send me a Facebook message or Instagram message — @TheodenHumphrey, in both cases. (Also the same handle on X, if you are a glutton for punishment — or Threads, if you’re a glutton for social media.) Or if you’re really feeling good about my work, post a review somewhere — Amazon, or Goodreads, or Lulu.com where the books are produced — and then let me know that you did so. Thank you.
Thank you, as well, to my fantastic booth partner Amanda Cetas, who stood with me on a patch of sole-stabbing gravel for eighteen hours over two days, who covered me when I wanted to take a break (And made sales for me, too), who directed people to my side of the booth when they seemed more interested in fantasy than in historical fiction, and who stayed positive and energetic all the way through. Thank you, also, to all the people who bought Amanda’s books — she said she did better this year than she has before, too, so it wasn’t just the Pirate who made out like a bandit.
Amanda also shared my confusion over our nearest neighbors, who were… intactivists. Anti-circumcision activists. With whole books. About… circumcision. Now, I actually know the arguments against circumcision, and — how do you fill an entire book with them? Let alone TWO?!?
Needless to say, they did not send many customers over our way, and we didn’t send any their way, either. I didn’t have any people come to my booth and say, “Pirates, huh? You wouldn’t have anything about foreskins, by any chance?”
(I would have sent them over if they did. But they didn’t. The people over there still had people at their booth all weekend, so I think they did fine, too.)
If you didn’t get the book or books you wanted, or you now want more books, then please use the links on this page to Contact me or to order yourself a copy from Lulu.com. (If you Contact me, I will sign the book for you before I ship it.) If you didn’t make it to the Festival this year, then come to next year’s — Amanda and I will be there (Hopefully with our partner, the Poet, Lisa Watson, who wasn’t well enough to attend this year), and I will have all of the Adventures and at least one new book, as well. Amanda will probably have nine new projects, all of them as wonderful as the ones she has right now.
And if you bought books, two things: thank you for reading. You, along with the rest of the literate people, are the bulwark holding back the tide of Fahrenheit 451. You are giving my world meaning. You are joining me in this weird sort of slow-motion conversation that is a novel.
And also: get off the internet and go read. Like I’m about to do.
(If you’re wondering, I only bought two books this year. But that’s because this is my TBR pile.
Not because it was the first day of school inservice season, starting earlier this year than ever before. Actually, that was part of it, because this is WAY too early. I hate being back in the work mindset already: I was having a fantastic summer (though with ups and downs as always), and I very much want to it continue; but now I have to spend my time and energy teaching instead of all the other things I want to do, which I do over the summer. It’s never enough time, because there are a lot of things I want to do; but this year was especially not enough time, which sucks because I was doing really well on my other projects and purposes.
But that wasn’t the real reason why yesterday was sad. (Although the fact that I had to go to school yesterday was the reason why this post is now late. Sorry.)
And it wasn’t because I had to do what I always have to do in the early days of inservice season, which is move a bunch of furniture and run around a lot looking for things. I did that, and it really was crappy because it was about 110° yesterday here in Tucson (Climate change? What climate change?), so I spent much of the day sweating, which is less than enjoyable. It’s also one of those things that makes me feel like I’m wasting my time, you know? Maybe it’s just my job (though I REAAAAALLLLLLYYYY doubt it) but there are activities and tasks I have to complete that don’t feel like the important activities and tasks, and so whenever I spend time doing those, it feels like I’m not doing the things I really should be doing, and so I regret the time spent. Every summer, the school gets a deep cleaning, which is good and necessary: but it then requires me to rearrange my classroom, every year, because the lovely and hardworking cleaning people take everything out of my room, clean it, wax the floors, and then put everything back — but they just sort of put everything inside, not paying much attention to where it belongs. Which is entirely fine (Though the custodian in me remembers VERY carefully keeping track of where things were so I could move them, clean, and then put them back precisely where they were — but also, teachers always change their room configurations, so there’s not much point in being that precise with classrooms), but it means that every year, I have to put my desks back where they belong, and get all my stuff out of the places where I stored it for the summer. And then there are teachers who move rooms, and new teachers, and that means desks have to move, and bookcases have to move; and my wife is an art teacher at my school, and that means I have to help her move her furniture and equipment — and art has a fair amount of equipment involved.
So yesterday was sweaty, is my point. And difficult. And yet I didn’t do the dozen other tasks I have to get to before classes actually start, which makes me feel like I didn’t do much, even though I did.
It wasn’t even sad because on the way home, Toni and I got caught in a raging monsoon: more rain coming down at one time than I have ever seen from inside a car. We literally could not see the road or anything ahead of us, because the windshield was simply a gray screen of water: and at the same time, hail was pelting the car, and the wind was shaking it. It was nuts. But actually, though it was scary, it was also really cool.
And our home didn’t suffer any damage, and our pets were fine. So that’s not why yesterday was sad.
Yesterday was sad because of this.
This is the classroom next to mine. It is the room where my excellent friend and colleague and collaborator and ELA sister, Lisa Watson, has worked with me for the last nine years.
And now she is gone. Because Lisa quit.
It isn’t only sad: Lisa moved from being a teacher and ELA department head to being a principal at another charter school.
It’s a definite step up, and a wonderful role for her: she is an amazing person, kind and caring, determined and perceptive, empathetic and wise; and thus an outstanding leader. She’s going to have a tremendous, and tremendously positive, impact on that school, and on the teachers and students who work there. The school that got her is lucky to have her — and my school is stupid as hell for letting her go, and for not putting her into a similar role for us. The fact that my school has been stupid as hell in not recognizing how excellent Lisa is, is the main reason why she’s leaving, and she’s right to, and I’m glad she is going. So the move is good for Lisa, and great for the school she is going to lead.
But for me? It’s sad.
Lisa hired me. Nine years ago, she and two administrators (one of whom was competent) interviewed me over Skype (That is the MySpace of Zoom, for all you Gen Z’ers out there. Who are definitely not reading this blog. And don’t know what the hell MySpace was. Look it up, punks.) from Oregon, and hired me based on that interview, which is what brought me to Tucson. I don’t doubt that Lisa’s voice was the main one in choosing me, because while I was clearly competent as an English teacher, and she knew right away that she and I would get along well and I would fit into the department, I was also, while I was being interviewed, suspended from teaching because of my blog-blowback. I don’t think I would be any administrator’s first choice — but I was Lisa’s. And while there are certainly things about Tucson which I don’t love, this city has become home, and has been very good for my wife and I: and Lisa made that possible. When people ask me what I think of Tucson, my usual answer is that there is poetry on the rocks here: and Lisa is a poet, as well as a teacher, so she is part of that Tucson poetry, for me. But she didn’t just hire me: she also made sure that I got the Advanced Placement classes, which usually go to the current staff when a teacher leaves, because those are usually the most coveted classes and we distribute classes through seniority; it’s very unusual for a new hire to get AP classes. (I will admit that I was an unusual new hire, because 14-year veteran teachers don’t usually look for new jobs.) I got them. I love them. And Lisa gave them to me.
Lisa and another wonderful teacher she hired, our friend and colleague Aleksandra — who fortunately is still at the school.
Once I got here, Lisa was immediately and enthusiastically supportive. She gave me ideas and materials, but she let me create my own curriculum for all of my classes. She observed me, complimented me, and put her trust in me. She listened to my thoughts, gave me feedback, and encouraged me to keep doing what I was doing, no matter how often I worried about how my teaching was ineffective or misguided; my anxiety and self-doubt and imposter syndrome were no match for Lisa’s loving and generous guidance. Over the last nine years she has defended me from administrative interference, helped me focus on the real goal — helping students improve their language skills — and taught me an enormous amount about teaching. I am ten times the teacher I was before I met her, and it’s because of her, more than anything else. All of my students who appreciate me and my class have Lisa to thank, because I wouldn’t be here in Tucson and I wouldn’t be the teacher I am if it weren’t for her.
Do I need to say that she’s incredible?
As if that weren’t enough, Lisa is also an author: a poet, first and foremost, she also writes essays and short stories and novels. I’ve known a fair number of people over the years with aspirations of writing, but Lisa is one of the only ones to accomplish writing, real writing, good writing, I’ve ever known. Her poetry, especially, is incredible to me: of the several volumes of poetry she has published — and I think I have every one — my favorite is the first one I read, Hear Me Now, which starts with these two poems:
Ashes
The embers of the fire
Glowed in the night sky
Smoke filled cloud
Reigned overhead
Sweltering head from
A
Careless human
Drops a match
Flames dance
Before our eyes. Demolish the wrong
As the mirror sees nothing
You see the dark places
Of humanity
Burn
And burn
Until we all fall down
Dancing with Raindrops
The gray clouds overhead
Have everything to dread
That little spot of sunshine
Is dancing
And she won’t stop
Dancing with the raindrops
She smiles up at the skies
As drops fall carefully
On her eyes
The drops against her skin
Makes her start dancing again.
What beauty does she exude?
What moves does she make?
Her dancing breaks the clouds apart
And her smile heals my broken heart.
I love those. I love the contrast between sky and Earth, between fire and water, sunshine and clouds. That one pun in “Ashes,” “Smoke filled cloud/ Reigned overhead” just gives me chills. I admire the way Lisa can go from despairingly despising humanity for setting fire to everything, to filled with joy because of a child’s dance (which is also the dance of a spot of sunlight under clouds). I love the way one image, one thought, blends into the next, giving more meaning to both — in “Ashes,” is it the dark places of humanity that are themselves burning? Or is it that you see the dark places in humanity commit the acts of arson which burn everything down? And either way, the mirror sees nothing.
It’s amazing work. She is an incredible poet. And what I love most about her poetry is that it is almost entirely instinctive and unconscious: she will not write a word for months, and then suddenly have an outpouring of dozens of poems in one night, when inspiration strikes, and those tiny bits and pieces, the stems and seeds of poems, that have all been germinating inside her, all blossom at once. But then, she is so capable and knowledgeable about language and poetry and the craft of writing, that even her instinctive, unconscious poetry carries incredible meaning, incredible perceptiveness.
And this wonderful writer has taken me as her writing partner. She encourages me, she pushes me to write and keep writing. She has helped me to realize my own dream, of publishing and selling the books I have written, which were just languishing in my files until Lisa (And my wife, who has always encouraged me as well) got me to make a booth at the Tucson Festival of Books, where I have learned that my fears were not true: I am not a bad writer, or even worse, not a writer at all; and I learned that my hopes were true: people like reading my books. Once I started getting my books into people’s hands, the positive feedback has only grown, and that has been a magical gift for me. I might have reached that one without her, because my wife has given me the same gifts of encouragement and confidence; but I needed Lisa to help create that booth, to create that success, and to push me to keep writing. (I will say that I have given her the same gift of support and encouragement with her writing, and she has written more and published more and sold more because of me. I’m proud that I have been able to give that back to her even as she has given it to me.)
Lisa and I at our booth at the TFOB — along with our other friend, Amanda, another one of the actually talented writers I have known. (WHO ALSO LEFT MY SCHOOL, but who’s keeping track?)
That’s what I have had in the room next to me for the last nine years. An amazing writer, a gifted teacher, a caring and supportive colleague and supervisor (She even lets me yell at my class, which I do when I get too excited about the literature or the argument I’m going through with my class, and rather than coming to my room to complain about the noise, she just tells her students that I’m preaching.). And, of course, my friend. One of my best friends. She has carpooled with me every day for the last three years; we have walked our dogs together; we’ve had dinner, had lunch, gone drinking; she gave me her old couch, and my wife’s favorite chair; she called me when she had a bird get trapped in her house and was freaking out. (She literally ran away screaming when the bird took off while I was trying to herd it out the door. It was hilarious.) She calls me her brother, and because I know how important her family is to her, I am mindful of the compliment in that, even though I don’t really think I deserve it. But it is true that we’ve talked about everything, and helped each other through everything, and worked together on everything, and together we have been successful far more than we have failed. But even when we have failed, we’ve done it together.
And now she’s gone. And so I am sad.
But of course, Lisa is not gone. She is working in a different place: but she is still doing the same things. She has given me so much that I have needed for the last nine years, I certainly can’t begrudge her decision to give those same gifts to other people instead of me; I probably don’t need them any more — though I certainly still want her gifts, as they are wonderful, like her. And, of course, even if she isn’t teaching with me, she is still available to help teach me and support me in my teaching; and she is still my friend, and my writing partner, and my sister. I’m going to make her go out for a drink with me and with our other friends at least once a week over this coming school year; because I know that Lisa will need our support as much as we need hers. And now that she has stepped up to take charge of an entire school, I will do my part: and I will try to step into her role at my school, to be the department head and to encourage and support my colleagues and help them to grow as much as Lisa helped me. I won’t succeed as well as she did, but I’ll do my best; and I know I’ll have her support.
Another poem of hers, from the volume Beautiful but Ugly, is called Privacy:
In the bedroom
I found a rock
Another rock
There are too many rocks
I have fallen to pieces
That’s Lisa: so many pieces, and she leaves them everywhere, without even realizing it until she turns around and sees them everywhere. Poems, students, friends, family; people she has touched, people she has inspired, people she has taught and made better, in every case by giving them — us — a piece of herself. She thinks she just does it all without thought, just reacting, just feeling, and sometimes she thinks she’s making a mess, and she apologizes; but exactly as she writes her poetry, her teaching and her friendship are so very intelligent and wise that even her seemingly unconscious and instinctive gestures are wonderful, thoughtful gifts, which I will always treasure. My greatest gift to her has been to show her that she is not falling to pieces, and she does not need to apologize: she is giving her gifts to everyone around her, and we have to thank her for it all. The one area where Lisa notably lacks is that she is not nearly kind enough to herself, for all her generosity with others — and that, too, is a lesson I need to learn.
I’m going to miss her being in the room next to me. It has been so very lovely to have this wonderful friend so close for these last nine years, to have the jokes and the laughter and the passion and the wisdom she brings to every place she is. My school has been lessened by her departure. But my friendship has not been lessened, and though she has given me and everyone else around her so much of herself, Lisa has not been lessened by her generosity — and that’s the most important thing I have learned from her. The more you give, the more you are.
But still, you do have to make sure you give to yourself. So Lisa, I hope you do keep giving to yourself at least a little of the wonderful bounty you have given to all the rest of us.
I meant to do this sometime over this past week, but honestly? I was EXHAUSTED.
The Festival of Books was last weekend. I had a booth with my two wonderful partners and fellow authors, Lisa S. Watson and Amanda M. Cetas. Together we are:
This is our second year all together; Lisa and I shared a booth in 2019, as well, with the amazing book editor/writing coach Adriana King. This year, like last year, we had the very same booth, in the same spot (which is not really a corner, though we got a corner booth; but it’s okay, because the two open sides give all three of us room to display — and as you can see, Amanda has a LOT of stuff to show: two young adult historical novels, a teaching guide for them, an RPG sourcebook, and a fantastic illustrated children’s book about a troll who smells a bad smell. That’s a handmade knitted version of the troll, standing on the right side of Amanda’s display. Lisa’s display of poetry, short fiction, and one of her novels is visible in the group shot, on the left side of the table), and this year, like last year, went pretty damn well.
This year, like last year, was pretty anxiety-inducing, especially since I only sold nine books the first day. Nine books is wonderful, and I’m extremely happy when anyone just stops by the booth and lets me talk about Damnation Kane; but the booth and everything is pretty expensive, and nine books was not going to cover the cost. Fortunately I did better the second day — twice as well, in fact — and so the Festival was, once again, a success. Even if I hadn’t sold any books, it would be joyful to see so very many people who love books, all in one place; and the fact that I got to reconnect with a few people who had bought my books in the past — and one fellow pirate afficionado, the remarkable Jack McDowell, who created and personifies Captain Rat (Who will someday cross paths with Damnation Kane, I have no doubt) — and got to see friends and colleagues and students, both present and past, makes the whole thing an absolute blast.
But it’s tiring.
It started early, the wearing out: not least because this whole two-plus months of 2023 has been tough. But also, I tried to finish my third Damnation Kane book for this Festival, and didn’t get it done; and then I tried to publish my vampire novel Brute, and didn’t get that done either. And then I went to get bookmarks printed, with my name and website address on them, but when I went to pick them up Friday afternoon, the shop was closed. Turns out the hours posted on the web are not their actual hours. AND I tried to get my personal domain, theodenhumphrey.com, to point to this site, since this is going to be my main online hub for the foreseeable future — but doing so killed my email, which is hosted by the same company. So there was a bunch of crap to deal with before the Festival even started.
And then there was the Festival itself: standing by the booth all day, for eight hours a day, is not easy. (Also my pirate hat does not shield me from the sun: I got sunburned on both ears. On my ears! Ridiculous. And itchy.) Greeting people who approach, and trying to keep my energy up and be positive with them, even though my inner introvert is screaming the whole time, is even more not easy. (By the way: after three years of selling a pirate book at this Festival, I have learned this: older Caucasian men who approach because they see the cover image of the ship, and who take a minute to read my sign, do not want my book. They are often military veterans, and almost invariably looking for accurate historical maritime fiction. As soon as they see “Fantasy” and “Time travel” they walk away. No big deal, of course, but I don’t even try to talk to them beyond a polite greeting. [There are exceptions, which is always nice; I like people who like my story idea, whoever they are.]) Doing all this on a weekend in between two weeks of teaching?
Oof.
So while I meant to post this on Sunday last week, and then told myself to do it every day of the last seven days, I’m doing it now.
On the plus side, this is now Spring Break at my school, and so I plan to add another post over the week sometime, with a proper essay — and then another one next Sunday, so I can keep up with my posting rate, if not exactly my schedule.
Also, thanks to my incredible wife’s brilliant idea, I set out a mailing list signup, and I got people who signed up — which means as soon as I post this, I’m going to send out my very first author’s newsletter. If you are interested in receiving the newsletter, please use the Contact link on this page, at the top just under Home and About. I’ll be happy to put your name on the list.
I will also state here, categorically, that Brute will be published soon; and that the third volume of The Adventures of Damnation Kane will be published as well, before another year passes. I swear it.
Thank you to everyone who bought a book, everyone who signed up for the mailing list, everyone who stopped to talk to me and complimented the idea of a time-traveling Irish pirate — and thank you to everyone who came out to celebrate books. And the biggest thank you of all to Lisa, the Poet, and Amanda, the Pilgrim, for sharing this whole experience with me.
See you next year!
We’re out of order: this is, from left to right, the Pirate, the Poet, and the Pilgrim.
I’m going to be at the Tucson Festival of Books this weekend, March 2nd and 3rd, in a booth with my friend Lisa Watson. We call ourselves the Pirate and the Poet. (I’m the pirate. Did I mention that I wrote a book? Here it is.) I’m going to be trying to sell my book, in person, to random passersby.
I have no idea how to do that.
I know how to write. I know how to talk about writing. I know how to describe the book quickly — it’s about an Irish pirate who travels through time from the 1600s to 2011, and ends up in Florida — and how to do it more extensively. I have some comparable authors for my writing style, and some comparable books and movies for the themes and ideas of it.
But I don’t know how to sell it.
This is an ongoing problem, and I know it’s not just my problem. I’ve written four novels, and tried to get all of them published, tried to get all of them picked up by agents, and it’s never worked. I’ve never been able to sell my own stories well enough to get disinterested people to want them. Oh, I can sell books to people who know me; that’s always been my audience. But I can’t make the jump from friends and family, to general public. I’ve been trying for fifteen years, and so far, pretty much nothin’.
So this weekend, I’m going to try again. I’ve got a booth, I’ve got a big sign, I’ve got bookmarks with my name and the book title printed on them. I’ve got 30 copies of my book ready to go. I’ve got a Square for my phone so I can take credit cards, and I’ve applied for both a sales tax reporting code and a business license (which it turns out I didn’t need– but I applied for it anyway!). I’ve even got a pirate hat and a decent pirate accent that I’m going to bust out for the people who come up to the booth and say, “Where’s the pirate?”
I am looking forward to this. My wife and my friends have told me that the worst that could happen is I spend time at a book festival, with my friends, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of people who love books. They’re right, and I want to do that — though the introvert in me wants to hide, hates the thought of spending my whole weekend out among people, wants to prepare every possible convenience to take with me so I have almost all of the comforts of home. But they’re also wrong, because the worst that could happen is that nothing even remotely hopeful comes of this: that nobody stops at my booth, that nobody asks about the book, that nobody buys it (other than my students, whom I appreciate for their support, but they’re still in my regular audience of “People who buy my books because they know me.), that this is yet another dead end in a career of them.
I don’t think that’s likely. But I can’t say it’s not possible.
Just Dusty 