What if you scheduled a book signing… and no one showed?
I’ve had that thought more than once. The kind of creeping doubt that slinks in just after you order the bookmarks and rehearse your elevator pitch in the mirror.
It happened to Tamika Ford.
https://www.facebook.com/share/p/18niMMYv3C
I don’t know this woman, but this post appeared in my feed:
First book signing
I showed up. I sat at the table. Books neatly stacked, pen ready, heart open — and no one came.
At first, it stung. But then I realized… I’m still proud. Proud that I created something from my story. Proud that I had the courage to show up, even when the seats were empty.
Every table won’t be full. Every event won’t be packed. But every moment is a seed. And I’m still planting.
I don’t know Tamika personally. This post just floated into my feed. But her candour caught me off guard—because I’ve imagined the same thing.
A book signing. It sounds like the natural next step. A rite of passage. Something authors do. I’m an introvert, but I’ve taught lecture halls full of glazed-over undergrads and stood before execs who paid me not to bore them. Public speaking doesn’t rattle me.
But the idea of speaking to an empty room? That’s different.
As a professor, the audience is compulsory. As a consultant, the client paid to listen. But a signing? That’s a gamble. No RSVP, no guaranteed bodies. Just hope in paperback.
I’ve published three books, with two more on the way. There are still a few manuscripts in editorial purgatory and some non-fiction titles pacing impatiently backstage. No wonder people hire publicists. It’s a circus, and some days, you don’t even get the monkey.
Tamika said, “At first, it stung.” And how could it not?
She’d already written the book. That’s the real accomplishment. She could have been proud before the signing, without the signing. But she showed up. That’s the part that wrecks me a bit.
She probably rehearsed the scene in her head. Smiling, shaking hands. Someone saying, “I loved this part.” A moment of affirmation.
Instead: silence. Stale air and the slow tick of a wall clock.
And yet there she is in the photo—beaming. She shared the moment not to seek pity but to offer calibration for anyone planting seeds of their own.
May her next event be packed. May strangers pick up her book and find something that speaks to them. Failing that, may they at least buy the damn thing.
Either way, she’s already won.
Ridley Park 