WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A WRITER
All guests wishing to enter the signing line must have a wristband.
Days, sometimes consecutive, without showers.
Arc of narrative. Arc of argument. Arch-ness.
A boy who draws a teddy bear and a bumblebee and hands it to you on crumpled paper.
Wristbands will be handed out on a first-come, first-served basis beginning the day you decide to get off your ass and write something.
Sensitive skin lotion abounds.
Grape flavored lubricant that tastes like Kool-Aid.
Rainbow terns hanging origami on your desk.
A job with a computer screen, duh.
A job with dogs.
You must be present in order to get a wristband.
Reading tours you and your publisher cannot afford, even if you pool your resources.
Reading tours your publisher pays for. AND you stay in the Hilton.
Notebooks full of passwords (hoarding).
Visiting friends all over the States. Sleeping on couches.
You are a latchkey writer.
You must present your receipt in order to get a wristband!
Only one copy will be signed!
If you are a minor writer, you must bring your parent or guardian along.
We’re here to help you.
We’re here to screw you.
We will call you up and tell you that you’ve won. You’re the one.
Mr. [insert your name here] requests no flash photography at the signing table.
Sit at a table and sign your name.
Absurdly sit at a table and sign your name.
Why do people want your name?
In the interest of time, there will be no personalization.
Do not bring other books or memorabilia, in the interest of time.
In the interest of time, do not read past this point.
Past this point, where the plot descends from Olympus, please enjoy the sacrificial lamb/virgin.
Past this point, again please stop reading.
Remember: event guidelines are always subject to change.
**Special thanks to the employee and/or publicist who wrote the local Barnes and Noble flyer announcing the rules Stephen King’s next appearance.