Meeting Sarah Dessen

Through a series of fortuitous events, I found myself, last month, attending the BEA—Book Expo America, which is one of the largest book events for publishers and authors in the nation. It is a four-day event, but I was only able to attend two days—and the second day, after a discussion with one of the people responsible for my attendance, I discovered book signings. I’ve never been to one before, and I have only vague notions about what a book signing is. I supposed that one shows up, the author signs the book, one says something trivial but sincere about the author’s work, then one departs.

Once I learned that books were given out free (I was very, very broke), I decided to try it. I headed to the section (basement floor, in the back) and selected a line at random. It was a longer line, which probably meant that the author was a good one. I kept an ear out for who the author was, and I didn’t have to wait long. “Is this the line for Sarah Dessen?” “Sarah Dessen?” “Sarah Dessen personalizes.” “Sarah Dessen is so nice.”

The line’s length caused the passersby to cut through rather than trek around, and the patient fan in front of me commented on her inconvenient placing, and I responded that she was almost near the massive column, which would then surely stop the interruptions of traffic. And it did, but only until she was past the pole (the line was moving quickly now). Then just a few more feet, and we were inside the official line, beset with blue dividers. A few feet more, and a man told us that if we didn’t get a book, Sarah Dessen would be upstairs at 1 p.m. signing more. We were restless now, peering down the line, trying to count the remaining books and the people in front of us. I still didn’t know exactly who Sarah Dessen was, but I was positive that if I’d waited 45 minutes to get her book and they ran out, then I would be severely disappointed. We were closer now, and I told my fellow fan that it looked like we’d be getting books.

The books were a bright pink, and the Sarah Dessen fans clutched their copies to their chests and sighed as they walked past us. I even saw a few damp faces. Was she that fabulous? I thought. She’s inducing tears.

We inched nearer, and I tried to lean to the left and snap a picture—as proof. Sarah Dessen didn’t make it into the picture.

I was even closer now, but the fans in front of me hid her while they gushed words of praise and thanks.

Then I was there, in front of her, and I held up my camera like an adoring fan and asked if I could take her picture. And Sarah Dessen said, sure, let me make sure to smile, and she sat up straight and folded her hands and smiled, while I held the camera up with a shaking fingers and snapped the picture.

I thanked her, told her I loved her work, and I was off, clutching my own pink book to my chest.