Falling Awake: Looking back at the Italian festival

My good acquaintance Dennis invited me to sign copies of my books at our Italian Festal, and I was thrilled. The invitation gets better: “I can’t find another Italian author this year. People are still hesitant about crowds. You can have the table yourself.”

Well, an invitation like that doesn’t come along all that often. Not because I don’t want to sign copies at festivals, it’s that booth fees are generally too high.

Now, at a festival celebrating all things Italian — and by “all things” I mean what 99 percent of the people come for: the food (oh, the food!) — if I were selling gelato or cannoli, well then, yes, I could afford the booth fee. I could afford the moon.

Here in the Northwest, a late-September open-air festival is so needed because everyone knows the warm weather will go by fast, faster when you haven’t even been to a festival in two years. So, what I did is accept the invitation, of course, and proceed to ask (hope, long) for a fee I could afford. I figured the best thing for me to do would be to show up and be willing to navigate how to interact in the current state of COVID-fear. And since people’s fear-levels are poles apart, I mean that in about a hundred different ways.

My first no-sale of the day was a man who picked up my latest book and read the cover. I tried to summarize what the book is about, which is always hard to do, for others, for myself. He nodded but I could tell from his eyes that I’d lost him. You usually do, going on about your book. The key is finding balance between explanation and too much. You want to say enough to make the book appealing but leave room for imagination. He turned my book over to read the back. He read the cover again. He read the spine. Then he lowered his mask and took about 20 minutes telling me about his own writing. He told me about his grown children. He was talking only to talk. But this is normal. Loneliness does that. The world is full of lonely people. If I even begin to imagine how many, I could cry. Finally, I say, “Is it possible that you really want to buy yourself a new book you seem interested in?”

It was not.

He walked away shaking his head. But not in a simple “I can’t buy your book,” way. It felt more like the sort of headshake that might be given to the rest of the population by, say, a ruling colonizer temporarily residing among the natives of a small Pacific island. I thought the whole encounter was funny, but not funny laugh-out-loud, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. I had hours and hours to go. And a wish that I could wave a wand and make the whole weekend pass quickly.

And then.

A teacher looked through my new children’s book and said, “I’ll take five of these.” Oh, those words. Those generous words. My confidence soared. I can’t help it, I thought, I love this. I love selling my books. You’d think I’d love the whole new world of internet connection, but for me, the best experience is all about meeting my readers.

Things were starting to look up.

I’ve been selling my creativity my entire life. I know you must be thinking, really, your entire life? But I have. Since year four. You can’t be a live salesperson in this digital age without a lot of experience. Painted rocks. Popsicles with pansies frozen within, edible art long before its time. Handmade puppets, clutches, notecards. Drumming up business. Scared to death, but excited. Alive.

A well-dressed man (shirt, tie, leather shoes, dress pants made of whatever it is that fabric with a sheen is made of these days, and a fit physique that made me think, perfetto, even though I think part of his black, black hair was possibly not his own), chided me a little when I couldn’t answer his question in Italian. In this city, I often feel like I am too Italian compared to the general population. But today, he is not the first person who has made me feel like I am not Italian enough. I thought, what he thinks, he will think, whether I worry about it or not. Which is exactly how I feel about a few of my own Italian relatives back east.

Readers, this is why I now live on this coast.

Still gliding on the confidence that makes for easier everything — the feeling that I can do whatever I’m doing right — I was reminded that festivals are about getting out of the pitiful, small world of our phone, our laptop, our head. They are about meeting people under a remarkably clear, smoke-free, deep blue sky.

Hard to think it was the same sky that pours down so much rain today, but this is good. I spend more hours writing about moments where my routine collides with the unexpected — in a good way.

On Sunday, I was out of books (out of books!), so I packed up a little early, and on my way out the door, I turned back to see Dennis watching the band. He’d just pulled off Seattle’s 30th festival with knack and finesse. And a smile. I wished I could’ve stayed and danced some more, but I had to go, and I didn’t want to bother Dennis, not even with a personal “ciao e grazie di tutto,” which can take a lot of oomph, good oomph, but still oomph, so I’m saying it here.

Mary Lou Sanelli's latest collection of essays, “Every Little Thing,” was nominated for a 2022 Washington State Book Award. Her children's book, “Bella Likes To Try,” was recently released. She also works as a master dance teacher and choreographer, (marylousanelli.com)