Lights, Camera, Relax!

Ah, the glamorous life of an author. It mostly involves years sitting alone in a room with a judgmental empty page, a head full of ideas, and a cosmic void separating the two. Occasionally it involves a photoshoot. And that, for me, is where glamour hits scary.

Every author understands the fear, confusion, exhaustion, and joy of book birth. It’s what follows that birth that separates the successes from the also-rans. After a longer hiatus than I planned in my publishing journey, I’m scrambling my way back into the marketing saddle at the same time I work on two novels: one in the later editing stages and one in the first draft stage. During my hiatus, lockdown- and transatlantic relocation-related, much has changed. My marketing strategy needs to reflect that. A new website is the first step.

Seven years ago, I set up my debut website with the help of an amazingly talented friend who knew about bizarre concepts like mapping and SEO and … other techie stuff. What would I have done without him? (Love you, Shaun!) But now I’m living in a different country, have a different view of where I want to go as an author, and have better insight of the writing and publishing world. I also have a different hair colour. Mother Nature decided brunette wasn’t working for me and silvery white, (OMG, grandma’s trapped in the mirror!!) was a better fit. I question Mother’s judgment but had to give up the fight during COVID lockdown. I ran out of punches by the time the hair salons opened again. Long story short, I need a whole new set of images to go with the new website.

The design company I chose to work with connected me to a ‘branding photographer’, Andrew. Now, when you’ve grown up with horses, ‘branding’ has rather painful connotations. Are they sure that’s necessary? Once explained, with relief I agree it is. Though I’ve been left with no permanent physical scars, I am now reminded the worst part of writing a book is the author headshot. It takes all Andrew’s skill to convince me an AI meld of Sandra Bullock and Ann Hathaway will not fool anyone and I actually have to pose in front of a camera. I understand this may sound like the glamorous part of an author’s life. Outfit changes, light stands, the clicking of cameras, and even a professional blow-dry. That hasn’t happened since my wedding thirty-four years ago. Neither has make up, which probably won’t happen again for another three decades. It amazes me my daughter is a gorgeous, beautifully pulled together, fashionable, perfectly made up kinda gal. Must have been YouTube videos as she got nothing from me. But I digress…

Where were we? Ah, yes. The author photoshoot. Here I am, in the garden, because that’s where I’m most comfortable, with the umbrella lights, bags of equipment, and Andrew. I’m attempting to look like I know what I’m doing, that I’m capable of inspired musings, my facial features reflecting the extraordinary and creative mind they sit in front of. I know what you’re thinking if you know me: Can Photoshop inject that because, well … you know. Apparently, Photoshop can’t do that. I’m screwed.

Maybe I can just go with looking humorous and interesting and worldly-wise. The silvery white hair must be good for something, surely? It adds a veneer of wisdom, I’m told. Not necessarily, is the answer to that. To cap it all, I need to look relaxed, like someone for whom matching socks and a professional blow-dry are everyday experiences. At this point in the photoshoot, spectator Hubby is in hysterics. He knows how alien all this is for me. The laughter turns to irritation as he drags a rather heavy wicker chair the entire length of our property and back again as we chase the fading sunlight across the orchard, flower beds and patios. His mood turns to open hostility when he’s asked to hacksaw through the metal pole holding up the washing line because it’s ruining the view. His mood reverts to amusement when the scarf I’ve artfully and stylishly draped around my shoulders is now caught in said washing line. Andrew is trying to control his shaking shoulders whilst offering encouragement and assuring me he can edit out the dirt on my shirt. Glamorous life indeed.

During the fun, the weather conspires, weeds in the flower beds conspire, allergies conspire (sneeze, relax, sneeze, relax, blow nose, sneeze, relax). Even Watson, the dog, conspires. He can’t be outside with us as he’s constantly wandering into shot but he loudly complains about being shut inside, pointing out he’s far more photogenic than I am. Which is true. But unhelpful.

By now, I’ve gone through every pair of matching socks I own, and the hat purchased specially for the occasion is covered in grass clipping and a couple of footprints. I hasten to add those additions didn’t occur while the hat was on my head but when it was sitting at my feet as I lounged in the wicker chair. Looking worldly-wise. And relaxed.

Rain stops play (that’s a British cricket term, for the uninitiated) before we have everything we planned to get. As Hubby and I wave Andrew off, wrestle the wicker chair back into the house, stand on my hat again, and wonder where we’re now going to hang the wet laundry, an unspoken question hangs between us: is this glamorous authoring business worth it?

I’ve seen Andrew’s portfolio. He’s good. Really good. But I have to say he’s got his work cut out for him on this assignment.

Godspeed, Andrew. Godspeed.

Images: author’s own