Well, I had a strange day yesterday. In amidst all the goings-on of getting a book published (marketing, promotion, actually writing the damn thing, etc.), I took a day to undergo what is surely the silliest, most rigorous aspect of it all: getting my picture taken.
Yes, it turns out that people want to see my pretty face. Worse, my publisher demands it, over my strident objections that such photos could only serve to hurt sales.
So, sucking in my gut and applying a liberal amount of makeup to certain less photogenic areas of my face (thank you, recurring adolescent acne!), I underwent the sort of day only supermodels should ever be subjected to. If a person look that good, I figure you might at least torture them a little for it.
I enlisted the help of my uncle, the only person I know with easy access to a high-quality digital camera. He, my girlfriend-cum-photographer's assistant, and myself spent a lovely rain-free hour on the campus grounds of the University of Western Ontario, capturing the many moods of Corey Redekop: snide, bemused, bored, hungry, asleep, ad infinitum. I must admit, there was a fun aspect to it all: the advent of digital photography means we can take hundreds of photos where before we had to make do with a select few, wait a week for the local A&P to develop it, then gnash our teeth as we view photo after photo of lovely landscapes, all perfectly in focus, all marred by the highly blurry individual sitting contentedly in the foreground.
So we wiled away the hour, then set about choosing the best from a group of hundreds. I mailed a CD of the best, least stomach-upsetting pictures to my publisher, and also chose one as my new Profile Picture. I think you'll agree, as plain and unassuming as it is, that it is a far more appealing picture than that of my current target of literary scorn. Ah, self-publishing! The last remaining refuge for true delusions of grandeur.
It's strange and unsettling to think that my visage will soon stare out from the back flap of a novel. Aside from the front cover and blurb, this could be the element that ultimately discourages potential buyers. "Oo, he looks insane. Reading this novel will only waste valuable hours." Maybe I'm over-reacting, but putting my picture on a book could be the greatest literary miscalculation since Jenny McCarthy decided she had enough insight on motherhood to write a book about it.
And yes, I'm aware I have low self-esteem issues, so there's no need the bother pointing that out.
2 comments:
What?
No pipe??
BARD
See, that's what I said. A pipe, tweed coat with leather patches on the elbows, a fake goatee, maybe a monacle. But I was threatened with physical violence from my girlfriend, and am I a coward, so the choice was obvious.
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