I haven’t scheduled any more book signings since that first one in Starbucks. And not for the reasons you might think.

I didn’t really expect to sell many copies at Sbux, or draw crowds of devoted readers. But afterwards I had a letdown of a different sort…I already knew that I would have to do the work if I wanted to sell my own book, but I wasn’t expecting it to feel quite so lonely. Since I’ve moved to New York, I’ve keenly felt the loss of our old writing group and my university friends. But I haven’t really established any circles here, even non-writing ones. At almost any other time in my life, I’d know who I could count on to ask to write a review or post comments on the blog. Not here. Plus, my father pointed out that if my mother were alive, she’d have been selling copies to anyone and everyone. We weren’t exactly close, but it’s true that she had that sort of personality. It seems strange to me that even though she only died six years ago, she’s missed out on meeting my husband, my kids, seeing our first house — and reading my first novel. And Mom was quite the mystery lover.

But what I wanted to write about today was my own experience in attending book signings. The first was by Patricia Cornwell. It was pretty intimidating — crazy long lines, her entourage and expensive outfit. George Saunders gave a fantastic reading and encouraged my writing; Charles Simic answered writing questions bluntly but insightfully.

The last book signing I went to was with Sara Paretsky. I got there right at the beginning, so I was lucky to get the chance to talk to her for awhile. We talked about graduate school and mentioned members of her family who were in related fields. In short, she was a real, actual — and kind — person. Now I follow her blog, where I can see that being a best-selling author doesn’t eliminate the doubts and concerns. Maybe that would prove depressing or discouraging to some, but for me it just means that my own doubts don’t mean that I’m not cut out for writing.

So I’m going smaller again. I used to have a little PDA that I wrote on, mainly for first drafts. Editing was too much of a pain without having a mouse, but it was good for writing drafts precisely because I couldn’t get caught up in overediting. (Why is it that in a cafe full of open tables, the perfumey, chatty ladies have to sit next to me? Excuse me while I move…Ah, much better)

So then for awhile I used a laptop, then a netbook. I love netbooks — all the functionality I need for writing, small enough to fit in my purse. Unfortunately, my netbook has many, many issues. It only works when it feels like it, and each part decides separately what kind of mood it’s in — touchpad, keyboard, screen, audio — who knows what will work today?

But the other day we found our old bluetooth folding travel keyboard, and now I can write real things on the iPhone. Now I can actually use the WordPress app! And I can even write early chapter drafts for Truth.

I’m coming back to working on Truth now — I think that the promise of a possible writing group is inspiring me. I’m focusing on the first 7 chapters for now. I’m hoping to get some early feedback once they’re done.

I’m not sure why exactly it feels so liberating to be able to have the keyboard with me all the time now, when I always carry pen and paper anyway. I think it’s because I type much faster than I write longhand — faster than my internal critic can respond. There’s too much pressure when I write longhand. It can’t be easily erased or rearranged. I get distracted by what’s coming next. I can doodle.

What about you? Do you prefer writing by hand or typing?