There are authors who are my flat out, holy cow, love everything you write, give it all to me, I’m a ridiculous fan, have reread all your books, *sigh* -- total reader crush on these authors.

Super-duper-uber fan.

But the author’s signature?

Meh.

Not my gig. Not my jam. Or jelly.

Not my bag’o’chips.

But the signature could be someone else’s jam.

Years ago I grabbed a paperback book off the shelf of a bookstore in glee because I had been looking for that out-of-print book for a while. Wahoo!

“I get to read it!” I sing-songed to myself as I did a little happy shimmy in the bookstore.

It was just a couple bucks. Sweet!

I get it home, I settle in – a happy hot something to drink, and crunchy salty something to munch and I am sittin’ pretty.

And then I turn to the title page and think, “Greetings copyright on the bottom-left hand page—I can’t forget you!”

There, back on the title page, in scrawled ball point is the John Hancock of one of my very, very, very, very favorite authors.

And I am annoyed.

I know enough about books that this will likely mean something.

Signed hard-to-find book.

Crap.

I begrudgingly groan my way into an upright position off the couch and shuffle without drink or snack or comfy reading chair to do a rare book search on my computer. I don’t even sit. That would be an insult to my derriere. From comfy gloriousness to utilitarian hard plastic and mesh.

I like myself too much for a shock to the system that great.

So clickety-click and blue light blinking and grey ball spinning and ding! The answer.

And I groan again.

The thin little yellow paged, long-lost reading treat-treasure to complete my collection is worth over $300.

Craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap.

I didn’t even internally whine that response.

That was a full throated, dry-wall bouncing, living room filling (yes, computer desk in the living room at that time) drawn out yowl of despair.

I’d have to find another one.

And there was no point in reading this one.

Because, and this is one of my quirks, the book I keep on my shelf needs to be one I’ve read.

Each page of the book has to have been handled and read by me. The time spent in my hands, the emotional experience between flesh and wood-pulp, was unique and contained within that particular book.

And so to give that energy to this book, the first reading, only to be given away and replaced…

Or I could just leave it on my shelf. Ignore the signature.

More groans and contemplation as I drop into the squishy embrace of understuffed couch cushions and peck at the salty and sip of the warming found me eventually with an empty mug, a crummy plate, and no real answer.

I looked at the book accusingly, though unfair were my feelings—for it wasn’t the book’s fault the author had marred its perfectly fine, legible pages that contained priceless value all on their own.

Because to get said potential $300 would take effort – photographs and listing on eBay – and time – waiting for it to sell – and potentially money out of my pocket – listing fees, packaging, and postage.

I wanted a relaxing read with a book I had been anticipating reading, diving into a joy filled story experience with a favorite author. And remember the snacks? Comfy couch?! Come on!!

Instead, for a couple bucks I had bought a job.

Work.

So.

Soooooo…

Was it worth it?

Now THIS is the bottom-line question. In my situation, and any situation – what is a signature worth or not worth to you.

Why would or wouldn’t I want a signed book?

Answer that and…

…from there your options emerge!

What options are those, pray-tell, o’ Mon Ami?

Come back next week and I will (likely dramatically) tell answer both.

Until then dear readers!

(May your snacks be plentiful and your reading be merry!)