After NPR, I rushed back to Manhattan to be part of a panel discussion at the Kitchen. The subject? You guessed it: e-books.

And then, only 24 hours later, I arrived in Charlottesville to attend the Festival of the Book. I'd been invited to wear both my hats: to do a reading from my new novel and to give out the first Independent e-Book Awards -- and to participate in two panels on e-publishing.

The audience members for most of these events were not readers but aspiring authors and small publishers who wanted to pick my brains.

After I'd been there 24 hours, I think it's safe to say that if the expression were literal, I'd have no brains left.

Two women cornered me in the ladies room, wanting to know what they could do to promote their e-books or print-on-demand titles. When I politely explained I really did have to go to the bathroom, they reluctantly retreated. Or so I thought.

As I locked the door, I saw their two books being slipped under the bathroom stall.

After the last panel, I took a much-needed walk on the mall to get some coffee. I was followed. As I paid for my latte, the man beside me -- who I thought was just another customer -- asked if he could have my phone number. Before I had time to ascertain if I should be flattered or frightened, he told me he wanted to call me because I hadn't answered all his questions during the panel's Q&A session. And he had lots of questions.

I gave him my business card and suggested he send me e-mail. "What -- so you can blow me off? I want answers and I want them now."

Was I going to have to call the book police?

I'm not complaining. Really. I'm just frustrated. And I'm saddened that I can't help all these authors, and that they don't think I'm giving them enough. I'm depressed that more than 200 people showed up to listen to me and requested my free newsletter on e-publishing -- but not one conference attendee bought one of my novels.

The capper to my week was a lovely reception for all the authors and speakers who'd been invited to the festival.

At one point, I was introduced to a reviewer of women's fiction for a very prestigious newspaper, but the person who introduced me began by saying I had been one of the organizers of the e-book day. The reviewer made a face that made me think her wine had turned to vinegar.

"I don't think e-books are really books at all. Excuse me," she said, turning on her heel -- leaving me feeling like one -- and walking away.

The man who'd tried to introduce us never even got the chance to mention my name.

"I guess she's just here to hobnob with the real writers," he said as he grabbed a crab cake from the buffet.

But I am a real writer -- I am, I am. My first novel has sold more than 70,000 copies. My new novel has just gone back for a third printing. I'm published in six languages.

I didn't say any of that, though. I just grabbed a crab cake, too.

I guess I should consider myself lucky to be published at all and shut up. But the thing is that even though I knew all about how hard this business of being an author is and how you never have to stop selling yourself and your books, and even though I knew how tough it is to break through, it still gets to me.

Well, I've learned my lesson. I've got to stop talking so much about e-books and pay attention to my career as a novelist.

The only thing that really worries me is that there's an "e" in that word, too.

Maya Angelou reads from "The Heart of a Woman"