The Man at Pizzabella

Last night I was having dinner with a writer friend of mine. I'd brought her my extra copy of THE ESSENTIAL GUIDE TO GETTING YOUR BOOK PUBLISHED by The Book Doctors (Arielle Eckstut and David Henry Sterry, who let me introduce them and their darling child to Jalepeno's and Reading Reptile on their last swing through Kansas City). My friend left the table toward the end of the meal, and a man about my dad's age leaned over from the next table (which was very nearby), gestured to the book and asked if I was trying to publish a book.

I got to tell him my novel came out last month. That was super fun.

We got into a conversation in which he told us he is voracious reader on his Kindle, that his eyesight isn't so good for print anymore, and that he'd like to publish a book. His wife leaned in at one point to say he was a fine writer, a gesture so sweet and loving I almost fell out of my chair. He asked if I'd majored in English, and I said not the first time. He told me he'd been a lawyer for years because his father wanted him to, and he really hated being a lawyer but he liked to write. I ended up giving him my author card and telling him it's never too late to write.

Because it's never too late to write.*

*Sometimes it's too late to write well. This post could've been a lot better if I had more time. But it's a cool story, and I'll totally forget it if I don't put it down. So, sorry! But still cool, eh?