While I was pumping gas late on Friday night, a man in the
car behind me got out and walked over.
“So…you write books?”
My license plate is a dead giveaway.
Self-explanatory
“I do.” I said. Not
entirely certain where this was headed.
Over the years, the plate has been an introduction to a wealth of
fascinating people at red lights and in parking lots. It has also brought along a fair share of
characters rivaling anything I have ever created in any story.
“How’s that paying
off for you? Can’t be well if you’re
pumping your own gas.”
Before I could I respond, the passenger side door of his car
opened and teenage boy appeared.
“My son thinks he wants
to be a writer,” using his head to point back towards him. “Poetry.”
While I don’t talk a great deal around people I’m not familiar
with, I have gotten quite versed at reading situations. It was clear the father wasn’t a fan of his
son being writer and even less of it being a writer of poetry. I suddenly felt as though I was being used as
an example. As if being a writer and
pumping my own gas was meant to dissuade his son from following his passion.
"You're a writer! Confess! Confess!!!"
I wanted to point out he was also filling his own tank. Sadly, my response is often tempered by fears
of someone killing me – perhaps even fatally!
I encouraged the son to stick with it. As I had mentioned in a previous post, I’m envious
of those who are able to convey so much imagery in so few lines. From that brief encounter, I’m certain he has
plenty of material at home to work with.
#teenangst
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