My faith in humanity has been restored.
I found my Kindle buried deep in the Lazy Boy recliner.
Instinctively, this morning, I knew it was there. Or at least in the house.
I could not believe that someone would have come into the side garden and purloined it off the table. Even in a sketchy neighborhood like this one, it would be hard to believe someone would do that. (Though someone did steal a couple beers from the cooler outside last year. But that was beer.)
I've missed my Kindle, in particular, because I've been waiting for a special e-book from my writing hero, Jon Katz, who has just published his first ever e-book. So the first thing I did was re-enter my credit card information and download The Story of Rose, A Man and His Dog, which is available for the unbelieveable price of $3.50.
It's what I love about Kindle; books delivered to my e-reader in seconds at a very reasonable price. I make no apologies. I am on a book budget these days.
The next book I will buy is The Winds of Change by Mary Metcalfe, my longtime friend and colleague who fearlessly entered the world of novel writing having never before attempted it. She also self-published her book, and will adding two new titles come the fall. I greatly admire Mary for forging ahead into the unknown, learning the craft of novel writing, then figuring out the ropes of self-publishing and promotion.
I've been a writer for three decades -- a published author of hundreds of newspaper and magazine stories -- but I've never had the courage or self-confidence to take my writing to the next level and I admire anyone who can do it. This blog is as close as I have come to putting my feet to the public fire. I don't have the money to self-publish and, while my ego is a healthy one, I don't think I would survive abject failure in that kind of endeavor.
I'm a coward through and through, hiding away in my little house, pecking away as a writer for hire. And that is how my life will likely play itself out.
As in my favorite play, Six Characters in Search of an Author, my characters will likely live in my head, and on this blog, not in a bookstore somewhere.
I'm not mad at myself for this.
I don't have the discipline for writing books. I don't have the flair or imagination for writing novels, either.
I just like sitting here, and just putting my thoughts into cyberspace.
Here's to the real writers out there, the writers of books, the crafter of prose.
May their characters live on forever.