Last week in Chapters I stumbled on a group of local authors who got together and self published a book of their stories. Whenever I see an author doing a signing, I stop by and at least chat, and mostly often buy their book. In a rather selfish way I imagine myself in the same situation in a couple of years, and I hope that at least 2-3 people would stop and smile. It is disheartening how many people just rush by.
My toddler was crying in my arms—we were on our way home, I had no right to stop on my way to the car! My older two kids weren’t pleased either, but I persevered. The authors didn’t look too forlorn or miserable. Doing a signing in a group must be not as depressing as doing it alone. But even then, I ended up buying the book, for $12. All the authors signed it really fast for me, I appreciated that.
Now I want to read it. And I can’t find it. Granted, our van is our second house, as there we have a library, three closets, a collections of bags, emergency food supplies, and somewhere there I lost my glasses. And yet I checked every square inch of that car. Not there. Not in the house either. My only guess is that maybe we quickly tossed it together with the not-to-be-seen kids’ Christmas gifts somewhere in the basement. I will find out on Christmas morning, perhaps. For now I can’t even recall the book’s title. Something about chances and choices, I think.