December's Philosophies
an excerpt

Sometimes when I’m on the road, I like to stop in at random book stores, just to see if they’re carrying my books. My mainstream fiction is most popular, since it appeals to most people, unlike my fantasy writings which are really only of interest to fantasy buffs, even though I try to make them more like mainstream fantasy, or something. But I do always find myself going to the fantasy and sci-fi section, looking under the “L”s, just to see if I’m there. Sometimes, I’ll get the odd kid come up to me and ask if it’s a good book. I always say that I enjoyed it, but I was biased. Sometimes they’ll pick it up and buy it, or maybe just disregard my comment all together, unknowing that they asked the author whether or not his book was good.

I have met authors, though, that would say that their work was complete crap. Those were the obsessive writers; never quite pleased with anything they did. I suppose it’s only natural to want to go back and change things or work out some plot holes. I know I do it, but even though there are things in my books which I would like to change, I always tell myself that there is someone out there who read it, and liked it just the way it was. Maybe it was only one person, but, then again, I’m only one person, too.

I had found myself in a bookstore in southern Iowa, once. I was simply passing through and decided to see what I could find. It was a routine stop; I’d go in, check out the fantasy section, maybe look to see if I was still in the Top Sellers sections, and self-consciously walk out, hoping to God that no one had recognized me. But at this particular bookstore, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, it seemed, in southern Iowa, a girl walked up to me.

“Excuse me,” she said. Something about her caught my attention and I knew that she wasn’t just going to inquire about the copy of Welcome to Eaglebrook that I had in my hands. She looked like she was somewhere in high school, maybe even junior high. “You look really familiar.”

I raised my eyebrows at this comment, hoping that maybe she was mistaking me for someone else. “Oh?” She pointed to the book I was holding.

“You look really familiar,” she said again.

I turned the book around and saw a picture of myself staring back at me. What a horrible picture it was, but I had to imagine what a picture would look like on the back of a book if that picture had been taken of me at that exact moment, as I stood there in the bookstore in Iowa. I rubbed my chin, feeling that I haven’t shaved in a couple of days. “Yeah, it sure looks like me, doesn’t it?” I speculated.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, and I could tell how embarrassed she was. “I just thought that maybe that was you, or something. But, eh, what would Oliver Lefferson be doing in the middle of nowhere in Iowa?” She laughed a bit.

“Good question. What is Oliver Lefferson doing in Iowa?”