Yesterday evening my stomach had the same ominous chunk of lead that settles there before I go to the dentist. That might as well have been my destination; there I was brushing my teeth, looking for spinach (pretty tricky since dinner had been sandwiches), and then flossing.
I had an interview with a reporter about my book, Earthly Needs, and photographs would be involved. What did it say about me as a person that I was more concerned about my hair than the clarity of my responses?
This was in the evening, and the Capris I’d had on all day were a bit rumpled. I found a clean shirt and hoped that all photographs would be from the waist up.
Fortunately, I knew the reporter from serving with her on one of our town’s committees, so that ratcheted the anxiety level down a few notches. We met on neutral ground, one of our town’s institutions, a one-time farm stand that now serves the coffee and pastry crowd in the morning, and the ice cream crowd at night.
The whole process turned out to be fun. I mean, who doesn’t enjoy talking about themselves? And she’d probably be gangbusters at calming skittish horses: She smiled, asked encouraging questions, and even distracted me with her fancy-dancy pen that both wrote and recorded our conversation.
Yep, I’ve hit the big time. Why, I’d better start practicing my signature for all those autographs the next time I’m in the center of town.
Granted, the newspaper isn't exactly the New York Times. It’s in that free circular you can pick up in the drug store, right next to the real estate flyers.