To the Man at the Farmer's Market

I recently attended Agent's Day, where one agent said "A blog that's not updated regularly is creepy." I didn't know by being a procrastinator I would be considered "creepy," but I'm going to do my best to rectify that by posting more often (how much more often I can't say, however, so I'll just try to be less creepy).

Today I went to a local farmer's market that I frequent, and as I passed one of the vendors, I noticed a donation box that said "To help pay for funeral expenses." As I glanced at a photo on the front of the box, I saw that it was a gentleman who'd waited on me several times. I never knew his name, and I didn't buy from that vendor often enough for me to be familiar to him, but I suddenly felt rather sad and stuffed a few dollars into the slot. As I finished buying my produce around the market, I couldn't stop thinking about him, about how to me he was just a semi-familiar face behind a table who sold me vegetables every once in a while, but beyond that he was a person with a name and a life and a story. As we all are.

When I got home, after the midday scramble of lunch, a load of laundry and a nap for my son, all I wanted to do was get back to my writing. I've let one of my manuscripts sit for a spell, and while common wisdom is to do this for a bit so you can come back to it with fresh eyes, it was starting to feel like I was neglecting it. I want to tell my characters' stories, much like I want to read others'. I want to know people's stories.

So, to the soft-spoken man at the farmer's market with the mustache, graying hair and slight accent, I may not have known your name, and I may not know your story, but I want to thank you. Thank you for making me realize that all of our stories, both real and fictional, matter in some way to someone.