No published announcement, here. This is a different sort of "writer's story."

This past weekend I had the opportunity to go see a play on Broadway. It opened May 5th -- unfortunately to poor review -- and closed May 8th after the evening show.

But I had bought tickets for the Sat. matinee and it was just terrific. No figuring critics, I guess. This was no fairly mindless musical, like I think so many Broadway shows are (like Urinetown / Chicago) but something of substance and an attempt at examining something of social significance such as the use of animals -- in this case an aging gorilla -- for aids research.

Anyway, I wanted to see this play because it starred one of my favorite actors. In fact, this fella is the guy I based my main character on in my novel, The Secret of Sharada Nye. Well, I haven't had success getting an agent (a tidbit of the novel is currently available on Authorlink) so I figured what the hang ... see, I'd always had a fantasy of presenting him a published book and telling him the story of the inspiration behind the novel's 20+ year journey (largely ,him) ... so knowing neither he or I might live to see that day at this point I decided to take him the manuscript as a gift.

I know -- a little unwieldy to present a heavy boxed raw manuscript instead of a novel, but what the heck, right? I just wanted him to know.

Well, weird of all weirdness, I ran into him on 48th street prior to the show. I held his coffee while he autographed a book I'd taken for a friend. I wasn't about to unload the book on him there but asked if gifts could be left at the theatre and would they be taken back to the actors?

He said sure and so after he went on in to prepare for the play I wound up directed to the stage door and told my story to the man at the desk inside, who said sure, he'd take the book on back.

So anyway, it just felt good. I've no idea if he trashed it or took it home to Connecticut. After the show my friend and I hit up a pub a few doors down from the theatre. Guess who walks in.

After talking to the bar tender (no one else was in at that hour but us) but ordering nothing, he spies us and pauses at our table on his way out. I assumed he recognized us -- but can't be sure. I was dressed a bit conspicuously, I guess (in comoflage).

Being the ridiculously shy person I tend to be, I couldn't bring myself to ask him if he'd gotten the book or not. We chatted about the play a bit is all. Maybe he stopped cause he was wondering if I was the one who'd left it -- I'll likely never know. I mean, he didn't know my name to match it with the one on the manuscript, since the autograph I asked for prior to the show was for a woman named Debbie.

But anyway, that was my "different sort of writing success story" -- just getting to give a 440 page work to the person who charged me with inspiration to write for the past 25 years.

What do you think of that?

-- garrie