I was in my office this morning, talking to my buddy Justin, when I got an e-mail from a Very Famous Writer. The VFW had written a story (which was attached), and the note (addressed to “Warren”) was asking if I thought the story might be placed in a magazine in my chosen genre.
Now, I’ve had the honor of appearing in a couple of publications with Very Famous Writer, and we’ve met once face-to-face, and I do write stories in this particular genre, but this was really out of the blue. This would be something akin to having Neil Peart show up at my door and ask me what I thought of a groove he had developed recently. That is, it’s not the kind of thing that happens to sometime writers in Mondoville.
But we had met once, and . . .
So I went to lunch, came home, and looked at the e-mail again. Again, it looked legit. (Because VFW and I have shown up in some of the same books, I had seen the e-mail address before.) But then, something dawned on me.
A bit of Googling later, my suspicion was confirmed. VFW has an agent. . . named Warren. So I sent VFW a reply, explaining what I thought had happened (and mentioning that I thought the story was quite powerful). A few minutes ago, VFW replied, and it turned out I was right. So, The Very Famous Writer thanked me for getting back in touch (and for liking the story), and that’s where we are.
But for a couple of hours today, I felt like something of a pezzonovante, and even if VFW wasn’t seeking my opinion, it’s good to know that a Very Famous Writer’s computer remembers me, anyway.