An admirer of her work for many years, I finally met Sylvia Marshall at a local bookstore. She was signing her latest collection of short stories and I couldn't wait to devour them.
Waiting in line, I was surprised by her appearance. Short and thin with a mop of curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses, she looked up to thank each customer with nothing more than a smile. As one who seemed to know me so well, she was alarmingly passive.
How could this tiny person in a pale yellow dress know about my absent father and my domineering mother? How could she write about my failed relationships, my struggles with alcohol and my thoughts of suicide? Who kept her informed about my loss of faith in God and humanity? Somehow, she bared my soul in each story.
When I finally reached her desk, she signed a book, gazed up through her thick lenses and said something that I could not understand. Though I wanted clarification, I was forced ahead by the lady behind me and moved on to the cashier. What had she said? It sounded like "Thanks for the inspiration." Could that be? Have I been right all along?
I rushed home to read the stories and to see what else she knew.
