A bright smile beams on my face when I see him. “Hello mister Faron. I’m a big fan of yours. I can’t believe I’m actually seeing you here.”

My friend and I always imagined meeting him someday, but not like this of course. We imagined meeting him the day one of us became a famous journalist. Whoever became so lucky to interview a famous author such as him, was required to introduce him to the other. We played around with hypotheticals in our head of how to greet him. I never imagined running into him at a coffee shop, especially one as run down as Mr. Grant’s.

His coffee bean eyes glance from his journal to my apron. I can tell he was quite perplexed. Another waitress had already taken his order minutes ago, yet here I was interrupting his quiet work for my own selfish desire. Flustered, I turn around to get back to bussing tables.

“Wait, do you have a second?” His voice was mellow and sound, just as I would imagine an author with language as sophisticated as his. I’m surprised he was interested in talking to someone as plain as me, but I accept his invitation anyways. I sit in the seat across from him.

Mister Faron strokes his mustache, then removes his golf cap and sets it on the table. He was getting quite old now, the evidence in how his weary eyes slowly moved from sign to sign, and his receding hairline. Regardless, his fiction novels are timeless to me. I still have Midnight Forest and The Maroon Hanker-chief ready to be reread on my book shelf.

“What is it?” I say getting excited. He opens his journal on the table and fidgets with his pen in his left hand.

“I’m stuck. I have an important character I want to write for my next novel, but I’m not sure how to execute them. What do you think?”

Mister Faron is responsible for creating so many fine works, that I had trouble comprehending such a question coming from his lips.

“I’m flattered Mister Faron. But shouldn’t your next big idea come from you?”

“Well you just strike me as someone who has something new to share.” He simply says.

It’s true that growing up, my imagination ran wild. I was always creating storylines or poems on my own. There was no way I could do that now. It was better to write as a journalist, and focus on the facts.

I wanted to help him, I really did. It was my idol who I was looking at after all, so I lean into the table and ask him a question to get things going.

“How do you start your creative process?”

“I live by the quote ‘write what you know.’ You can shape entertaining storylines by taking your creative ideas, and splashing it with a dose of reality.”

This was too good to pass up. I set my server notepad on my lap, and record the words he’s saying. I just had to interview him.

“So is that why you’re here tonight?” I ask next.

“Quite perceptive of you. Yes, I like to immerse myself in the environment I am writing about, and meet the people there. This place is perfect for relaxing without any type of media.”

My pen slows down on my paper. I was the media. I continue to write. He didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Tell me, what is your name miss?” He asks.

“Caroline.”

“Thank you Caroline.”

“I didn’t do anything spectacular.”

“Oh, but you did. You inspired the very character I was struggling with.”

I wasn’t sure where he was getting at.

“I will make this newest character have a rich inner world that she tries to suppress. She will be curious and ask a lot of clever questions. Her most defining character trait however is her mischievousness. What do you think?” He asks.

No one has ever read me this well. I smile.

“I think she’s perfect.”