Some advance warning: I’m going to stop this story and start over because it’s the only way I can figure out how to tell it.
So it’s 1980, morning in America, and I’m riding in a car with my grandfather. We are on the way home from the golf course. It’s sunny and we’re in Wisconsin and the car is, I believe, a 1974 Gran Torino. Anyway I’m sure it’s a Ford, because my grandfather bought all his cars from Barney at the Ford Garage, which was just up the road from his house in the small Wisconsin town where he lived.
As we reach the crest of the hill, we see a police car stopped by the side of the highway. He has caught a speeder. Another car—a Ford, no doubt—sits in front of the squad car. The officer of the law is walking toward the driver.
I know what my grandfather is going to say. In fact, I’m about to blurt it out. But I don’t.
As an independent author, I have to deal with a lot of unexpected tasks. Like designing a book cover. Or marketing. And of course, maintaining this blog, which arose as a way for me to connect with my readers. (Which has been awesome. Thank you, readers!)
One of the quirks of hosting a blog are the thousands and thousands of spam comments that come in as comments. WordPress filters out 99.9 percent of those before they ever reach me [statistic unofficial]. But a few get through. And once in a while, one tricks me and I approve it. It’s a minor nuisance and I feel cheated. More spam follows, attacking the same post, as if I’ve swung open the gates and let in the giant wooden horse. What was I thinking? How did I miss this!
So that was my world for several months. And then came something I never expected. Continue reading