I recently had the privilege of meeting a fellow writer. This is a rarity for me, as writers are rather solitary creatures, not given to running in packs (except to Starbucks). Come to think of it...I've not met one since school!
I was curious as to what I would see...a mirror in which I could see my own motivations? A tormented genius, holding desperately and joyously to life by the fingernails, while taking deep draughts of life's most intoxicatingly pure nectar?
Or perhaps a cool professional, seeing the novel as Khayyam's chess game, with characters that move, mate and slay, and back in the closet one day lay?
What I met was a lovely and vivacious person, of friendly smile and sparking eye, who put me at ease with a manner that was both humble and exalted. A person of royal blood and common touch, whom I'd just met and had known forever.
It didn't matter that I'd met a writer. It means the world that I met a friend.