When Worlds Collide
So yesterday I was in a patient’s house and noticed a copy of my book, Scream, on the table beside her bed.
“Hey,” I said. “Where’d you get that book?”
She looked at me, blank.
“That’s my book,” I said.
The blank expression got blanker. I think she thought I was accusing of her stealing my book. Of sneaking into my house and taking a book from my shelf.
“That’s me. Mike Dellosso. I wrote that book.”
“Oh,” she said. Understanding dawned. “I thought you looked familiar. I was at the booksigning you did at Waldens last year.”
I didn’t remember her but she showed me what I wrote on the inside of the book. And yes, she had indeed met me. No thievery had taken place.
“I didn’t know you did this too.”
“Yeah. This is my real job.” I said it like I was confessing to being caught in a major scam.
She looked disappointed. I think authors hold a certain, albeit very insignificant, celebrity status to some people. My signature and words on the inside of her book were something special, something distant as if from another world. And when she realized I was just an average Joe with no celebrity aura whatsoever and my feet loosely planted on this planet the bubble was burst.
I hate when my two identities show up in the same place. ( But it was kind of cool).