I’m at the library, surrounded by shelves of books. I’m sitting at an old oak table next to a set of three windows. Directly in front of me is the place where my book will be placed. My mind drifts…
Bold black letters will spell out “Timm” from the spine of a colorful cover. I imagine someone scurrying into the librarian’s counter and breathlessly saying, “Do you have that new book by Larry W. Timm?” A jolt of happiness laced adrenaline tickles my stomach, and I look away, trying to act like I didn’t hear the panting patron’s request. A commotion draws my attention back to the counter.
“But I was going to check that book out,” announces a sharp-dressed man in a very non-library voice. He waves his hands in the air.
“I was here first,” declares the lady. She’s at least two feet shorter than the man, but equally determined to stake her claim.
“You don’t understand,” the man says, offering a too-wide smile, “I took off work to get here before the library closes.”
“Well, I don’t care if you live in the basement, and are checking out the book to read to orphans. I’ve waited two weeks to get to read this novel!”
The librarian clears his throat. I imagine he’s calling on his experience as a pastor to resolve this conflict. “Sir, I can put you on the waiting list for the book. There are–”
“But sir,” the librarian pleads, “Mrs. Smartreader here has been on the list for two weeks. The book was returned this morning and the minute the library was open to the public, I called and told her she had 27 seconds to get here to claim it. She made it in 23!”
“But…but…” The man swivels his gaze between the smirking woman and the librarian.
“Why don’t you just go to Barnes and Noble and buy a copy?” the woman asks.
“There all sold out,” the man and the librarian chant in unison.
I’m blushing now. Maybe I should intervene. After all, I’m sorta responsible for causing this library brew-ha-ha. I amble over to the counter as humbly as I know how, wishing ACFW would have had a workshop on “Humble Ambling” at the last convention.
“Excuse me,” I say gently. “Maybe I can help. I’m Larry W. Timm, and–”
“You think that’s going to work?” The lady stabs me with her eyes.
“What?” I say as I take a step back.
“You think you can claim to be the best-selling author, Larry W. Timm, and I’m going to hand this book over to you.” She slaps her hand down on the book, pinning it to the counter. For a brief second I expect the librarian to begin the ten-count.
“No…no,” I say with a forced chuckle, “you see, I wrote the book.”
“Oh, that is so pathetic,” the man mutters, shaking his head.
“Sir, I can handle this.” The librarian points to the windows. “You just go back to your table.”
Mrs. Icy Glare turns the book over, then points to the stamp-sized author’s photo. “You don’t look like the author,” the lady declares, drawing chuckles from the man. Amazing what will draw two people together.
“You look fatter,” she adds.
The book-seeking man and the librarian nod.
Unconcerned about ambling, I trudge back to my table and stare at the “T” section. This writing thing isn’t easy.
Maybe I should have said I was Ted Dekker.
A guy can dream…can’t he?