It’s a few days until Christmas, and I was going to write something else. I was going to write a story about my dog, or something about winter. But I’ve changed my mind.
That’s a writer’s prerogative. A writer changes his mind all the time.
Sometimes, for instance, he changes his mind at a restaurant, mid-salad.
But today, I wanted to tell you something important. And I’m not changing my mind about this.
I hope you have a merry Christmas.
That’s it. That’s the purpose of this column. In fact, that will probably be my final sentence when it’s all over. So, you can stop reading here if you’re pressed for time.
Still, because I have a few hundred words left, I am going stretch this out. After all, if writers didn’t expound on topics, all suspense novels would only have two pages, and go like this:
“There was a guy who turned up dead. Blah, blah, blah. It was Colonel Mustard in the parlor. The end.”
And who wants to read books like that?
So let me tell you about a kid I
There was once a kid who wanted to write. Sometimes, it seemed like he was no good at it. But that’s where you came in. You told him he could do it.
You took different forms, but you’re more or less the same person. You’re kindness. Charity. Goodness. You are every nice person that kid ever met.
You are the man in Piggly Wiggly who returned the kid’s wallet. You didn’t have to do that, but you did.
And you’re the man in Montgomery, who bought the kid and his wife a tank of gas when their credit card was declined at the pump.
You were the person who befriended the kid. You didn’t try to “help” the kid. You just let him talk.
And, you were the college professor who actually took the…