The Book

She was sitting on the back of a park bench weeping. She was wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved top. I smiled at her. “Mind if I sit down?” She shook her head and slid down until she took up one end of the bench. Her shoes showed wear; She pulled a bit of cloth from the pocket of her jeans.
After several seconds, I said. “Would I be intruding if I asked what the problem is?” She looked at me with tear-filled eyes spilling over, running down her cheeks.
“I…I’m…no good.” She dissolved into sobbing again.
“Why would you say that?” Knowing the answer but wanting her to say it.
She looked at me as if her entire world had just fallen apart. “I tried to do as you said. Feel the story. To experience it. I tried to immerse myself in it. To let it flow over me. It didn’t work.”
“Come with me. Are you hungry? “I said as I got up. I waited for her. She was black, about 25. A nice-looking young lady.
“Where …where are we going?” She said, picking up her bag.
“There is a nice little restaurant where we can speak privately.” She followed me for the next couple of blocks.
I called my wife to tell her I would be late. I spoke to her for a few minutes.
There was a nice little place tucked back between a bookstore and a jewelry store. I held the door open for her. She entered cautiously. The manager greeted us. “Hi Hunter. Who’s your friend?”
“This is Sasha, a budding author.” I said, shaking his hand.
“Welcome, Sasha,” he said, shaking her hand.
“Thank you.” She said simply.
“Do you have a quiet table where Sasha and I can talk?” I ask.
“Sure. Follow me.” He led us to the back of the restaurant. And gave us two menus. “Your waitress will be with you shortly.”
“Thanks, Don.” He left us. I opened mine, looked at the pictures of food, closed it and said. “Ok let’s go.”
She looked at me in confusion. “I…I thought we were going to have a meal?” She said, getting hesitantly to her feet.
I settled back down. “Aren’t you satisfied? You saw the pictures of the nicely prepared meals?”
“No. They only made me hungry. The pictures didn’t satisfy my hungry just increased it.” I smiled.
“Now you’re getting it. If I describe emotion, say, like she wept. Can you see it? Or if I write. Tears filled her eyes until they spilled over. Her world crumbled around her. Tell me how you felt when you received the letter from the agent.”
“I…I felt as if my career as a writer was over. I felt the world come crashing down on my shoulders. I felt as my life was…” A light came into her eyes.
“There it is. Sasha, you have to show, not tell. You want the reader to live your story. I want my readers to feel the same emotions as if they were my main character. They can’t feel the same if I tell them, but if I show them, they can.”
“So, what you’re saying is that you want them to hear the bullet whizzing by. You want the reader to be there as an observer.” Sasha said with shining eyes.
“No, I want my reader to feel as if they are the ones being shot at. Or if they are the villain, I want them to look in the mirror and feel the same panic.”
“You're saying you want me to be the main character?” Sasha said, smiling.
“And the villain. I want you to live the story. “ I said returning her smile.
The waitress was there, so we ordered our meal. After we ate as we left the restaurant. I said. “How was the meal?”
“Very good. Thank you.” She laughed. “Much better than the pictures.”
18 months later, my wife and I attended Sasha’s first book signing.