I don't know what I was doing there. I was hardly a writer in the same league as the rest of them. Hell I wasn't even in a league at all. Even calling myself a writer was a bit of a stretch. But there I was in a crowded elevator, booked in for the Words of the Future Literature Symposium. I had dragged a friend along. I'm much less likely to be considered a stalker if I have a sidekick.
I was nervously aware of him and another journalist standing toward the back of the elevator. He greeted me by name, as if we've been old acquaintances. I don't recall ever actually meeting him, but kept my composure and politely responded. He offered some banter about my writing. I was so embarrassed. I could not believe he had actually read any of it.
The doors opened and my friend pulled me out. I didn't even know what floor we were on. She dragged me into our room and had barely closed the door before she started hissing at me. "I didn't know you knew him!" "I don't." "I sure seems to know you." "He sure does..."
He was (in)famous for his writing and superiority complex. I was known of in certain informal writing groups. Worlds apart.
