I was recently at a blues club, getting ready to listen to some great music. We had a few people in our group, and shortly before the band came on, a friend of friend walked up to me, introduced himself and shared that he had read “Coyote Courage.” He went on to say that he loved it. I am new enough to hearing compliments about my books that I am certain my face instantly lit up, and I thanked him for reading it and for the kind words.
He then went on to say that it was the first book that he had read in more than 10 years, but having read it, not only was he going to read the sequel, “Coyote Creek,” but he was now “inspired to start reading again.” If there was room for my smile to get any bigger, I am quite confident that it did.
The music started, and we all listened, enjoying cold beer, great music and the comfort of being with friends for the next couple of hours. The subject of the book, or reading, didn’t come up again.
On the ride home at the end of the evening, I was thinking of what he had said, that my book had “inspired him to start reading again.” My mom passed away a couple of years ago and never got to read my books. I wish she had. She would have been brutally frank in her opinion of my stories and my writing, but whether she liked them or not, she would have beamed with pride that I had written them.
Mom always thought it was the ability to read and write, not opposable thumbs, that differentiated us from the “lesser animals.” I think it would have made her happy to know that my little Western brought at least one of us back into the fold.