How I Ruined Meeting My Favorite Author

Hey Guys! Ready for a story time? Here's the time I met my FAVORITE author and totally messed it up by being a hot awkward mess. The encounter happened some years back. Luckily, I wrote about it while it was fresh, capturing all my blundering glory. I wish I could do this day over, but there's no redo's in life so instead you get this dreadful story. It's a doozy!

Sometimes God gifts us with days that we will cherish for a lifetime, the day that I met Ms. Jenkins was one of those days. As my husband and I stepped inside the restaurant the nervousness I experienced was unprecedented--even for an awkward chick like me. The entire day nothing more consumed my thoughts but this one moment. I had waited for what seemed like forever be here. I didn't want to be here. I was scared?

 As a creative being it's always nice to share your time with another creative being, but this was so much more than that. I had literally grown up reading Beverly Jenkins books, had every Historical Romance novel she'd ever published, and wanted my career to mirror hers... and

now here we were about to sit down and have dinner together? The thought was no less than mind-blowing.

 

 I remember pleading with my husband to not go to the restroom until after she arrived, he had  been the one to make the contact and with my anxiety meter on twelve thousand I thought it would be nice if he would make the introductions. However, he insisted on going to the bathroom, "She's not gonna come before I get back", he said. He lied.

 

 Not even a minute after his departure I look up to see Ms. Jenkins being lead over to the table--my table. My first instinct was to sherk like a school girl and pass the hell out in the booth, my next inclination was to get up and run; I wasn't prepared for this. I've never been one to be impressed by titles or status, but with Ms. Jenkins I was star struck.

 

So I did what any misfit would do, I promptly got up and hugged her, blabbed about how nice it was to meet her, and then sat down and wondered if I shouldn't have hugged her. What if I  her personal space, I would hate to make her feel uncomfortable...did I look as awkward as I felt...why does my shirt keep coming untucked?

 

Back at the table she and my husband exchanged pleasantries while I sat silent in awe. Was I  not the one who loved this woman? Then I did what I always do, held whole conversations in my mind. Why am I so quiet? I need to talk, but I'm so awkward. Why is my husband doing most of the talking for me...I bet I look like a fool...this is definitely not the first impression I was going for...perhaps I shouldn't have worn this shirt...are my hands ashy?

 

 At some point I remembered the books that I brought along for her to sign and the flowers too. These just wasn't any ordinary flowers like I usually get when I'm running late and stop at Trader Joes. No, I went to my favorite florist and hand selected the flowers especially

for her. I wanted them to be indigo--the title of one of my favorite books. I bet she doesn't know the reasoning behind the flowers, I bet I won't go into detail. Besides, all the florist had was a purplish color flower, indigo is more is more of a violet blue, right? Ahh who

cares. Steak. Focus on your steak--concentrate on it like it's the last piece of meat you'll have in your life. After all, you did wait all day to get that steak right? NO! Talk to HER.

 

 I jump in the conversation, ask a few questions. However, I've left the majority of my well thought out inquires at home. "It isn't an interview, you shouldn't bring all those questions", my husband said after seeing my typed queries. "I would have loved to hear your questions, you should have brought them", she said. At this point I'm doing the classic Florida Evans in  my mind (damn, damn, damn) and I can't string together not one intellectually stimulating sentence if my life depended on it. This wasn’t the impression that I wanted to make.

 

I was in awe which caused me to be overly in tune with my steak because I’m awkward. Ms. Jenkins had saved my literary world. Before coming across her stories, I was doomed to a life of urban fiction—not the most impressive genre in my opinion. I always knew there was something more, and Ms. Jenkins provided just that. She opened the door to romance and ushered me in just as kindly as an abolitionist with the underground railroad. I was safe here.

 

Laced with African-American history, her novels not only portrayed what it was like to be in love, but it caused me to do research and study great accomplishments of people of color--I may have never encountered some of the things I learned from her books otherwise. I studied her style, her build to romance, I learned that romance was a slow stroll to the finish line and not some Autobahn extravaganza like some authors would have you to believe. Romance was a glace. A conversation. An embrace.  Not only did her books offer a total experience—but to a young girl inexperienced at love, it also served as a point of reference.  

 

If I could muster up the words I’d tell her how much she’s inspired me, as a person, as an artist. But I can’t, too taken with her ethereal glow. She has a beautiful spirit. At this point, to me, she’s on the same level as Mother Teresa. Surly she has to be a woman of God to take the time out of her busy schedule packed with deadlines and appearances to sit with me, a stranger--an awkward chick that she probably doubts can write since I currently lack the ability to talk.

 

Obviously I didn’t make as bad as an impression as I thought, either that or she’s even nicer than I thought. Before leaving she gave me her personal contact info with promises to meet again. WOW. I vowed right then and there that one day after I made it to the top that I too would sit down with some awkward chick taken by my work and make her the happiest person in a hundred mile radius just as Ms. Jenkins did for me…but first I got to make it to the top. I will, someone needs me.