A summer day in 1998. There are tulips in my backyard; my hair is really long.
Having just seen an advanced copy of my (first) book "The Book of Eleven" at a publishing convention, an editor I've never heard of named Renee sends me a praise-filled email.
This works well with me, and I now think highly of her.

A fall day in 1999. It is raining; my hair is now short, and wet.
I receive an email from a man named Neil, the publisher at Rodale Press."We are developing a series of books, each written by a different author," he says. The first in the series: The Father's Guide to the Meaning of Life. The second: The Runner's Guide to the Meaning of Life. Would I like to write the Mother's Guide? "By the way," says Neil, who I later meet and see that he is tall,"you were suggested to us by one of our editors, Renee."

A spring day, 2001. There are scattered patches of snow-- small, white anomalies
in the middle of an otherwise sunny day; my hair is now medium long, fake red.
The Mother's Guide to the Meaning of Life is published. Renee, who I have still not met, sends me an email that she will be coming to Chicago in May. We make plans to finally meet, over drinks. She tells me she likes cosmopolitan martinis. This works well with me. I think highly of her.

to be continued...