On April 6, 2010, I attended the Huntington Park Library Book Club meeting, where my book, “The Immigrants’ Daughter,” was discussed. The lady who was going to introduce me to the club members had a car accident on the eve of the event, and thankfully was alright except for significant bruises, but she could not attend the meeting. So I was on my own. Fortunately I had prepared a set of questions, to forestall any untoward events, just in case. Such premonition does not arise from pessimism. It comes about with experience because when an author is expected to deliver her very best, and plans run amok, he or she better have an alternate plan to live up to people’s expectations. Believe me, those questions came in handy.  They created a relaxed atmosphere. Opinions floated back and forth. We had a fair exchange of ideas and impressions.

A discussion group of this type tickles the author’s ego.  I was happy to hear that my book was interesting enough to engage focused attention for several hours. It was the best compliment I could receive. It was also interesting to find out that each reader had a favorite page or paragraph that touched her personally. Not two were alike. I felt that I had sensitive tentacles reaching out to human chords, thus creating a bridge of understanding with complete strangers. On the whole it was a successful event and the comments have been complimentary.

On the same note, when I attended a community event this month, a guy came running to tell me that he never finished a book, but he read mine through and through in one day. Such confessions send me running to my desk, to sit and write for twelve hours straight or as long as my energy will keep me awake. Writing is not a profession. It is an addiction. Now I understand why many writers died in poverty but live forever.