Originally posted 2016-09-16 17:00:25.
She had wanted to go to BookCon since she was a little girl and had first heard about it.
Every year though, there was some other reason for her not to be able to go; school, medical emergency, gas tank full of holes; whatever the reason, she had sadly waited years to be able to go see her favourite authors, long after the fact on public broadcasting channels, and later when the internet started to post the keynote and other discussion panels at the only Con she wanted to attend.
This was the year she really wanted to attend, as all of her favourite authors were giving panels and workshops and seminars about how they broke into the business and finding muses, inspiration, and so much more.
The words were staring back at her in bold black letters against the once crisp white stationary paper. Shaking her head, she folded the coffee-stained letter back up again, staring dumbfounded at other three pieces of smaller card stock that had been paper-clipped to the letter.
It didn’t matter how many times she had read them, over the course of the last six hours, the paper had gone from professionally folded, to now looking like a well-practiced speech, with curled edges and little bits of the paper rolling in thin white oblong bumps, as she mindlessly folded and unfolded the paper to read the words again.
Disbelief was all too present for her, and she had half a notion to call the phone number listed on the accompanying business card, and demand to know who had set them on this particular practical joke. She did not like jokes, pranks, or anything of the sort, so it took all of her might to for the 18th, 118th, or 8018th time, she couldn’t rightly recall, she opened the letter and read each word, allowing it to sink in deeply and truly.
Enclosed with the letter was a smaller inner envelop – long since forgotten on the table in a crumpled mass, no longer containing the two tickets granting full VIP access to every event for the entire BookCon.
She was speechless at the idea that her reading and love of words had led her to this moment, but after the next full read through, and staring in mute delighted shocked blissfulness at the tickets, she pulled out her mobile and dialed the number.
“Hello, I’d like to speak with Ms. King’s office please?” She started tentatively when the call connected.
“This is Agatha King’s assistant, who may I tell her is calling?”
Gobsmacked, a timid voice replied, “Dus..Dusty Books. I’m calling to see if…” She went silent, and the voice on the other end took the opportunity to speak.
“Ms King has been awaiting your call Ms Books. I’ll put you right through.”
Twenty minutes later, Dusty ended the call with a smile broader than any in her face’s history of smiles.
This was going to be the best BookCon ever, and not just because she was going to be able to attend for the first time. She ran upstairs, grabbed a pen and a pad of paper, and began to write her speech of gratitude for her love of words.