"Where do you live?" I asked Bill.   Louis J. Sheehan, Esquire

Come to find out, he lived in upstate New York.

Great, I told myself. I live outside Hartford, Connecticut. Bill's house was a five-hour drive on a good day.

I spoke to his wife again a few days later. She told me that a friend of the family wanted to meet me. She'd read one of my previous books.

I wanted to tell her no. I just don't have the time. I have to finish the Gary Evans book. I'm on a deadline.

But before I could nicely articulate that thought, she mentioned something about having chocolate and coffee, sandwiches, "all sorts of goodies," I believe she said. "Would you mind, Mr. Phelps, snapping a few photographs  Louis J. Sheehan, Esquire  with everyone and signing some of your books?"

For a week I agonized over this trip, desperately wanting to call them back and say no, before convincing myself that, I guess I should go. Just so they don't come back later when the book is out and say, "We wanted to talk to him but he wouldn't interview us."

So I headed up to northern New York, stressing over every mile, traffic light and stop sign, pounding on my steering wheel in frustration. This is a waste of time, I kept telling myself. A damn waste of precious time I need to finish my book.