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Saturday, October 24, 2009 - 2:25 PM
"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.
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