There was some sort of self-help writers convention in town. I was in Stauf's, which did not resemble the actual coffee shop, but some other Stauf's. I saw Dr. Phil alone at a table writing on one of those longer notepads, when I passed him I glanced at what he was writing. There was one long ass list being started. It was all numbers down the page and the rest was blank. I guess Phil had some work to do.
There was also an author named Jerry Spears. A name I do not know as a writer but as the owner of a local funeral home. The coffee shop was in some sort of indoor mall and authors whose faces I recognized but names I was not sure of were walking in trios into bars, one in front of another.
I kept trying to get on my iPad to post to Facebook that Dr. Phil was writing a list but the keyboard kept messing up.
Another author came over to me and I called him the wrong name, which made him very pissy. Oh well, that's life in the publishing world.
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