Too Late

Many years ago — before COVID — an author ChickieNob loved was holding an event in a nearby town and signing copies of her books. After ChickieNob had her books signed, we were standing in the back, speaking with another author who had organized the event. The woman told me both writers were both part of a writing group.

Later that summer, we were at one of our favourite bookstores, and the writing group came up again. The owner was a member of the group, too, and she encouraged me to join. She had so many positive things to say, and I wrote the group down on my to-do list, but I mostly forgot about it.

Over the years, she would bring it up when I was in the bookstore. She let me know that it didn’t matter if I wasn’t writing; I was reading, and readers were welcome, too. I kept copying “join the group” over from one to-do list to another, talking to Josh about joining but never following through.

Until I made a note to call the bookstore to ask them to hold the new Anthony Horowitz for me, and I decided to join. I would join the group one weekend and then visit the bookstore the next weekend and talk to the owner about the group.

I signed up and was added to the listserv. But when I looked at the top message on the listserv archive, it was the invite for the celebration of life for my bookstore owner. She had died weeks earlier, and I hadn’t known. I was too late.

I don’t know if I believe that the two things are connected. I just know that I cried deeply when I thought about how silly it was that I waited over five years to do something that I was always interested in doing but felt like maybe I didn’t deserve to do it. That I wouldn’t belong. I was sad that I wouldn’t have her book recommendations anymore, and she would never know that she brought another member into the group. The lesson learned is not to wait on things.