♛Louis recently dragged me to this place in Buenos Aires kicking and screaming, I mean, a bookstore? Go down deep into South America for a bookstore. I was livid. Had to distract myself on the jet there by furiously scouring the internet for a drug cartel or some other high-level evildoer group to hunt there. I protested the entire trip. I laid such thick disdain on him for it… 

[X] Until I walked through the entrance and fell in complete love with the place. A theatre! Converted, well, really more of a library, than a mere bookstore! Brightly lit, with people seated at tables on stage, delectable smelling coffees served as a pianist filled the space with pleasant melody. Small areas on balconies where still more people immersed themselves in fact and fiction. The place had a sense of grandeur, there was an echo of the history, all the stories that were orally told there, and all the stories now being told in paper.

It warmed my black little heart to make that connection, that a storyteller is still a storyteller, and an audience member still an audience member, in different fashions through the ages.

I had to find my section, of course. All of my novels have been translated into Spanish, and there they stood on two long shelves. I saw several fresh young teens sitting on the floor with my books open on their laps. If they had looked up for a moment, I’m sure they would have recognized me. 

When I pointed out to him that there were no copies of Louis’ book, so it must be unpopular, he had the audacity to retort that his book was a better seller than any one of mine, and a quick inquiry with a salesperson confirmed that they were indeed sold out of his book. WELL. 

I autographed a few copies of mine and tucked them back on the shelf anyway.