I had company over the Christmas break that was not family. Family you expect over the holidays. Strangers from Florida are a surprise.

I was working out in my woodshop when my phone rang. It was my neighbor, Jean. She started off with a simple question.

“Are you at home?” she asked.

“Yep. I’m out in my shop.”

“I have some friends here from Florida who want to meet you.”

My mind started racing over my last trip to Florida and what I must have done to make someone track me down. Maybe I laid down a cheap tip at a restaurant. The waitress’s boyfriend is ticked. I wondered if maybe I ran over someone’s mailbox last time I was in Tallahassee. They caught my license plate on camera.

I couldn’t make sense of why someone would specifically want to make time to meet me. I’ve never had this request before.

“Really,” I said. “Uh, okay. I . . . uh, I . . . wha . . . are they . . . can you, uh . . . sure.”

She explained. “I know,” she said. “They’re not axe murderers. Last time Jimmy and I were down there, we gave them a copy of your book. They’re dying to meet you.”

It’s hard to be almost famous. Especially when you have no idea what you’re doing. Truly famous people have agents to guide them. They have aides to help them remember when and where they are supposed to be for the next interview, or meet and greet, or promotional appearance.

I’ve got bup-kuss. Nada. No agent. No personal assistant. I’m treading on new territory.

I can only imagine what this interview might be like. Go with me on this.

Let’s say my guest interviewer from Florida is named Bob. His real name is Dan, but I like Bob better. And let’s say my name is Alf, which is short for “Almost Famous.” Hey, as long as we’re making stuff up, I can be anybody I want.

Close your eyes. There’s a film crew in my shop. A renaissance-looking rug on my concrete floor. Lights. A mic boom overhead. Comfy chairs. A bottled water sitting on a table next to me. And lights, lots of lights.

The usual pleasantries are exchanged, but then the real conversation begins.

Bob: What’s it like to write one of your stories?

Alf: Like sitting in the dentist’s chair waiting for the novocaine to take effect.

Bob: How do you come up with your ideas for your stories? They really speak to your fans.

Alf: I sit for hours in front of the computer screen until my legs go numb and I start to drool. Then I watch mindless videos on my phone. I straighten up the room. Take out the trash. Come back to the laptop. I stare at my coffee cup and go take a pee break. Pee breaks help the creative flow.

Bob: No, really. Where do the stories come from?

Alf: I have a coffee cup that says, “Be Careful or You’ll End Up in My Book.”

Bob: Some of your readers are asking if all your stories are true and if so, how do you recall so much detail in your descriptions of people and places?

Alf: They’re mostly true.

Bob: But the details?

Alf: I have eyes and I pay attention.

Bob: How so?

Alf: You ride through town and look out the window and you see a man. That’s it. I ride through town and see an old man with a long beard, wearing a straw hat and leaning against a post on the front porch, smoking his pipe.

Bob: Wow. How’d you just do that?

Alf: I took a pee break.

Bob: You got any advice for aspiring writers out there?

Alf: Keep writing. You’re already ahead of the ones who never start.

Bob: What are you most proud of in your writing?

Alf: I can spell novocaine correctly two out of five attempts, and my grammar is getting more gooder all the time.

Bob: Your notoriety is growing. Have you thought about starting up a fan club?

Alf: I already have a fan and air conditioning if I need it.

Bob: Seriously, you must run into fans of yours all the time.

Alf: I did have a lady knock on my truck window in the Ingles parking lot one time.

Bob: Surely that’s not all?

Alf: Well, a few weeks ago I met a lady who found out I used to work at Callaway Gardens. You got a minute?

Bob: My time is yours.

Alf: Anyway. She is a retired schoolteacher. She told me that she taught a boy once whose dad worked in horticulture at Callaway and that he lived down in the valley somewhere. He’s written a book. My sister gave me a copy. I can’t think of his name but since you worked at Callaway, you might know him. I told her, “That’s me.”

Bob: I bet she was thrilled. What did she say?

Alf: Her exact words, “Hmm. You’re shorter than I imagined.”

Bob: No!

Alf: No. I made that up. It makes a better story.

The interview ended abruptly when the guy holding the mic boom fell asleep and hit Bob on the head.

I’m really surprised by the responses I get from these little bits that I write. I have no illusions of fame or fortune. By the end of the year, I may have enough royalty money from book sales to buy a new coffee pot. So, why in the world would somebody from Florida want to meet me.

My shop is walking distance from Jean’s house. Through the window I saw a couple coming down my driveway. I stepped outside to greet and invite them inside. I’m covered in sawdust. He’s carrying a copy of Have Mercy. They both appear to be about my age, maybe a little older.

“I’m so glad to finally meet you,” he said. “I have so enjoyed your stories.”

Dan and Robin were super nice folks. I asked if he had the first book and he said he didn’t know there was a first book. I asked him if he was reading my blog. He said he didn’t know I had a blog.

My marketing team is letting me down.

I invited them to follow me down to the house. They were reluctant to take up too much of my time.

“I’m retired. All I have is time. I’m gonna give you a copy of the first book.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. I want to. You came all the way from Florida. The least I can do is give you a book.”

Turns out that Dan spent the last 10 years of his working career as a hospital chaplain. He and Robin are still involved in grief recovery work.

“We’ve used your stories in our conversations with people who needed to hear what your experience was like. It lets them know they’re not crazy.”

They even prayed with me on my porch steps before they left.

I guess being almost famous is not so bad.