No friend of the novel

My friend Larry here in Wyoming is Wyoming born and bred, which means he's his own man, an independent thinker who votes Republican and thinks the Prezedint (thanks Ezra Pound) is doing a 'fine job.' Larry has no persona, he's himself  through and through. Larry's like this: he really doesn't like wine, so he took a six-pack of Budweiser to a fancy wine-tasting recently, laughing, "I'll never be invited back," not that he cares. Larry's not caring is one of the reasons, if not the reason, we're friends.

Larry knows that I write and that I publish books. He doesn't much care about books but is enough of a friend to take at least a little interest in what I'm up to. When he asks, I tell Larry that I'm up to a writing project of my own here in Wyoming (a novel about a man who tries to write a novel on a typewriter) and that as President of IF SF Publications I'm pleased to announce the publication of two recent titles, (Dawn McGuire's book of poems, American Dream with Exit Wound, and Renate Stendhal's memoir, Kiss Me Again, Paris.)

Larry and I then enjoy a little conversation about who reads what and why. Larry only reads the local newspapers, The Powell Tribune and The Cody Enterprise.

"Gloria reads novels," Larry said. Gloria is Larry's wife, an accomplished woman in her own way, as Larry is in his, but in a vastly different way. Novels hold no interest for Larry. "I don't read novels, why would I want to read about something that never happened."

I, writer and publisher, said, "Larry, will you please say that again. It's so good I want to write every word of it down, so that it will never be forgotten."

"I don't read novels, why would I want to read about something that never happened," Larry said again.