Next?

I read a book each day, again, an old habit made new by a temporary easing of corporate responsibilities.  I search for the what next of my own career.  What genre?  What purpose?  What mood?  Is there a story left that I wish to tell?  Will the story somehow find me?

A few weeks ago, following a Fox Cities Book Festival school assembly, a young Wisconsin boy stood last in a long line, waiting patiently to speak with me.  When it was his turn, he slipped a bookmark into my hand.  I read the words he had written on its back.  They described a young man in a heartrending situation.  His final written words, Would you write this story for me?

Is this your story? I asked him, and the boy nodded yes.


It sounds like a very hard story.

He nodded again.

A story that needs telling.

He nodded again, then looked up at me with large and too dark eyes.

I've been haunted since.