Last Tuesday, I attended the Authors Dinner at the Old Europe restaurant in Washington, D.C. I was one of more than fifty authors in attendance, ranging from the famous to the unknown. I’ve been participating in the event for more years than I can remember, but it hasn’t been held for the last year because of the pandemic lockdown. It was good to see again people I’ve known more than half my life but only see once a year.
Getting there and back from Columbia, Maryland (where I live) was more than a nuisance. It took me more than an hour to get to the restaurant, driving, as I was, at the height of the rush hour. And the drive home was almost as long. I’m getting to the age where a long drive—especially in rush hour traffic or in the dark—is a real nuisance.
But I’ll probably keep attending the annual Authors Dinner for as long as I am able. There’s nothing quite like being in a room full of people who understand the difficulties of translating thoughts into words and transcribing them onto paper. These folks are my fellow crusaders.