The Writers Group: Stepping Stone to Best-Selling Success

Posted on by Fatima Fakier

Every ambitious writer has joined one: the writers’ group. That gathering of wannabes and bibliophiles , who keep you grounded and honest as a future bestselling author. And by that I mean they tear apart your clichés, and reprimand you for your poor ability to Show, Don’t Tell.

What is a writers’ group?

It’s tough to take criticism, but it’s absolutely necessary for your growth as a writer. I learned so much from my online writers’ group that I made learning the craft a priority since then. A lot of my poor writing was due to inexperience, both in writing and in life. To write stories that people can connect with and remember is to create an experience. That requires a certain level of your own life experience through the ups and downs. While good research can help you recreate the act of firing a gun for your character, even though you may never have held an actual Glock, you cannot do the same with emotions.

At the heart of every good story with 5-star Amazon and Goodreads reviews, is the author’s ability to make the reader feel something. I highly recommend joining a writers’ group at least once in your career even if you are already an accomplished writer. It’s a valuable feedback loop that can refresh your skills and push you out of a tiresome rut. Your readers will thank you for it. What’s more, you an also proffer your advice and critique to the next generation of up-and-coming writers.

Writer’s Group Alumni

I sometimes wonder if any of my fellow writers in that group ever made it to the big-time. It’s not as rare as one might think. I have joined two writers groups in my time. The first was purely critique and feedback purposes. The second was a lively bunch of writers who gathered every week to hash out 100 word stories based on an image prompt: the Friday Fictioneers. Louise Jensen, a regular contributor in our flash fiction group, went on to become a worldwide best-selling thriller author. Group leader, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields has released a trilogy recounting a rabbi’s daughter Havah’s survival of the Eastern European pogroms and her journey to the United States.

I joined the online writers group some years back. Lord knows how I found it. It was over ten years ago and I barely remember how the internet functioned back then. In my story chapter below, my character switched on her computer to read her messages. I was a late-adopter to the smartphone but even that struck me as weird. Yet, that is how we once communicated and we lived to tell the tale.

We submitted our stories via email and critiques would follow in an email thread. Pretty nifty for the time. My story was an untitled work. It also had no genre. Clearly, I had no idea what I was doing. Along the way, the others suggested it should be classified as romance. I disagreed – but what did I know? Reading it now, I can see the romantic themes that could work well in a romance novel. Or perhaps a thriller with a romantic-interest at the center of the plot.

The critique I’m sharing is from a woman who did not hold back her punches (she would kill me for that cliché). I picture her with a bespectacled pinched face, her knitting and token writer’s cat beside her. It is due to her that I learned the life-and-death importance of Show, Don’t Frikkin Tell. I owe her this. Her name was Fran.

My submission: Chapter 4 of the Untitled, Genre-less novel

Traffic was always a nightmare on the way home from work. Streams of cars crawled out of the city’s CBD in all directions. Pedestrians running for the next train hampered traffic flow as they crossed the intersection long after the walk sign disappeared. I didn’t bang my fists on the hooter like the other drivers. I sighed, rested my arm on the window and lay my head in my hand. It was like this every weekday and losing my temper didn’t seem worth it.

As I rested my head in my hand tilting it upwards, I noticed the sun was still shining and the air was still. No wind. Perfect for a run on the beach. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to get home and put on my running shoes. I pressed on my hooter as hard as I could. People carried on walking in front of my car. I revved my engine and that seemed to do the trick. I maneuvered my Toyota Prius through the gap in the crowd and drove through the intersection just as the traffic lights turned amber. Once I was out of the city, traffic flowed like water downstream. The concrete buildings turned to mountains and  ocean. Fumes and smog turned to salty sea air as I drew closer to the seaside suburb where I lived. It was a long commute to work but I couldn’t live anywhere else. I looked out my window at the indigo ocean lolling back and forth beneath the railroad tracks that ran along its coast. The tar road ran parallel to the railway track by the foot of the small mountain. Cobbled-stone paths winded between houses towards the beachfront. How could anyone leave this place after seeing that?

When I reached home I burst through the front door and sped to my bedroom wardrobe. I laced up my running shoes and bolted out the door slamming it shut. I jogged at a fast pace toward the beach. By the time I reached there I had a rhythm going and the previous night’s worries wormed their way into my mind once again. 

Had Adam opened his inbox yet? I pulled a face imagining Adam laughing at my poor attempt to sound like an old friend who just wanted to catch up. Probably pitying me for misinterpreting his friendliness in the supermarket for a love interest. Maybe his reply would be straightforward, Sorry I didn’t mean to lead you on, but I’m just not interested in you that way. I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to meet. Or he’ll decide to completely sidestep the issue, Hi Ruby. I don’t live in town anymore. Just happened to be there that day though I don’t come by often. Next time I’m there, though I’m not sure when, we could meet up. Or worse, he wouldn’t reply at all. My feet pounded the pavement on the beachfront. I gulped short gasps of air. If he didn’t care for a second encounter I guess it’d be alright. My heart sank as I contemplated that possibility. 

Then it rose into my chest again as I considered the chance that he might accept my invitation. I’d finally get to know him better. Butterflies fluttered around my heart closing in on it. I wondered if that was dangerous considering I was almost sprinting now. I imagined us meeting in a coffee shop out of town. Away from knowing eyes.

I slowed to an easy jogging pace and decided to end my exercise run early. I turned around and headed back home. The sea was like a painting. The sun still shone a bright yellow but it no longer looked inviting. It burned my face while I jogged.

After downing some orange juice I sat by the computer chewing my lips through its start up. I logged on to FriendsList. There was one unread message. From him. Taking a deep breath, I clicked on the message. 

Hey Ruby

How are you? Yeah it’s always great to see an old friend. Meeting up would be nice. How about Izzy’s at the beach?

Adam

He wants to meet up again! ‘Old friend’. It’s weird that he’d use such a term since we hardly spoke in high school. I smiled hoping it indicated he was also interested in something more than friendship. Then I looked away from the screen and chewed on my thumbnail. If I were to go and see him, there’d be no going back. I stared at the wall above the computer. Even if nothing more were to happen, it might already be too late. I may already be in love with him. And Adam might not feel the same way. I raked my fingers through my hair. 

Then I pictured his warm brown eyes. I imagined touching his hair, his soft curls clinging to my fingers. I remembered him in the supermarket, walking away past the cans of tomato soup. I thought of Ms. Emran and her philosophy on destiny. Hitting the reply button, I typed:

I’m doing great! There’s this great coffee shop in Kensington called Bean’s. I love it and I’m sure you will too. What do you say?

Kensington was miles away from where we lived and worked. It was my best bet.

The Critique: Flustered and Frustrated Fran

Hi Fatima, I’ve read it and even made a few correction marks but I’m feeling a little flustered now so I’m going to try and talk about the chapter rather than nitpick.

It’s a bridging passage between events, always a difficult thing to write. You do rely heavily on description, but it’s mostly telling description, not showing description. It’s my belief that “showing” description is superior to telling. Let me give you an example.

Telling:

Traffic was always a nightmare on the way home from work. Streams of cars crawled out of the city’s CBD in all directions. Pedestrians running for the next train hampered traffic flow as they crossed the intersection long after the walk sign disappeared. I didn’t bang my fists on the hooter like the other drivers.
Every one of these sentences is telling.

Showing:

The long city boulevards were choked with cars. Afternoon sunlight reflected off windscreens and chrome bumpers. At the intersection lamps glowed dully. Don’t Walk. Don’t Walk. Pedestrians ran across the street. From the station came the choked trumpet blast of a train horn. The summer sun beat down on my head as I rested it on my hands on the steering wheel. Life was pointless.

I marked a lot of your description as poor: Traffic flowed like water downstream. That’s clichéd, also redundant (water never flows upstream), also a simile – describe what is, not what isn’t.

I rested my head in my hand tilting it upwards. Whatever that means. Poor description, I can’t visualize it.

Toyota Prius TM. You could just say “car.”

The indigo ocean lolling back and forth beneath the railroad tracks that ran along it’s coast? You can do better than this. See if you can find a photo of the place you are thinking of, post it on flickr and ask the group to describe it for you. See what you get. Indigo ocean lolling indeed!

winded – should be wound.

…he wouldn’t reply at all. [new paragraph] My feet pouded… I’m guessing you should keep her thoughts about what he will do in one paragraph, and descriptions of her physical actions in another. It’s not a hard and fast rule, I guess?

The sea was like a painting. *doe eyes* Please. Just. Don’t. Oh, all right, um, first of all it’s not a description – you never say what the sea actually looks like. Leonado’s Mona Lisa, perhaps. Secondly it’s a cliché “pretty as a picture” etc, thirdly it’s a simile – describe what is, not what isn’t, fourthly there are so many ways that the sea is NOT like a picture it’s not funny. The sea is wet, a painting is dry. etc, etc, etc.

I’d guess if you’re feeling stuck with this it’s mostly because you don’t know where you’re going. Functionally this chapter works. It gets your character from point A to point B. The next scene should be at the coffee shop, or perhaps you’ll introduce something from Evan in between. Anyway this WORKS.

If you’re having trouble it may be because you don’t know what story you want to tell here. Is it a romance? Is it a serial killer story or a time travel romance? Or a vampire story. At the moment we don’t know and I’m hazarding a guess you might not either.

What I like to do when I get stuck like that is get a good friend in online chat and talk through the problem. Talk about who your characters are, what they want, what will happen to them, until you find the knowledge and motivation to get to work on the next scene. I find interactive chat with another mind helps me to find the ideas and direction I need.

You could also post this sort of thing on the list and ask for help with it, but I find that less helpful, personally. Also, we’re your audience and your proofreaders. Our first impressions should be precious to you. Discussing future events and options in the list may damage our ability to give you a real genuine first impression of your story. That damages your ability to fine tune your writing for your readers. Most readers will read your work only once – most readings are a first readings. You have to tune your work to the first impression.

Hope this helps,

-extracted from email

It’s not easy. But it is worth it.

Get valuable life-changing critique on your best work. Join a writer’s group from the comfort of your own home. Check out any of these links below to get started.

  1. Scribophile
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  3. Writer’s Cafe

Not finding Joy in life: Trust might be your key to unlocking joy

Posted on by Fatima Fakier

‍Image Source: AI Generated

‍When I was younger, naïve, and inexperienced to the pain life throws at you, finding joy in life was simple. I felt I enjoyed life at a deeper level, with every sense and fiber of my being. This simplicity and ease of melting into joy somehow diminished with age into my late twenties and well into my thirties.

The idea of not finding joy in life, never crossed my mind. One day joy was easily found in a cup of weak, horrid university cafeteria coffee, warming cold hands while having a laugh with a friend as we waited in the rain for the shuttle to take us to the train station. It was listening to pigeons roosting under the eaves near my bedroom window. Joy was something I came to expect from my favourite music, movies, people, and hobbies. Then one day, it was not as reliable anymore. No longer to be found in all the old familiar places, now abandoned. Was it just one of those things that happens when one matures and leaves behind the naivety of youth, joy diminishing with every milestone of disappointment and heartbreak? Was it lost in the exchange when we traded the magic of childhood for the drudgery of mortgages? Or was there something I was missing? A key to finding joy in life that I misplaced along the way.

The young, naive, and the inexperienced place their trust in anything without question. I definitely trusted more. I trusted people. I trusted life. I trusted myself. Then people hurt me. Life cut me. My mistakes haunted me. And I lost faith in others, in life, and in myself. I enjoyed life less as a result.

There is a connection between trust and the depth of joy you experience. When you trust you are free of fearful thoughts. You let go of expectations. Your heart is open to whatever lies ahead.

Trusting ourselves – Authenticity

When we trust ourselves we make decisions that are more authentic to us. Un-swayed by the opinions of others. Authentic decisions lead to authentic lives, rich with meaning. We are more willing to take on risks for something that will add to our treasure trove of experiences. We try new things and learn and grow with each undertaking.

Trusting others – Vulnerability

Interacting with other people, without questioning their motives or hidden agendas, gives us the space to be vulnerable with them. Showing them the parts of us that take courage to lay bare, that when acknowledged by another allows us to feel seen and heard for who we truly are. We feel closer to that person. They stand out amongst the billions of other humans, as someone of significance and importance to us. And when we acknowledge them, a bond is formed, based on a belief and sense that the other person gets us because we felt seen by them.

Such bonds form relationships that are key to human survival and thriving. We are, even the most introverted among us, social creatures in need of other people. Lasting relationships offer us the most comfort and meaning that enriches our lives. This all begins with a sprinkle of faith and a little trust.

Trusting life – Curiosity

Letting go of fear invites curiosity. Yet we would be foolish to be completely trusting after all experience has taught us. From grazed knees on first bicycle rides, to burnt fingertips when learning to cook, we learn from the experience allowing it to enrich us.

Not restrict us.


If we let our negative experiences enrich us, give depth to our perspective, we continue to maintain a sense of curiosity and continue to experiment until we get it right. If we allow negative experiences to control our view and take over the narrative, we give in to our fears and kill whatever curiosity we may have. Without a desire to try, an urge to see, to find out, we simply go through the motions of life. Robots mimicking human expression, we lose out on finding the joy curiosity invites into our lives.

Curiosity enables us to embrace uncertainty without us even realising we are doing so. We are less conscious of our fears and all the worst case scenarios and approach life with a sense of wonder.

What would be your honest experience of life?

All the things that give us true joy, a feeling of richness and meaning, only come about through honesty. When we click with the right people it brings joy because we didn’t have to force it or fake it. When we get lost in the pleasure derived from activities we love, its because we are flowing from a feeling of joy of connecting to something true within us. The truth that we enjoy this hobby even if it is dorky or weird or cheap or expensive. If joy comes about through an honest experience of this world, then trust is the key, creating a sense of safety to be more open and honest. Unlocking the joy to life.

Some. One.

Posted on by Fatima Fakier

“Right now there are Tibetan Buddhist monks in a temple in the Himalayas endlessly reciting mantras for the cessation of your suffering and for the flourishing of your happiness.

Someone you haven’t met yet is already dreaming of adoring you.

Someone is writing a book that you will read in the next two years that will change how you look at life.

Nuns in the Alps are in endless vigil, praying for the Holy Spirit to alight the hearts of all of God’s children.

A farmer is looking at his organic crops and whispering, “nourish them.”

Someone wants to kiss you, to hold you, to make tea for you.

Someone is willing to lend you money, wants to know what your favorite food is, and treat you to a movie.
Someone in your orbit has something immensely valuable to give you — for free.

Something is being invented this year that will change how your generation lives, communicates, heals and passes on.

The next great song is being rehearsed.

Thousands of people are in yoga classes right now intentionally sending light out from their heart chakras and wrapping it around the earth.

Millions of children are assuming that everything is amazing and will always be that way.

Someone is in profound pain, and a few months from now, they’ll be thriving like never before. From where they are, they just can’t see it.

Someone who is craving to be partnered, to be acknowledged, to arrive, will get precisely what they want — and even more. And because that gift will be so fantastical in it’s reach and sweetness, it will quite magically alter their memory of angsty longing and render it all “So worth the wait.”

Someone has recently cracked open their joyous, genuine nature because they did the hard work of hauling years of oppression off of their psyche — this luminous juju is floating in the ether, and is accessible to you.

Someone, just this second wished for world peace, in earnest.

Some civil servant is making sure that you get your mail, and your garbage is picked up, that the trains are running on time, and that you are generally safe.

Someone is dedicating their days to protecting your civil liberties and clean drinking water.

Someone is regaining their sanity.
Someone is coming back from the dead.
Someone is genuinely forgiving the seemingly unforgivable.
Someone is curing the incurable.

You. Me. Some. One. Now.”

-Danielle LaPorte via Mary Standing Otter

I thought I’d share Mary Standing Otter’s poem. It is so full of life, riddled with ubiquitous activities that turn delightfully meaningful as one realises this is life itself unfolding, through our connection with one another.

The baby box

Posted on by Fatima Fakier

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Bells chimed in the hallway. Doris waited a few seconds to give the bell-ringer time to leave. Or change their mind. Then she went downstairs, taking care with each step not to make a noise.

Doris heard the soft rustling of wool against cardboard. That alone told her she’d find a note with the baby that was gently waving limbs about, upsetting the carefully wrapped blankets. A mother’s last act of love in her desperation: “Please take care of my baby. His name is Edwin.”

It was seldom longer than that. A wet spot stained the note – tearful kiss.

99 words

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. The challenge is to write a story in 100 words or less. Click the frog to submit your flash fiction and join the Fictioneers!

So where do you see yourself in thirty years time?

Posted on by Fatima Fakier

PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford

He noticed the man randomly opening books and scribbling inside them.

He detached from his nook behind the cash register and made a beeline for the aged vandal. Well, as much of a beeline as one could make weaving in between book aisles. “Hey you! Stop that at once! Or… I’ll call the police!” Would the police actually come, he wondered.

The man flashed a mischievous smile and darted out of the store. Someone said, “Was that Ben Khalid, the famous author?” Plucking a book from the shelf, he opened it to reveal the unmistakable autograph of the eccentric author.

100 words

This is like a flash fiction version of a meme.

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less, and click the frog to submit your flash fiction. Join our group of tea-drinking (coffee for me please) cat-loving group of writers!

Click to submit!

Out of ink

Posted on by Fatima Fakier

PHOTO PROMPT @ Jan Wayne Fields

It was pinched between a bank statement and a courier bill. Amy didn’t know why she noticed the envelope. She had been looking for a pen. Except she did notice it. When she shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t even be reaching for it and reading the sender’s address as she was now – attorneys. She googled them. Specialising in divorce. The walls of her dad’s office spun around her, making her feel woozy like the time she first smoked weed. Except that was way better. She tore it up and threw it in the bin. Hoping, that was the end of that.

99 words

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Click the frog to submit your flash fiction and connect with other writers there too!

CLICK ME!

Meet-cute

Posted on by Fatima Fakier

PHOTO PROMPT © Trish Nankivell

“I’m pretty sure it is missing some words.” Jaleel scratched his head.

“Kind of a funny place to put a sign.” Jabu kicked at the grainy dirt at his bare feet. “You think Big Jack put it there?” He asked Jaleel. They eyed the shack at the edge of the bare patch of land where they had spent hours catching lizards and playing cricket. Until Big Jack moved in.

A skinny, weather-beaten man leaped out from his new dwelling and the children scattered as he yelled after them, “Get outta here! Can’t you read the sign? Be Gone!”

98 words

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Click the frog to submit your flash fiction and read what other’s have written too!

I pictured this being the meet-cute between two young boys and a homeless man with whom they form a friendship later in their story.

PS I arrived late to the party and have joined Instagram! If you’re on it too, then find me @fatimafakierwrites and let’s connect and troll each other 😉

***Last FF for the year!***

The rose garden

Posted on by Fatima Fakier

PHOTO PROMPT © Sarah Potter

They were in full bloom now. Red. Pink. White. Yellow roses had been Anna-May’s favourite. A bouquet of fresh buttery roses always cheered her up. Especially after they argued. Shame flushed through him as he remembered. Raised fists. Hurt and anger. Sobering shame. She always forgave him. Until that day her skull cracked. He had wiped the kitchen wall clean of her blood and his tears and got the shovel from her garden shed. He glanced at the ground beneath the rose bushes. Now Anna-May would always have her yellow roses near her. And she would always be his.

99 words

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. The Challenge is to write a story in 100 words or less. Submit your flash fiction to the frog link below and read what other’s have written too. Thanks to Sarah Potter for her photo prompt contribution.

Book review: The Book of Two Ways by Jodi Picoult

Posted on by Fatima Fakier

I was always afraid to read Jodi Picoult’s books. Thanks to an Oprah’s Book Club review and interview with Picoult of My Sister’s Keeper, giving me the impression that I would never emotionally recover from her stories. I mean, if Oprah was scarred or had some deep wound brutally ripped open, I didn’t think I’d stand a chance.

Fast forward to social distancing and quarantine days and TBR lists pile up like we’re in a pandemic or something.

The Book of Two Ways was not in any way a book of trauma as it was food for thought in that most delicious, lingering way after you clicked to the last page on your kindle.

The story

Dawn is a death doula, someone who helps people transition through death. It is a thing apparently, though as one can imagine it doesn’t pay grandly. She is supported by her science professor husband whom she met at a hospice by a twist of fate, when both her mother and his grandmother were on their deathbeds.

Dawn had been a budding Egyptologist before she met Brian and had a daughter, Meret, with him. She had also been in love with someone else, someone she sees flashing before her eyes when she thinks she is about to die in a plane crash.

An urge to return to a turning point in her life overwhelms her as questions nag and haunt her. What if I had made different choices? What person would I have been? Had I made a mistake?

Themes, characters and drawbacks

Questions like these will prompt readers into a one-click ebook purchase. Especially since we’re spending more time online these days.

This kicks off the story as we follow her in two different timelines or parallel universes. As a child I dreamed of being an archaeologist, imagining myself at the tombs of Egypt or somewhere else equally mesmerising and steeped in history. Consider this a fair warning: the novel doesn’t hold back on academic information and there were moments I skipped ahead the textbook details to get to the story-line. It just felt like too much information to dig through.

Besides Egyptology the story is rooted in themes of Quantum Physics, parallel universes, and the afterlife, playing scientific concepts against art and spirituality like an ideological ping pong match. Perhaps in some parallel universe another me is happily spending days under the Egyptian sun uncovering hidden artefacts.

Beneath all of these, is a unifying theme of love. Is it a choice or a feeling?

Plot and prose

Picoult spins prose so beautiful I regret not picking up her books earlier. Her words are raw and cut to nerve and bone. Like philosophical non-poetry, you repeat certain phrases now and then to feel it and let its wisdom and beauty sink into you.

I quote Brian’s character, “…Say you’re a passenger on a plane whose engines fail and you’re about to crash and die, should you take solace in the fact that there are other versions of you out there somewhere, that will live on? Or the inverse: should you feel worse knowing that there’s a version of you whose life is a disaster – a you that flunked out of school or became a criminal or got bitterly dumped and divorced…”

Why have I not ever considered that in another universe I didn’t turn out to be a homeless, rum-addicted pirate holed up in a cave on some God-knows-where deserted island? What makes us choose to mourn the lost opportunities and not rejoice in the disasters we possibly avoided?

When she writes about the mysteries of life that we never seem to have the answers to, she evokes a sense of wonder at how big, bright and brilliant the universe really is.

Dawn can easily be seen as a saint because of her dedication to her clients, though she’ll be first to admit that she isn’t. She does things that I don’t like, but on the whole she is just doing her best with the curve balls pitched her way, in a world without answers.

The plot leans by the tiniest degree towards literary style. It’s not fast-cars-space-monkeys-alien-murders action. It isn’t quite women’s fiction either. The entire story gave me the impression of abstract art, a painting of human life and love. Just like the story one of Dawn’s clients, Win related to her of performing artists Ulay and Abramovic whose works are entrenched in the idea of life reflecting art and art reflecting life, Picoult cunningly does the same.

Why you should read it

The Book of Two Ways will stir deep questions you knew you always had but were too afraid to acknowledge. And like all good art, it invites you in as a participant to find your own answers to those mysteries of Life.

Mad tales

Posted on by Fatima Fakier

PHOTO PROMPT © CEAyr

He glimpsed the man emerging from the alley. That insufferable man. The last time he endured his company he was assaulted with tales of time travel. Utter nonsense. His stash of cocaine had mysteriously disappeared too. Intolerable!


It was too late to get away, the man was upon him.

“Well, would you look at this? Sherlock Holmes! Is that you?! Boy, am I glad to see you.” said the approaching man.


“Emmet.” Holmes nodded curtly. “Back from 1985, I presume.”


“Not quite. Try 2020. I’ll tell you all about it over a finger of whisky. What do you say?”

99 words

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Click the frog to JOIN and submit your flash fiction and read what others have written.

I am so glad to be back and writing flash fiction after such a long while. Thanks to C E Ayr for this wonderful photo. I swear I saw this exact same side street in London years ago, but then again there must be hundreds of them.

Can you believe I only watched Back to The Future this year for the first time? I love movies, but somehow couldn’t get into this story. Until lockdowns became a thing and we all started trying new activities / hobbies.

Hope you enjoyed this encounter of two unique characters. I would love to listen in on this conversation, wouldn’t you?