I’ve often written about how the University of Arizona’s Creative Writing program remains steadfastly focused on Literary Fiction as opposed to, horror of horrors, Genre Fiction. So during the of 2014, I offered a two-week long Genre Fiction workshop, sponsored by the U of A Library’s Special Collections.
One of the attendees. Ricardo, was someone I’d met briefly once before. He was a vet, back from doing tours of duty in the Middle East, and he was clearly using writing as a way of processing some of his difficult experiences.
Occasionally someone I’ve never met will send me an email blast offering to provide “content” for my blog—for a price, of course. I’ve never bitten on one of those offers.
This week, however, I heard from Ricardo again, and, with his permission, I’m sending along what he wrote:
Journal Entry: How I Accidentally Met J.A. Jance
The truth is, I had no idea who J.A. Jance was when I won that raffle. The University of Arizona Alumni Association called to say I’d won lunch with a bestselling author, and I nodded politely, trying to sound excited—then immediately turned to my girlfriend like, “Who the hell is J.A. Jance?”
We raced to the bookstore that day, grabbed a handful of her novels off the shelf, and started skimming. “She’s kind of a big deal,” my girlfriend whispered. I felt like I was cramming for a pop quiz in a class I hadn’t signed up for.
When the lunch came around, I walked in nervous but curious. J.A. Jance had that presence—sharp, calm, a storyteller even in silence. She looked me dead in the eye and asked, “So, you’re a fan of my books, huh?”
I was trapped. I could have lied, but something in me said don’t.“
No, actually,” I said. “I didn’t even know who you were until I found out I won. Then we went to the bookstore. I’m sorry.”
She laughed.
And just like that, the pressure dissolved. She could just be herself. I could be myself. No bullshit. No fanfare. Just two people from the desert, sitting down to share a meal.
That honesty set the tone for everything that came after. I gave her a tour of the Veterans Memorial project I had poured my soul into. She saw it—not just the site, but the meaning behind it. She wrote about me on her blog afterward. Not as a raffle winner. Not as a fan. But as a fellow human being trying to make sense of the world through service, scars, and story.
Over the years, we’ve stayed in touch. Quietly. Kindly. I send her my work now—essays, op-eds, ideas set on fire—and she sends back brief, powerful notes that say more than paragraphs ever could. She recently told me that the fiction writing workshop I took didn’t make me a fiction writer, “but it was a small first step on the way to where you are now.”
She’s right.
Meeting J.A. Jance wasn’t some cosmic literary fate. It was awkward, honest, and absolutely perfect. I’m better for it. She’s a friend now. A quiet mentor. Proof that you don’t have to pretend to be anyone else to find your people. You just have to show up and tell the truth.
Even if that truth is: “Sorry, I just Googled you yesterday.”
—R.P.