There’s a particular kind of conversation that only seems to happen after you’ve written a book. Not during interviews. Not in those polite, well-lit moments where someone asks, “So what’s it about?” and you give the version you’ve rehearsed in the mirror.

I’m talking about the real conversations—the ones that happen over sips of coffee that’s gone lukewarm because you forgot to drink it. The kind where the cup stays in your hand longer than it needs to, mostly because it gives you something to do while you think about how to answer the question you weren’t expecting.

Those conversations always start innocently enough. A comment about the writing process. A question about how long it took. Maybe a confession from the other person: I’ve always thought about writing something myself. That’s usually the moment when the conversation quietly changes lanes.

Suddenly, you’re not talking about the book anymore. You’re talking about word-smithing—about how one sentence can keep you up at night, how you’ll fight with a paragraph for days, only to realize it was fine before you messed with it. You talk about spinning stories out of everyday life: family gatherings, neighborhood characters, community legends, and those road trips where nothing “happens,” yet somehow everything does.

Food comes up. It always does. Because food has a way of sneaking into stories whether you invite it or not. Someone mentions a meal their grandmother used to make, and suddenly you’re not in a coffee shop anymore—you’re in a kitchen from another decade, listening to a radio in the background and waiting for something to finish cooking. You both nod, because you know exactly what that means.

What makes these conversations so refreshing is talking with someone who has either already traveled that road or is standing at the edge of it, peering over, wondering if they’re brave—or foolish—enough to start. There’s no need to explain the obsession. They understand why you’d spend hours chasing a memory from thirty years ago just to get it right on the page.

And somewhere between the second cup of coffee and a story about a long drive through nowhere in particular, it dawns on you: talking about writing stories has become part of the story itself. The conversation is doing the same thing the writing does—connecting moments, sharing memories, and making sense of the past one detail at a time.

I used to think the book was the destination. Now I’m not so sure. These conversations feel like an extension of the journey—proof that stories don’t stop when the writing ends. They just change form. They show up in laughter, in shared nostalgia, in knowing looks exchanged over coffee that’s probably gone cold again.

And honestly, that might be the best part of all.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.