I STOOD BEFORE the friends of the library, a lovely little lady in a purple dress asked me a question that hit me right between the eyes.

“What have you done for most of life?” she asked.

My mind immediately began to sort through the years.

I had a job, more than one.

I earned a paycheck, some larger than others.

But nobody cared.

Then it struck me.

I had thought for a long time I was a writer.

Maybe I am.

Maybe I’m not.

That has been debated from time to time.

I’ve written for newspapers.

And I’ve interviewed:

Mayors.

Winos.

Bums.

Rodeo riders.

Murderers.

Grieving widows.

Gunshot victims.

Policemen.

POWs.

And Presidents.

I’ve written for magazines.

And I’ve interviewed:

The oldest men I could find whittling and whistling on a courthouse lawn in small town America.

Politicians.

Hot Rod drivers.

Environmentalists.

Movie stars.

Country musicians.

TV evangelists.

Radio pitchmen.

And ghost hunters.

I’ve written nonfiction books.

And I’ve interviewed:

Old time cowboys.

Oilmen.

Chefs.

Actors.

Helicopter pilots.

Native Americans.

Texas Rangers.

And prospectors.

I stole their memories.

I told their stories.

But did I know any of them?

No.

I didn’t until I sat down with them for the first time.

And mostly that was the last time I ever saw them.

I wrote about them, so I guess I’m a writer.

But that’s not what I’ve done for most of my life.

I answered the lady in the purple dress with one simple truth.

“My job is simple to define,” I said.

“I go where I’ve never been before.

“I go where I’ll never be again.

“And when I get there, I have one assignment.

“I talk to strangers.”