By Larry Perth

Is Writing magazine thinking of expanding its target audience to the elderly? Rumors are flying all over the publishing world. Is it possible that Weekly Reader sees a need for writing instruction among America's greatest generation? I'm here to set the record straight.

When I first heard the curious buzz, I was sitting quietly in a park in Stamford. I was tearing through the pages of Gregory Maguire's masterpiece Wicked. (When I say "tearing through", I mean of course that I was reading hungrily, voraciously, as if my eyes couldn't take the words in fast enough... not that I was weeping or, God forbid, actually ripping up the pages.) Two old ladies were approaching me at a snail's pace. I noticed them reluctantly, as I was deeply immersed in the evil doings of the Wicked Witch of the West, and was more than a tad bit vexed. But how could one not call attention to bright fluorescent orange matching suede pants?

They were just out among the rest of us, enjoying the prettiness of the day and taking their sweet, old time doing nothing, simply happy to be alive. In my mind, I forgave them for their unintentional intrusion and smiled behind my book at the peculiar way they shuffled.

Finally they reached me and I was attentive to their talk. They were speaking of writing to their grandchildren. It was sweet.

"My son says I write like an angel. When he reads my letters to Billy at night, the lad is swept away."

"I write my grandkids fairy tales. Ever since I subscribed to Writing magazine... oh my stars! It seems like I've become a regular Antoine de Saint-Exupéry!"

I couldn't believe my ears! I knew the magazine well and I was shocked to hear that anyone over the age of 17 had even heard of it, let alone subscribed to it! Even though it was not in my nature, I couldn't let the opportunity pass me by.

"Excuse me," I mentioned softly, standing up and facing them. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but did you just say that you subscribe to Writing magazine?"

"Yes, that's right handsome."

"Judy!" She hit her friend playfully with her purse and I did my best to stifle a laugh at their adorable camaraderie.

"What? He's handsome! What do you want from me?"

"Show some decorum, for Pete's sake!"

"Oh decorum de-shmor-um! You don't mind me calling you handsome, do you handsome?"

"No ma'am. And might I add that you're quite the dashing lady yourself." Suddenly, I had somehow turned into a geriatric Bogie. I even went so far as to lean in and kiss her hand! She blushed like a schoolgirl and I left them feeling wonderful.

A week or so went by and I just couldn't get the thought out of my head. I drove over to the Weekly Reader Headquarters and did a bit of investigative reporting. I had no affiliations so it took a bit of prying to get past the security guard at the front desk. He called up to the Writing editor and, to my ecstatic surprise, she was happy to see me!

She told me that she "didn't usually do this sort of thing" but that my story was "a fascinating one." I got straight to the point.

"Ms. Nankani," I said, "Is Writing magazine making plans to expand its target audience to the elderly?"

"Well, I like to think that our magazine is helpful to writers of all ages." She was tiptoeing. "Here at Writing we are constantly striving for diversity that spans racial and gender lines as well as age."

"That’s very nice," I dared to forge ahead, "but isn’t it true that you’re specifically targeting the grandmothers and grandfathers of the writing world? Is there some kind of conspiracy going on here that your middle and high school readership should know about?"

"There is no validity to that statement." Was she hiding something? I couldn't tell. I wasn't a reporter and I didn't have the gift of reading people.

"Well thank you very much for your time, Ms. Nankani."

"No problem." She shook my hand and vanished back to her office.

What did I really have to go on anyway? One passing comment in the park. What of it? I decided that I probably needed a hobby.

The elevator doors opened and a doofy looking character popped out. He was sipping a cup of coffee and looking generally scatterbrained. I'm not sure how I knew this, I just did. The fellow was not right. I took a shot.

"Excuse me?"

"Um, yes?"

"Hi, I was just wondering if you had anything to do with Writing magazine?" He stared at me momentarily, as if he was afraid to answer.

"Um, yeah, actually. How can I help you?"

"Oh, great!" I extended my hand to him. "My name is Larry Perth, I'm… well I'm nobody, actually.”

"Well, that's a little strange. I’m Bryon Cahill."

"Hi Bryon. Nice to meet you. Listen, I just spoke to Ms. Nankani. She told me that Writing is thinking of changing its target audience. She said that you're starting to forget about young adults and aiming at the elderly." I lied. I immediately felt horrible and wondered why I had done it. The lie wasn't out there long. It was instantly swallowed up by his boisterous guffaw.

"Ha! That’s a good one. She said that?"

"Well actually, no. I heard it in the park."

"Did you now?"

"Well… no, not exactly… I just happened to overhear a pair of older women say that they were subscribers."

"Well that's interesting. Hey, thanks for letting me know!" He started to walk away as he continued sipping his coffee.

"Is there any truth to it? That you're thinking of giving up on the young?" He turned and stared me down. The smoldering intensity in his eyes was almost too much to bare. What a dashing devil he was indeed!

"Don’t be stupid," he stated matter-of-factly. "We will never abandon our readers." Then he winked at me and vanished back to his office.

That night, I laid in bed thinking. I was thinking about the young and the old and everyone in-between. I was trying to figure out what had driven me to my adventures. It took a great deal of mind-bending but eventually it came to me: I wanted to be a writer. Yes! Of course! I wanted to be a writer and I was afraid that I was too old! All these years I had a secret unnamed passion and now it was so clear! I sprang out of bed and ran dizzily to my desk. I pulled out a notepad and a pen and scribbled away. I wrote and I wrote and I don’t even know if it was any good. But it was there, right in front of me, and it made me very happy.

The next morning, I mailed it to my grandmother.