Because I am never satisfied with simple… Let’s dream deeper.

Some people dream of dinner with movie stars, royalty, or long-lost relatives. Me? I want a table crowded with authors, the sort of gathering where the coffee gets cold, the candles burn low, and the food grows cold. I feel that nobody would even notice because Mark Twain has just made Edgar Allan Poe raise one eyebrow in the direction of eternity.

Imagine it if you will…. Jane Austen politely dissecting everyone’s manners while George Orwell quietly suspects the dinner menu has political motives. James Joyce would probably describe the soup in a sentence that needed its own map, while Stephen King and Dean Koontz debated whether the cellar door should stay open. Jean Auel might explain how to survive the evening with flint, fire, and excellent instincts, while Nora Roberts would somehow give everyone a backstory, a heartbreak, and a handsome resolution before dessert.

Then there would be Lewis Grizzard, likely cutting through the literary fog with a line sharp enough to make Harper Lee smile from behind her glass of sweet tea. Margaret Mitchell would bring grandeur, stubbornness, and a storm cloud of romance, while Twain sat back grinning, fully aware he had started at least three arguments and improved the evening by doing so.

There would not be a dull moment—only a glorious, clattering feast of wit, gloom, satire, romance, horror, memory, and imagination. To sit among those minds would be less like attending dinner and more like wandering through a library after dark, when the books have finally decided to speak… Yes, a dinner party of Authors would be my choice because I can not truly decide on one author. To pick the brains of so many, to see them interact and share ideas and philosophy. I can only imagine how interesting, how amusing, and how inspiring this could be. Yep, for me, a dinner party with this guest list would be a dream…