Narcissus was so enamored with himself that Nemesis was able to lure him to a still pond to fall in love with his own reflection. According to the Greek myth, Narcissus, not being able to part with his new soul mate, died there of starvation. Unlike the ravishing Narc, I’ve never cared that much for myself—or my own view staring back at me from the mirror. My favorite episode of Star Trek, however, is “Mirror, Mirror”.

No, I am no nerd-biscuit Trekkie. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Well, excepting the “nerd-biscuit” part.

But I did grow up watching the show. For the Trek-challenged, “Mirror, Mirror” was the episode where several of the Enterprise crew were caught mid-beam up (I think the technical problem was an ion storm) and were transported to a parallel universe where their counterparts were dastardly, cruel, and bloodthirsty. (I have to believe Freud and Stephen Hawking must have drooled over such an episode—well, not Freud. But I’m sure he would have.)

“Mirror, Mirror” was was also the introduction of Evil Spock. Evil Spock was cool. He exuded all the sleek confidence and ruthless barbarianism of his ancestry. Evil Spock was totally unapologetic. And he sported a sweet goatee. Had it been the twentieth century he would no doubt have driven a Harley and worn a leather jacket, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

Accordingly, I have met women who hated Star Trek—literally despised it—but who when pressed would admit to having always wanted to bed Evil Spock.

I loved the episode, and though I felt no carnal attraction to the character, Evil Spock seemed to embody our innate desire to be more like our primal selves.

So in the spirit of alter egos and parallel universes where we might meet up with (and even admire) our mirrored selves, I decided to warm up for my big interview with bestselling author Melissa Foster by honing my interpersonal skills on, well, myself.

Sort of. So here ’tis.

From the RoW studio, a tongue-in-cheek interview with author R.S. Guthrie:

Guthrie arrives in a leather jacket I recognize from his most recent book jacket photo. He’s a more impressive figure in person, towering over me and crushing my hand unapologetically. He has startling blue eyes and a lot less hair than I imagined. Unlike Narcissus, I am less than love-struck.

We sit at a table in the coffee shack he chose. It becomes clear he likes the place because they adore him. My skinny latte is complimentary and the author himself is given a large empty cup with the coffee shack’s logo, which he promptly fills from a personal thermos. The steaming liquid does not look like coffee. I open with my best question:

RoW: Your readers seem to either love you or hate you.

R.S.: Is that a question?

RoW: Touche. Why is it some people are so viscerally against you?

R.S.: ‘Viscerally’. Nice word. You should have been a writer.

RoW: Thanks. Actually, I am.

R.S.: How’s the skinny latte?

RoW: Uh, it’s great. Thanks.

R.S.: (Drinking first from the cup of private vintage) Every celebrity needs to have a safe haven. A place where unequivocally adored.

RoW: I suppose…

R.S.: What was your question again?

RoW: Never mind. Asked and answered. Let’s talk about that stuff you’re drinking.

R.S.: The coffee here is swill. I come for the ambiance only.

RoW: I just want to know what it is you are drinking. We aren’t going to get arrested, are we?

R.S.: I’m not.

RoW: Fine. Your agent did tell you you’d agreed to an actual interview this morning, correct?

R.S.: I don’t have an agent. Bloodsuckers. And I don’t mean the voluptuous, angst-ridden lover kind. Real rip out your throat and drink the life straight from an opened vein monsters.

RoW: You don’t have an agent? Who the hell did I speak to last week?

R.S.: Don’t get twisted on me; you’ll ruin the buzz. That was Molly.

RoW: And Molly is…

R.S.: Molly is a real trooper.

RoW: (Realizing what “to glower” really means) Hmm.

R.S.: Ex-comic who did impressions. She executes “agent” like a pro. Handles all my calls.

RoW: Sweet mother of…

R.S.: See, there’s the edginess again. Kind of a bummer, Chuck.

RoW: It’s Rob. Tell me about your book.

R.S.: I call everyone I don’t know ‘Chuck’. Makes things easier. By the way, don’t you think this is kid of weird? You interviewing me, I’m saying.

RoW: I’m starting to regret it, if that’s where you were going. For some reason I thought the whole “Mirror, Mirror” tie in would be cool.

R.S.: ‘Mirror, Mirror’?

RoW: The Star Trek episode. You know, Evil Spock?

R.S.: What are you, some kind of nerd-biscuit?

RoW: Forget it. Just plug the book.

R.S.: Is this where I’m supposed to stop being a glib wannabe celebrity and honestly plug my book?

RoW: Go for it.

R.S.: Black Beast. Out in paperback and eBook formats. It’s the first in a series of Denver thrillers featuring Detective Bobby Macaulay. Basically, my cool alter-ego. The one we thriller writers always create to live vicariously through. Macaulay and his partner catch a multiple murder in Sloan’s Lake Park. The who, what, which, and why are pretty intriguing. Book’s got priests, exorcism, a Jabba-the-Hut Jamaican drug kingpin, the occult, love, etcetera. I’m very proud of it. The reviews have been outstanding.

RoW: Really? After the Trek comment—a Jabba the Hut comparison?

R.S.: Yeah, I know. Who’s the geek, right? Listen, I was just jerking your chain. Who doesn’t love Evil Spock?

RoW: No kidding?

R.S.: Sure. Unlike you, however, I never wanted to bone him.

The rest of the interview turned pretty hostile. I didn’t get anything else that could possibly be printed in a family-friendly format. Oh, and on that note, sorry for the ‘bone’ comment. Not sure who slipped that one in, me or him.

Blogger’s Note: So that’s it. I didn’t leave the coffee shack feeling like I’d honed anything, except possibly furthering my hatred of my inner voice. So I will head into tomorrow’s interview with the lovely Melissa Foster a little shaken. It’s okay. After facing myself in the mirror, talking with the compassionate, talented author should be a breeze. Tune in. We’ll be in the virtual studio bright and early Sunday morning.

Live long and prosper.

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The blank page is dead…long live the blank page.