A Small Moment of Book Marketing at Aldi

Friday, July 17, 2026 – Orlando, Florida

A Small Moment of Personal Book Marketing at Aldi

Yesterday offered one of those unexpected, quietly meaningful moments that remind me why I write in the first place.

I was at my local Aldi—nothing glamorous, nothing planned, just a routine stop with my landlady—when I spotted the young employee whose presence has, for reasons I can’t fully explain, always brightened my day. She’s pretty (of course), sharp, friendly, and carries herself with a kind of thoughtful energy that makes you think, She probably reads. Months ago, I caught myself thinking, She seems like someone who might like Reunion: A Story. And yesterday, I finally acted on that instinct.

Before doing anything, I asked my landlady whether it would be appropriate. Not because I needed permission, but because I wanted a quick calibration—a sanity check to make sure the gesture wouldn’t come across as odd or intrusive. She said it was fine. That was all I needed.

So I walked up, book in hand, and offered her a copy of Reunion: A Story. No sales pitch. No expectations. Just a simple, sincere gift of something I’ve poured years of work and heart into.

She accepted it warmly. She flipped it over, looked at the author photo—me at 23, back in college—and said, with a kind of unfiltered sincerity that caught me off guard, “You looked so handsome.”

I didn’t know what to say. Part of me was quietly pleased; at 23, I certainly didn’t think of myself that way. Another part of me wondered if she was just being polite, especially with my landlady standing nearby. But the more I replay the moment, the more I realize it wasn’t politeness. She didn’t have to say anything at all. She could have stayed in customer‑service mode. Instead, she offered a genuine compliment, and that made the exchange feel human in a way I didn’t expect.

I walked out of Aldi feeling lighter than when I walked in. I didn’t do this for “marketing.” I didn’t do it to chase anything. I did it because she seemed like someone who might connect with the story—someone who might understand Jim Garraty’s quiet regrets, his moments of courage, his tangled memories of youth and adulthood.

And because, frankly, seeing her made my day.

As writers, we spend so much time alone with our stories—drafting, revising, doubting, refining—that we sometimes forget the joy of simply handing a book to a real person. Not a faceless online customer. Not an algorithm. A person. Someone who might read it, feel something, and carry a piece of it with them.

Yesterday, I put my work into someone’s hands. And that was enough to make the whole day feel worthwhile.