Fiorella was down yesterday. She'd been working on the rewrite of a chapter all day and still wasn't satisfied. How depressing. Here she was, trying so hard to get published, and she couldn't even straighten a chapter out. Finally she tossed the whole thing and walked up the driveway to pick up the mail.
It was the usual stuff--a few catalogs, a medical bill, some stupid advertisements, and . . . an envelope from the Linda Howard Award of Excellence. When Fio opened it back at the house, she found a silver book mark engraved with her name and the name of the contest which she had won two months earlier.
She'd known the award was going to come, but how wonderful that it arrived exactly when she needed it.