Thursday, September 12, 2013


What if, when Fiorella tripped over that sneaky hotel step in Atlanta and hit her head on the concrete curb, she went into a coma and is even now in a hospital being kept alive by tubes and tender care?  It would mean that everything that's happened to her since the national RWA conference is a morphine dream,  that she didn't really meet and connect with her agent in person, that she didn't really have editors from three big publishing houses want Kinkaid House, that she didn't really receive an offer from Grand Central, that Michele Biedelspach won't be her editor.  It would mean that Husband didn't surprise her with a Dove bar after she'd had a hard time working out the rehearsal dinner for Son's wedding, that her hair doesn't look extra good right now, that an old friend hasn't contacted her on Facebook.

What the heck--if Fio is floating off in a fantasy somewhere, reality can go fly a kite.

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