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While I was on vacation last week the damndest thing happened to me: Someone asked me for my autograph. (Now, to be clear, they had never heard of me before and probably will never hear of me again, but that’s not the point.) I was talking to the owner of a local tobacco shop, the one my father always used to go to and the conversation somehow got around to me being a fiction author. So we talked books for a little bit once we got past the initial awkward questions: “Have you done anything I might have read or heard of?” (Sigh… Not yet.) But anyway, before the end of the conversation the guy asked me to sign an autograph for his wife because, as he put it, “She’s a huge book worm and I’m sure she’ll hear of your work some day.”

I’ll admit I was, and I don’t use this word to describe myself often, tickled. It was great. I don’t think I’ve ever been more please with myself in a retail setting. So, of course, I signed it. How could I not?  Talk about starting the new year right!

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