Today is Monday, and also my birthday. I would lie and tell you I'm 29, but these days that only fools the people with white canes and guide dogs. I think we need another way to measure age. Let's see, in dog years, I'm 6.7142857142857142857142857. Or the square root of 2,209 (if you say that really fast it sounds like 29.)
We're not officially partying until tonight when my guy gets home from work, but this past weekend he arranged a lovely romantic dinner for us. I've shamelessly dropped hints for the last couple of weeks, so tonight when I unwrap my gifts I expect to find a reading lamp for the living room, a set of corn holders, and a new purse to replace the only one I own, which the Smithsonian has asked me to donate for their upcoming exhibit on Jurassic-era accessories.
On the professional front, things have been a little tough. My latest release didn't make it into many stores in time for the holiday weekend, and a significant piece of advertising for it that I had been counting on was misplaced or lost. It didn't seem fair, but Publishing rarely is, so I battened down the hatches and resigned myself to disappointing the folks in NY again. I even e-mailed my agent in advance and warned her how poor the book's performance was likely to be under the circumstances.
Then you guys go and put Twilight Fall at #19 on the New York Times mass market bestseller list. Now what do I say? Aside from Holy Toledo, is that really my book on there? and I have the best readers on the planet, I mean.
I honestly don't know what to say. I've written this post about two thousand times already, and no matter how much I edit it, I still sound like I'm babbling. I am so grateful to you, to all of you.
I'm 47 today, and my novel is 19. It's a gift I'll never forget. Thank you.