It is a great thing that my writerly ego is larger than the Sahara Desert, because, though I tried, valiantly, to get our local library to host myself (and the kids! I used the cuteness of the kids as an application weapon!) during their local author day, I received word yesterday* that we were not accepted as one of the presenting authors. While in my younger days I would have attempted to mobilize you, the vast internet army that has risen to our call to action in the past, I’m going to give it a pass on this one.

 I’m hoping that gives you fine folks, who’ve been such great supporters, a little well deserved rest. Consider this like a doctor’s note (though I’m not a doctor) to take a little time for yourself. You’re welcome.

Because, who knows, if one of you out there has Mollie Glick’s number or ear** I may be hitting you up to put in a good word for a very nice, very humble author of a little book about butterflies, a retired hockey player, his plumber wife, and Old Sturbridge Village. Amongst other things.

Coming soon to a bookshelf near you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* This sounds like I got a letter hand-delivered by some sweaty, grimy guy hopping off a horse, taking off his hat and wiping his brow while handing me the letter at the same time. This is not the case.

** Good God I hope not literally.