I almost hesitate to mention this here, because if you follow me on Twitter or we're friends on Facebook, this is obnoxiously old news.
I'm taking a vow of celibacy and entering a convent.
I'm kidding. Wait, why are you lying on the ground clutching your stomach and howling with maniacal laughter?
OK, the real news is that my active fiction title, Getting Dumped, was mentioned in The Wall Street Journal on Friday. You can see an online version of the article at this link. It's a long article, so I won't think less of you if you do what I did the first time and skim straight to the final few paragraphs where my quote and book description appear.
When the Friday edition of The Wall Street Journal hit newsstands, I called my local bookstore to ask if they had it.
"We only get one copy a day, and I can only hold it for you for one hour," the salesgirl informed me.
So I jumped in my car wearing a t-shirt with a smear of scrambled egg on the left boob and a cotton skirt covered with three pounds of cat fur. Then I jumped out of the car again because I realized I wasn't wearing shoes. I found a pair of flip-flops that didn't match and drove to the bookstore to claim my newspaper.
As the salesgirl rang up my $1.80 purchase (Barnes & Noble member discount, thank you very much!) I tore open the paper. Literally, as it happened – I ripped that thing right down the middle like a cheap condom. But I found the article and I found my name and I squealed so loudly that two people in line behind me took a big step back.
"That's me!" I shrieked. "That's my book."
The salesgirl gave me a funny half-smile suggesting she was uncertain whether to believe me or to summon authorities. "What do you write?" she asked.
"Funny smut," I informed her. "Also known as romantic comedy."
"That's–" she paused, searching for the right word. "Nice."
Before I left the bookstore, I went searching for copies of Making Waves and Believe it or Not, since I always make it a point to sign them when I'm there. They had zero copies of either, which is either a good sign or a bad one.
I'm going to go ahead and pretend it's good.
Then I drove home and found one of the housemates in his bedroom. In the year they've been renting rooms from me, I've made it a point never to invade their personal space.
But I was giddy enough that I marched right down the hall and knocked on the housemate's door. The door was already open, but it made me feel polite to knock anyway.
"Can you take a picture of me?" I asked.
He looked up and blinked at me. "Am I dragging you by the hair again?"
"Not this time. I just need a photo of me holding The Wall Street Journal."
"Don't we all?"
"I'm actually in it," I said. "Not an arrest record or anything. And not a photo of me flashing my lady-bits as I get out of a limo."
"Thank you for clarifying."
"There's an article with a really nice description of one of my books and a quote that doesn't even make me sound like an idiot."
"Always a plus." He surveyed his room, taking note of the dirty socks and underwear and the lumpy mattress lying on the floor. "How about we take this photo someplace besides my room?"
So we marched to the end of the hall and he snapped a quick photo and if you don't look really closely, you won't even notice the page is ripped in half.
When we were done, my housemate nodded at the page. "If you leave that in the dining room, maybe I could read it."
"Sure," I agreed. "It's kind of a long article. I'd offer to leave it in your bathroom so you could read it the next time you take a dump, but it's my only copy."
He gave me an odd look and turned back toward his bedroom. "The dining room will be just fine."