So writing friend Brooke gets us invited to Bantam-Dell’s cocktail party at the Ritz Carlton last Friday. She drags me to these functions every year and I say dragged not because I don’t wanna go—hey, what’s not to like about free booze and hobnobbing?—but I always feel a little…you know…fraudulent. Like I don’t belong.
Somehow, this year was different.
First, we run into Diana Peterfruend (whose name I can’t think of anymore without prefacing it with ‘lovely debut author’ ‘cuz it’s so apt) and she’s not sure of her directions, so we take her in tow and we all enter the party together (think safety in numbers, I guess).
Then, purely by accident, we discover the best spot in the room (strategically speaking) which happens to be in front a huge floor fan. I try to convince myself it’s my magnetic personality attracting so many guests, but alas, I have to attribute it to the Atlanta heat which manages to seep in despite the air conditioning. Whatever. Our visitors (and the people to whom we graciously extend fan time) include Geralyn Dawson, Julie Garwood, her adorable friend Candy, writing collaborators Larissa Ione and Stephanie Tyler…and many others, all happy, friendly people who, despite sorta being “on duty,” actually seem to be having a good time.
I stand there chatting away, conscious of a case of the warm fuzzies forming. Maybe I belong after all…maybe I DO fit into the publishing world. After all, I finally sold something, didn’t I?
Or, maybe it’s just the wine…
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment