Squealy Fan Girl Moments #MFRWAuthor

We all have those special people we feel have influenced our lives in some way. Maybe a

front cover final

It’s Almost Here!

civic leader, maybe an entertainer. Maybe an author (well DUH) Then one day we meet them. Do we just stand there and stare? Are we struck dumb? Do we stammer out some inane statement, then hope they didn’t actually hear us?

 

Of course I’ve had those moments, and of course they were writers. One wrote about Salukis, and I was over the moon to meet her when I visited England. I dashed over to tell her how much I appreciated her generosity in sharing her knowledge. Except…the dear woman was totally deaf. What started out as an intimate chat ended up a near bellow, which she still did not understand. The people sitting around her were not amused.

An encounter with one of my all time favorite authors occurred earlier, and with a much more favorable outcome. At that time Elizabeth Lowell still lived in Southern California, was a member of the Orange County Chapter RWA, and often gave the morning craft talk. I gushed. I simpered. I stuttered. She smiled graciously, signed the book I held out to her. When I mentioned my recent litter taking me away from my writing, she demanded pictures. Then I asked: When would she write the next story in her Rocking M series. “Never. Contract issues with the publisher.” I admit I begged a bit.

She gave me a lovely enigmatic smile, and said: “You write it.”

So, I did. Well, not really. But I wrote about what might happen to a fighting man, wounded in body and soul, who meets that one woman who can drag him back to the light. I wrote A Question of Honor, then I put it away. When I brought it out again, looked at it with a slightly more experienced eye, I cringed. I cut out lovely scenes with a vicious pen. I molded. I sculpted. I sent it to. Black Opal Books

At the front, I wrote:

I would like to dedicate A Question of Honor to Elizabeth
Lowell, who encouraged me to write the books I want to read
and whose generous sharing of knowledge gave me the tools
needed.

Because, well, that’s what squealy fan girls do, when they can.

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