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Dec. 3, ATLANTA, GA. Waiting for the
reading, we all sit in a circle, about a dozen of us, Rosie dozing on the
floor in the middle. A couple of people had heard about the book from
friends who'd been to earlier readings in other cities. A man walks in,
carrying my book. Rosie jumps up, barks the alarm. "Oh, you don't
scare me," he grins, "I know all about you!" Because he's
already read the book and can't wait to talk about it, favorite passages
marked with yellow sticky notes. This is a first. He buys four more as
Christmas gifts. My voice a little rough from a cold, but it's a warm and wonderful evening of laughter, the usual
stupid pet tricks, and a few teary eyes during the final lines of the
reading. An author's dream. Next morning, wake up to a touring author's
nightmare: my voice is ... gone! Stolen by that sneaky little cold! Start
popping lozenges and using imperious hand gestures in lieu of speaking.
Rosie thinks I'm pretty damn funny. Next reading is two and a half days
away in Miami. Two days to get my voice back. Ack! Don't bother
calling. I'm not answering the cell phone.
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