“You write romance novels, which aren’t really literature, right?” she begins. Can she even spellliterature?
“That’s right, I write romance novels,” I say. “Was that your question?”
“No. My question is, what’s the difference between literature and whatyouwrite?”
I’ve heard this a few million times also. It’s always meant to be an insult, and the first couple of times it was thrown at me I stammered and stuttered and blushed and said something about everyone having different taste. Now here it is again, from the same woman who bullied me in high school and who, only a few days ago, turned me into Daughter of Grinch. I’m past being intimidated by that question. I am smart, I am strong, and I can conquer any situation.
“I cry all the way to the bank,” I say, deadpan.
Everyone laughs, and for once I’m not the one with the red face.
And I am loved. I spend an hour signing books and talking with people.
“Good job, sis,” says my brother, and asks me to sign the book he bought for Gwendolyn.
I don’t bother to write anything gushy in it, as I know it will wind up in her garbage can.
My admirer from the front row shyly asks if I’ll sign the book she’s holding “To Emily.”
“Of course,” I say. “Are you Emily?”
She nods and her cheeks turn pink.
“Well, thank you for coming tonight, Emily. It means a lot,” I say.
“Really?” she asks.
“Yes, really,” I assure her.
She produces my first book from her messenger bag and asks if I’ll sign that too. “I love your books,” she gushes.
“Thank you,” I say. I sign both, and she clutches them to her heart and leaves smiling.
And I’m smiling too. Everyone (except Gwendolyn) was supportive, and I feel like a success.
And I feel all twittery when Carwyn, the last in line, comes up and says, “You were great.” He hands me a book. “Sign it for me?”
“Who should I sign it to?” I ask.
“Me, of course,” he says.
“You don’t want to read this.” I scoff.
“Of course I do.”
“Well, thanks for boosting my sales.”
“I want to keep you crying all the way to the bank,” he replies with a wink. “Anyway, it’s got a happy ending, right?”
“Of course.” Every woman deserves a happy ending.
“I could use a happy ending,” he says, and I suspect he’s thinking of his dad.
I write in the book,Tomy favorite neighbor, and he reads it and grins. “How about your favorite neighbor takes you out for hot chocolate?”
***
We drink that hot chocolate and debate over the best-ever Christmas movie. I insist onElf, and he likesNational Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. “The squirrel in the tree, man. That scene can’t be topped.”
