There is a link to my “official author website” at the top of my blog.
It would seem that some have clicked on it.
As a result, more than one of you have read that “I have been writing regency romance novels since I was ten”.
As a further result, more than one of you have wondered where my other novels can be found and under what name are they written (since none but Miss D comes up under my name).
As a further, further result, the Middle Child’s friend (a former mutual crush and possible future mutual crush who seems emotionally invested in impressing her) has confided this gem: “Your mom sure has written lots of great books!” (He did confess, at great risk of sounding insincere, that it was his mother who looked me up on the internet and filled his head with these false notions—aiiiiieeeeee!!)
As a further, further, further result, I have been embarrassed and humiliated and found that crawling into a hole and sleeping until spring seems a more and more pleasing prospect.
Meanwhile, I guess I will simply have to be the child prodigy novelist.
Now that I’ve confessed, it doesn’t sound so bad. I could even get used to the idea. I could whip up some novels (they don't have to be great) and insist I wrote them at age 10, 12, 15. Hey, Christopher Paolini has nothing on me! Nosiree-bob! He might have written Eragon at age 14 (or 15) and stood gleefully by as it was made into a blockbuster movie, true, but I could easily claim a novel I wrote at age 12 was made into a movie long, long ago, so far back in the mists of time nobody could hope to remember it anyway. And then I could claim that Stephenie Meyer has nothing on me either, because haven’t I been both published and turned into immortal film long before she was even born? The possibilities are endless. In fact, it quite boggles the mind.
Fame and fortune, here I come!!!