“Someone said you’re a writer…”

Much of my scanty free time, the past few weeks, has been taking up with the joyous busyness of taking part in the wedding of two friends. Hence the lack of posts of late. When I’ve had computer time, I’ve been feebly attempting to work on books, not blog posts.

The work and running culminated last Saturday, in a day that thoroughly appealed both to my wacky side (there were bats on the wedding cake and swordsmen in the ceremony!) and my hopelessly romantic one (their first dance was a tango and the bride looked like a 20s film star!) At the reception that night, I let myself get pleasantly piffilated on a rich, lovely Cotes du Provence red and was starting to unwind after a long couple of days.

Then a girl about eleven tapped my arm. She was dressed in wedding finery, her eyes were huge, and she was positively vibrating with excitement. “Someone told me you’re a writer,” she said. When I nodded, she practically bounced up and down. “Have you written anything I’d like? Would you write a book for me?” Clearly I was her first author and she was savoring the moment.

“I don’t write children’s books,” I responded, hoping I sounded relatively sober and collected.

“That’s OK.” The little one drew herself up to her full height of maybe four feet. “My mom lets me read young adult books. I really like the ones with witches and werewolves and vampires and stuff. Do you write anything like that?”

Inwardly I blanched. My would-be fan was a child of the digital age. My name appeared on the wedding program, as I’d not only been the “woman of honor,” but had composed a poem for the occasion. I’m a friend of both bride and groom on Facebook, using my full name, the one I write under. It wouldn’t take this clever child long to track me down online.

Then she’d find my books, which are full of magic and shapeshifters and all sorts of things sure to appeal to an imaginative, smart kid–plus a lot of not exactly conventional sex.

“My books are really for adults,” I explained, imagining the irate parents yelling at my friend for introducing their precious daughter to a pervert. “You could read all the words, but they’re pretty dark and violent in places. You should wait until you’re sixteen or so to try them.” (All true. Threshing the Grain is about human sacrifice. The Duals and Donovans series has both nasty supernatural beings and a truly evil government agency. Sex and love are sex and love, but that stuff’ll give a kid nightmares.)

“They’re violent? Eww!” Her little face screwed up. I’d guessed right. She was at an age where mentioning “love scenes” would have just made her curious, but blood and guts wasn’t her style. Crisis averted.

We went on to talk about whether she’d be able to write a book herself someday. “I”d like to,” she sighed, “but I can’t seem to get very far.” I told her that writing was very hard work and like anything else, took practice. I’d tried writing my first book when I was her age, but hadn’t been able to finish one until I was in my twenties. She seemed reassured by this and promised she’d keep trying.  She asked me a number of other questions about books and writing and I sent her on her way with a promise to let her aunt (the bride, as it turned out) pass on to her if I wrote something that might be suitable for a younger reader.

Then I had another glass of wine. I’d earned it!