the girl who stopped by Powell's books

This is how I know my sister loves me: She has no use for books but she called me yesterday, breathless, to let me know that Joshilyn Jackson was being interviewed on a local radio station, rightnow. Hurry.

(Yes, that author. Lori understands my crazy.)

This is how I know Bad Mom loves me: She read gods of Alabama, though she had been sick and weary with the plague and crazy busy, just in time for the reading at Powell's last night.

It's a wonder to be understood.

And here's the thing: I can nearly adore, nay worship in some ungodly fashion, an author from a distance, and maybe, just maybe, leave a comment on their blog, but when I see them face to face, I feel like a damn groupie and stammer.

Maybe I'm nervous because of that wildcat, inches away from my skull.

And sputter. Perhaps stutter.

Laurel, one of the main characters in Jackson's book, is an art quilter. Joshilyn had this one commissioned, just like one in the book. There is a real human tooth, lodged in the toe of the boot. Really.

I can't manage a few words along the lines of, 'your work inspires me'. Or 'I love your blog'.

Thankfully, I had Stephanie with me so I didn't chicken out asked if I could get my picture with her.













Then she suggested the '1, 2, 3 Betty thing', which made her look adorable.

Me? Nervous and nerdy? That would be a go.

Still, hearing a published author I admire describe writing a crappy book, tossing it, and starting anew, with a braver spirit gave me courage.

(I should have taken Stephanie's picture too, but I am such a dope when I am twitterpated. I'm sorry.)