This blog will be more difficult for me to write than anything I've ever written. But the emotionally squeamish needn't fear: the reason I will have so much difficulty is because around five o'clock today, I almost cut my finger off while trying to snip the stems off some black-eyed Susans my neighbor had thrown away. And I was using scissors. I really got myself good, though: I had to go get stitches (my daughter let me hold her blanket for courage), and I had to get a tetanus shot. I now have my left middle finger wrapped heavily in gauze, so please forgive any typos.
But here's what I want to say: in the previous entry, I wrote about how much I love connecting with readers while doing readings and visiting book clubs. And I really do love to hear their questions, with the exception of one question, which is asked at almost every reading:
"How did you get your agent?"
Now, there is nothing innately irritating about this question. My irritation with it has more to do with the way it is often asked — with narrowed eyes, with I-know-how-this-business-really-works-Missy ...