While I’ve been over here struggling with my nine-hundredth revision, some of our friends have been not only finishing the fuckers but publishing them and sending them forth. Our own Bobbi French has written the most beautiful book about leaving it all behind and escaping with one red-haired hunk to the wilds of France, where the two of them have discovered the wonders of pain au chocolat and the headache of Semur’s auto-école. France is a mixed bag, apparently.

And just over Bobbi’s shoulder, from a farmhouse in Italy, Catherine McNamara has put the final touches on her sexy new novel and is currently scouting for nail polish prior to her book’s big launch party. In London. These chicks get around.

I can’t tell you how happy I am for their successes, and how giddy it makes me to have secured such a posse of cosmopolitan friends from my living room in the rocky suburbs of Las Vegas. I imagine all of us meeting one day in some remote and enormous château, cooking together in a big warm kitchen surrounded by fragrant bottles of wine and crusted baguettes, while we laugh like children about our books and all the things that vexed us along the way. (And yes, I’d be trying to smuggle August in through the bedroom window.)

Someday, ladies.

Lots of love and congratulations to you both.


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