I must say that I haven’t taken full advantage of my so far 4 hours in Seattle. Pike’s Place, Pioneer Square, the Space Needle and the Original Starbucks have all gone unobserved by me. I felt I should save my steam for tonight’s dinner meeting with a bouquet of lovely area booksellers, since I am finding that I have to really step up to match their wit, erudition and passion. Plus it’s too cold to go outside without a coat, and I didn’t bring a coat.
So I am preparing myself by lounging around, reading a mystery by a fellow Penguin author, drinking a latte from a more recent Starbucks incarnation and wallowing in the bottomless tub this very decent hotel has seen fit to install in my room.
It has felt like the supreme indulgence to blab on about The Orphanmaster for the last four days to people who seem to want to know about it. I hope that our conversations — mine with the booksellers, that it — will help them remember the novel when the June pub date rolls around. Put a copy in your window, please!
Anyway, tomorrow is the return to NY, husband, dog and cabin. I hear the magnolia petals withered to brown in the frost one night. One thing about New York, though, is that’s where The Savage Girl lives, and I can’t wait to see her again.
Jean Zimmerman 