Finding Fraser(6)

The things you learn from cops in bus stations.

She was one hundred percent right. I should have known Egon was wrong for me the minute he said he didn’t read romances.

A. Historical fiction is NOT romance.

B. What the hell is wrong with reading romance, anyway?

And C.? He didn’t read anything at all, really.

I should have known.

When my bus pulled up a few minutes later, the cop hugged me warmly and tucked an Ativan out of her own stash into my pocket to ward off any relapses.

“You’ll love Philadelphia,” she said. “But watch out for the ladies who are putting on your shin-dig. There’s a romance writing group near here in Erie, and let me just say—we’ve been called out to a few of their parties. Some of those chicks are decently hard-core.”

I waved through the window until she was just a teeny blue dot in the distance. Nice to know that even a cop could see the value of following a dream.





Fortuitous Fate…

3:30 pm, February 20

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA



The most important news for today is that I have mastered the comment anti-spam function. Because, there may not be many actual readers out there, but holy crow——is my blog being followed by a lot of bots.

Okay, I’m lying.

Because the most important news is that I have actually made it into a special mini-conference, sponsored by an organization for writers of romantic fiction. Yes, the very conference advertised on a certain hot-pink flyer handed to me in Chicago.

Fate smiled on me that day.

Apparently, the conference has been planned to celebrate Something Special. (Also? I note that the flyer tended to Randomly Capitalize Important Items. Jane Austen, your influence has now extended into its third century…)

This particular Something Special is an industry award. And that it is an award given to someone who has never claimed to be a romance writer (nor an Over-User of Excessive Capitalization) is what makes it all the more interesting.

Yes.

It’s true.

I have signed up to attend a conference where the guest speaker is the creator of the man I seek.

Herself.

Should I have skipped this event and gone straight through to New York City? What would you have done?



- ES



Comments: 0





So, yeah—it turned out the commenters on my blog had all been bots. When I checked back, there wasn’t a single voice of support for my adventure. Nor a single vote of dissent, if you come right down to it.

But that’s okay. I don’t need external validation. Something — something larger than me is guiding this journey. Otherwise, how do you explain the presence of Herself in the very city I’ve ended up in?

Fine, so technically I didn’t need to travel to Philadelphia in order to make my cheap New York flight. But it was pretty much on the way. I had to get to New York somehow. And the very thought of meeting Herself in the flesh made my hands start to shake. She was the woman who created Jamie Fraser, who built him up from clay—or from ink and paper, at least. She has gone on to beat him, wound him, torture him in every possible way, and still nurture his unending love for Claire over the course of the entire series.

The questions I had? Beyond number. The chance to meet Her, to talk with Her about Jamie, to ask Her where I should best seek out a real flesh-and-blood version of him? It was just too good to pass up.

When I’d finally made it into Philadelphia (with the help of the cop’s Ativan), I discovered the station happened to be less than three blocks from the hotel where the event was being held.

It was meant to be.

The hike from the bus station had given me a chance to stretch my legs and allow the icy Philadelphia wind blow the last of the anxiety away. I’d made it. I was still on American soil, but the journey was truly underway. And as I stepped up to the hotel doors, a doorman in a top hat swept forward and held it open for me.

An open door held by a handsome man felt like an omen.

There was a small registration booth set up in the foyer. The special hotel rate offered to conference-goers was just about triple what I had budgeted to spend, but a hotel stay was not mandatory.

“We have loads of locals coming in,” the lady behind the desk said. “In fact, the Belles are upstairs right now, planning a celebration for after the signing tomorrow.”

I didn’t know what bells she meant, but nodded anyway, mentally calculating the distance from the hotel venue to the nearest hostel. A mere fifteen blocks away. Nothing more than a quick and easy cab ride.

I was, however, required to join the romance writing group.

“Members-only event,” chirped the ever-helpful lady behind the desk. “Are you a published writer?”

I thought about the little message that popped up every time I entered a blog post. Please wait—post publishing …