Years ago, Christine and I went to a small, local book fair. At one point, a woman with stars in her eyes came to our table and asked her, “What’s it like to be married to a famous author?” I can’t remember how she answered, but we both laughed about it later. Me? A famous author? Hardly!
And yet, I have to admit that secretly I liked the fact that someone thought I was famous, that I had influence, and that it must be amazing to live with me. Such adulation (as minor as it was) was catnip to my needy soul.
It also, I realize now, had the potential to be extremely dangerous.
