Acknowledgments
Okay, so, at the end
of the day, when it’s time to write a book, it’s just me and the
computer ... me, glaring balefully at same; computer refusing to
make eye contact in the childish way it has.
(I should probably
rewrite that: it should be the computer and
me, right? Cuz I’m tryin’ to write good n’ stuff. Enh. I’ve
already lost interest.)
But! For me to have
the time to sit my big white butt down in the seat and get the work
done? Tons of people help with that. And since I willfully ignore
them most of the time, when I’m not figuring out how to frame them
for felony assault, I’ll go on ahead and drop a few
names.
First, many thanks to
my valiant yet self-effacing assistant, Tracy Fritze. The poor
woman no doubt assumed, well over a year ago, that it’d be a
typical office job. Working for a writer was probably like working
for an accountant: it sounded important but was ultimately
mind-numbingly dull.
Sure, her workplace
was my very own home, but how much different would it be from
driving to an office three days a week?
Tracy likely assumed
her duties would fall along the lines of word processing, setting
up meetings, arranging interviews, proofing ARCs, booking speaking
engagements, working with copyeditors, and occasionally running
tornado drills.
Instead, the poor
woman has been forced, in pretty rapid succession, to endure: being
greeted by my pantsless son on more than one occasion, being
interviewed by a German magazine (them: “How terrific is it to work
for the MaryJanice Davidson?” Tracy:
“Um ... ”), fighting off our overly affectionate dogs, enduring the
smells of McDonald’s chicken nuggets and pots of chocolate Malt
O’Meal when she’s trying to eat like a grown-up (and set me an
example of same), and ceaselessly trying to encourage me to sit
down to make decisions (on PR products, on book signings, on
answering reader questions, on turning in interview questions the
day I agreed to do so, on why I shouldn’t wolf down a half dozen
Reese’s Cups at 9:30 a.m.) like a grown-up.
Not to mention being
locked out of my house when I’ve crawled back into bed with a
migraine (see above: greeted by pantsless son: “Hi, Tracy. Mom’s
sick. Can I have some Malt O’Meal?”), and holding her ground when I
ruthlessly set the dogs upon her (I found my dogs are especially
fond of her if I rub bacon grease into her shoes while she’s hard
at work in the office).
Tracy is an assistant
as the dictionary defines it: she contributes to the fulfillment of
a need; she assumes some of my responsibilities. She rescues me
from the minutiae that nearly everyone has to endure if they want
to be a functioning member of society. She’s smart, she’s quick,
she never has to be told anything twice, she’s discreet (nobody
knew about my pantsless son or Malt O’Mealgate until I stuck it
right in my acknowledgments page). Also, she smells
terrific.
Thanks are also due,
as always, to the awesomest of awesome husbands, Anthony Alongi (he
also cowrites the Jennifer Scales series with me). He tirelessly
reads, suggests, edits, mocks, enrages, inspires, and annoys.
Without him, there’s absolutely nothing for me.
My folks and sister,
for being completely unwavering in their support, one hundred
percent of the time. They wouldn’t abandon that stance if I stuck a
gun in their ear. Do not ask me how I know that.
The Magic Widows, who
have endured me for years and pretend that I’m worth the
trouble.
The best of agents,
Ethan Ellenberg, who paid me the ultimate compliment of calling me
low maintenance. That was a wonderful lie for him to
tell!
The always terrific
Cindy Hwang, who reads my book suggestions and synopses, edits my
manuscripts, exudes copious enthusiasm for same, and doesn’t smack
herself on the forehead when I can see it, or hear it. (Though I do
occasionally hear odd background sounds when I’m on the phone with
her.)
And to Leis Pederson,
kick-ass assistant editor, who is repeatedly forced to track me
down and corner me like a rat to get edits out of me, but does it
with such style I feel wanted, not stalked.
Thanks also to the
Yahoos, my fans on Facebook, the readers kind enough to write to
me, and the readers who don’t go near Facebook or the Web, who
don’t have computers but who write to me, care of my publisher,
with real pens on real paper. (I feel bad I received one such snail
mail and instantly assumed, as comedian Jim Gaffigan suggested,
that someone had been kidnapped.)
I write for myself—I
always have. I think if you write for other people, the end result
is something of a cheat, for you and for them.
But you guys make the
writing that much more fun, for which I am continually humbled and
slavishly grateful.
—MaryJanice,
Winter 2009
Winter 2009