I see that Tina Fey’s book comes out the same day that mine does, April 5th.  I hear she’s shaking.  All right, she’s not shaking, she’s not thinking about my novel, she’s not calling me up and asking, “What do you think, Meg, can we do a reading together at KGB?  And would you mind it if I practiced my reading for you first?  I’ve never done one of these before.”  And I would help her enunciate.  No, no, no, this is a fantasy.  She’s got her own thing going, in arenas the size of the Colosseum.  Lives will be sacrificed there, and the crowd will roar and smell blood, and at the end they will leave satisfied.  At my own readings, however, there will be a podium and a glass of water.  Someone earnest will introduce me, and I’ll try not to read in that lilting singsong voice that we all learned at Fiction Reading School.  You will have to decide which event you’d like to attend.  You must choose between me and Tina Fey.

It’s funny the way the person whose book comes out when yours does will always be connected in some way to you.  (Even only in your mind.)  It’s like the odd celebrities who die around the same time.   For instance, Harold Pinter and Eartha Kitt died on the same day.  In heaven, Eartha was lolling on a piano singing, “Pintah baby…” while Harold studiously ignored her.  So perhaps I am the living Harold Pinter to Tina Fey’s living Eartha Kitt.  Or vice versa.  Either way, I have to say that I can’t wait to read her book.