Chapter One

Every novelist dreams of being on Oprah. Catapulted to literary stardom with one simple TV appearance. I-Claire Everett, writer of novels-am no different from the hopeful masses. I mean, I don't really think I'll ever have enough "twinkle, twinkle" to be a true star. Still, a girl can hope. Well, not hope, really. Hope is the evidence of faith. And I don't really have any faith that I'm ever going to be on Oprah. I do dream about it, though.

Catty-cornered from me, Oprah sits with queenly confidence, holding a copy of my most recent novel. She peels back the cover, turns the first few pages to get past the dedication and acknowledgments-the pages we authors labor over, but only our proofreaders and best friends read. I relax for the first time, settling into the soft leather, anticipating the rush I'll get from hearing my words flow melodiously from the lips of the Divine Miss O. My pulse and respiration rise as her mouth opens.

In that wonderful, rich voice the world has loved for the past twenty years, she begins to read. "See Dick run. See Jane run. Dick and Jane run fast."

I suck in a lungful of air as shock rockets to my gut. "What? Wait! That's not my book!" But the words somehow don't make it to Oprah's ears. No one can hear me. I'm a dream ghost. I see my body on the couch, but I'm floating above the roaring crowd. They're laughing at me. And all I can do is sit helplessly with my jaw open, eyes wide like I've just opened the closet door and there's a rat staring at me.

Oprah smirks. Oh, Lord, please wake me up! Oprah's smirking at me. "Jane runs faster than Dick." "Wait! Stop it, Oprah-uh, Miss Winfrey.

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