A little more than twenty-four hours ago, I woke up laughing, somewhere high above Ireland. The night before, I had the privilege of being the first-ever recipient of the Strand magazine’s critics’ choice award. After a brisk dinner with some lovely people from Morrow, I went to the airport, changed out of my dress and into my sweats, boarded a plane and headed to London. Where, last night, I put on the same dress and went 0 for 2 in the CWA daggers. I am inordinately proud of this. It was mentioned last night that Gillian Flynn won two daggers for the same book last year, but losing two is quite an achievement, too. It puts me at .333 for the week, which is considerably higher than Cal Ripken Jr.’s lifetime batting average.

I first came to London at age 14, in the grip of a fierce Anglophilia. Now, it’s another city where I hunt down coffee shops and write, as I did this morning, clocking about 1,500 words on the novella. (Due July 28, one reason I haven’t been around here much.) I was a gawky, charmless adolescent who wore heart-shaped white barrettes in my hair. I wish I could put a hand on that girl’s shoulder and tell her how things were going to work out. Also, to lose the barrettes. I woke up laughing yesterday because my life struck me as absurdly, improbably happy, as it does today. This week has been filled with wonderful things, more than I can mention, especially as it would involve name-dropping. I will say I saw this man kiss Orion editor Bill Massey, but that’s not exactly name dropping as it had to be explained to me who he was.

Any words of wisdom for the adolescent you used to be? And how did you style your hair?