Your Autograph, Please

Hello fellow bloggers, today is an exciting day. I get to go see reknowned writer Margaret Atwood speak tonight. And there's a book-signing afterwards! Coolsville. My spouse has counceled me to be the last in line for autographs so I might have a moment to speak with Ms. Atwood. Uh, you expect me to speak to her? Yeah, right.

Right on, says hubby. And make sure you tell her your pitch. Uh-huh. Somehow I can't picture pulling this off.

"Hi, I'm an aspiring author."
"What? What am I writing? Well, when a psychic kidnaps a little girl, an FBI agent fights to keep her out of custody, because the kidnapper is no criminal; she's on a rescue mission!"
"Oh, no. NO, you don't need to call security ma'am. I'll leave quietly."

But first, I get to take Big Bear on her class field trip to the airport. Yowza. I hope we get to ride the luggage conveyor. What else are we going to do? Help check I.D. cards at the security gate? Learn to look at ordinary citizens like they may be carrying dangerous substances in their underpants?

Maybe we'll see Ms. Atwood there. But then she would really think I am a stalker. Especially when I come up to her at the book signing later and say, "Hi, I'm psychic. The FBI kidnapped my book!"