Shelly Fralic celebrates The Vancouver Sun
The face of Shelley Fralic is of course familiar to me, since I see it every morning in the paper. But I was surprised when she said I looked familiar.
"Where do I know you from?"
I was mystified. Told her the closest I had been to her was when she gave an address to the Editors' Association of Canada, and I was in the audience.
At Black Bond Books in Surrey, she was signing copies of her book, Making Headlines, I00 Years of The Vancouver Sun (2012), when I approached the counter.
There was a lull in the lineup so we chatted briefly about her recent Christmas Stocking story. I asked her to inscribe and sign my book, and took a card out of my pocket to show her the spelling.
"Oh, you're a writer."
"Well, I'm definitely allowed to call myself a writer now," I said, surprised that I felt no inner qualm or cringe as the words left my mouth. "I just finished a draft of my novel."
To my delight, Shelley looked pleased. "Have you got a publisher yet?"
"Not yet."
"What's it about?" she asked, and I began to talk about my theme, family secrets against a background of national secrets. Just then, her mobile rang, and she excused herself to answer. Some uncertainty about whether what she had written in someone's book had been what they wanted inscribed.
"Well, let me know when it's published," she said.
How very kind, I thought as I walked away. And remembered, we never did figure where we'd met before.
"Where do I know you from?"
I was mystified. Told her the closest I had been to her was when she gave an address to the Editors' Association of Canada, and I was in the audience.
At Black Bond Books in Surrey, she was signing copies of her book, Making Headlines, I00 Years of The Vancouver Sun (2012), when I approached the counter.
There was a lull in the lineup so we chatted briefly about her recent Christmas Stocking story. I asked her to inscribe and sign my book, and took a card out of my pocket to show her the spelling.
"Oh, you're a writer."
"Well, I'm definitely allowed to call myself a writer now," I said, surprised that I felt no inner qualm or cringe as the words left my mouth. "I just finished a draft of my novel."
To my delight, Shelley looked pleased. "Have you got a publisher yet?"
"Not yet."
"What's it about?" she asked, and I began to talk about my theme, family secrets against a background of national secrets. Just then, her mobile rang, and she excused herself to answer. Some uncertainty about whether what she had written in someone's book had been what they wanted inscribed.
"Well, let me know when it's published," she said.
How very kind, I thought as I walked away. And remembered, we never did figure where we'd met before.