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counter was my friend Becky, whod starting slinging coffees there a little more than a year ago, she was wearing a teasingly vexed expression. "What was that about yesterday?" she asked with a chuckle as she made my tea. "Who were those guys?" "Well the blond one was some doctor from down the street," I waved my hand dismissively. "But I was hoping you could tell me who the dark-haired one was." "Cute, kinda shaggy?" Becks laughed. "No clue, he comes in here a few times a week and orders a double espresso. Actually, I think he might be a writer, hes usually armed with a few manuscripts and a notebook." I tried not to look surprised. "Well, he might be cute, but hes an ass." Becks giggled. "Why do you say that?" I recounted the previous afternoons events, from his reading my story to his eavesdropping to the startling sidewalk kiss; the look on Beckys face was precious. "He kissed you? Right there on the street? And walked away? What the hell?" I couldnt help but laugh. "Yeah, and to top it all off, I was up half the night thinking about it. I couldnt even write." I didnt tell her that all my fumbling attempts at resurrecting the love scene between my heavily muscled Aidan and busty Lena were wiped out by the mental image of the dark-haired stranger between my own legs. It had been a little disturbing to say the least. I settled myself at my usual table, pulled out my laptop, and flicked it on. The half-empty screen of my story wavered blankly in front of me, mocking my every attempt at finishing what had begun so promisingly the day before. But nothing worked, and Aidan, Lena, and I remained unfulfilled. Finally, after two hours of staring at the screen, typing six words, erasing them, and then retyping some other crap over and over again, I gave up and went home for the day. Day after day continued in much the same manner and my deadline loomed large. I screwed my courage to the proverbial sticking-place and called my editor who grudgingly granted me a few days reprieve when I lied and told her Id been sick. The only sickness affecting me had been a gloomy, uncharacteristic malaise brought on by thinking too much of the dark-haired man and drinking too much tea while I waited for the writers block to pass. "Can you come by the office today though?" Linda asked her voice cheerful. "Theres a letter here for you." "A what?" I croaked in disbelief. "A letter Imogen, its what people used to send each other before emails. Its here on my desk." Linda sounded amused. "Someone slipped it through the mail slot last night." "Sure," I agreed. "And maybe we can talk about those revisions to the initial chapters that you suggested." "Ill pencil you in," Linda promised brightly. The subway ride to Lindas office was long and tedious, but it wasnt like I was getting anything accomplished sitting at home suffering from writers block. So


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Linda and I had our little chat, she gave me a few pointers on my struggles with punctuation, and I left feeling better about my book and in possession of a small white envelope with my name scribbled across the front in a bold, dark hand. I took my new-found enthusiasm for the publishing world and my letter to the park down the street from Lindas office; sitting on a bench in the shade I ripped open the envelope hastily. Imogen; Use a semicolon between closely related independent clauses not joined by a coordinating conjunction. When related independent clauses appear in one sentence, they are ordinarily connected with a comma and a coordinating conjunction (and, but, or, nor, for, so, yet). The conjunction expresses the relation between the clauses. If the relation is clear without the conjunction, a writer may choose to connect the clauses with a semicolon instead. A semicolon must be used whenever a coordinating conjunction has been omitted between independent clauses. To use merely a comma creates an error known as a comma splice. And its fellatio – two ls. Linda tells me the book is scheduled to be released next July; I look forward to finally reading it. I dropped the letter like it burned me and sat in stunned silence, my brain whirling furiously. I picked it up and reread it twice. There was no signature, no return address, nothing to indicate whod written it, but I knew and I wanted to kick him in his smug shins. I reread it again, hating every black stroke of ink which snaked confidently across the page. And then I wanted to kick myself for not realizing it sooner; he knew Linda.
I dropped the letter like it burned me and sat in stunned silence, my brain whirling furiously. I picked it up and reread it twice. There was no signature, no return address, nothing to indicate whod written it, but I knew and I wanted to kick him in his smug shins. I reread it again, hating every black stroke of ink which snaked confidently across the page. And then I wanted to kick myself for not realizing it sooner; he knew Linda. I crammed the note into my purse and took off up the street at a quick jog, running up four flights of stairs to Lindas office. She looked surprised to see me back so soon. "Who have you spoken to about me lately?" I asked with a gasp. She stared blankly at me for a moment. "A few people; its my job to talk about you, Imogen. Is something wrong?" I waved the note in front of her, but wouldnt let her read it. "Do you know someone with dark, shaggy hair who doesnt like to shave?" "My eighteen year-old son?" Linda looked as confused as she sounded. I shook my head. "No, someone older, someone in publishing maybe. Did you talk to anyone like that about me this week?" "Well..." Linda paused, thinking. Every cell in my body strained, desperate for her to think faster. "Simeon