Finding true posterity

I have achieved true fame.

Nope, it's not that I've won the Pulitzer. I haven't hit this week's NYT Best Seller list. Oprah hasn't asked me to be on her series finale.

But all the same, I AM somebody.

Today I found out that an eighth grader is doing a report for her English class. The assignment? Write about a Georgia author.

The author?

That would be yours truly.

Ahem. I'd like to thank the academy --

Oh, wait. That's for another honor altogether, isn't it?

In all seriousness, I am a bit swimmy-eyed at the thought of myself being the topic for some student's English paper. It isn't often that romance authors are considered serious enough authors to be the topic of a paper, and kudos to her teacher for not exhibiting any prejudice or bias just because I'm one of those "trashy romance writers."

I suppose I am more than a little sadistic in taking glee from the idea that some poor innocent kid is slaving over a word processor, writing about me and my books and my writing and how it relates to Georgia. But then, I am a former teacher, and they don't allow you into any self-respecting school of education if you don't get a buzz off giving a pop quiz. Twisted, yes, I may be, but in the nicest possible way.

Perhaps this is the first wave in romance authors getting the respect we deserve. So what if we don't end our books in bleak desperation, a la Flaubert in his MADAME BOVARY? We give value for the money, a happily ever after on demand. So hopefully somewhere there's another English teacher who is assigning a student a paper on some other writer -- and hopefully that teacher will let the student go ahead and write about an addicted-to-HEAs romance author.

Until then, well, I'm just basking in my new-found fame. I just hope the student's dog doesn't eat me.