I should have known better.

Fame and fortune and legions of adoring fans? As if. As if that was really what I wanted.

I’m a writer. A ridiculously successful one. Think the JK Rowling of the romance lit world, and there I am. People love me.

Well, no. They don’t, really. See, when you get right down to it, that’s what I was after, wasn’t I?


I thought about being famous, about having fans, and I felt a beautiful warm glow spread through my middle. Deep down, I thought I’d be loved. Finally.

There’s no love.

I took all my longings for love, romance and relationships, and I poured them into my novels.

Obviously there are a lot of other women out there feeling the same way, because my novels were – are – a runaway success. I’m rich. I’m world-famous.

I’m miserable.

It’s stupid, isn’t it? Most writers I know are, at heart, quiet and shy. We make up our own worlds and we live in them better than we live in the real world. We imagine fame as a beautiful, fulfilling goal.

My fans don’t love me, though. They think they do – maybe they do love my work – but really, they just want a piece of me. A piece of the Pansy Applegate pie. They come up to me on the street and in the supermarket and at the post office and they demand their piece of pie. The piece of me that they earnt by reading my books, loving my work, writing me letters. Because they loved what I did for them, they demand yet more, and never understand that their money doesn’t make them deserving of yet another piece of my pie. I’ve only got so many pieces, and they refuse to understand when I’m all out of myself and have nothing left to give.



“Forgotten her fans.”

“Doesn’t give a shit.”

They’re right.

I don’t.


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