I’m not one to be doing a daily post – daily – but this one’s different. I’ve been wanting to write to Stan Wischnowski, the Executive Editor of the Philadelphia Inquirer, but who am I and would he even listen? So… to get it off my chest, I dedicate this post to Mr. Wischnowski.
I am a huge fan of Lisa Scottoline, published author and Philadelphia Inquirer Sunday columnist. But here’s my gripe. I don’t know what Ms. Scottoline is getting for her column, Chick Wit, which is sometimes funny, sometimes hysterical, and sometimes, well, ok, but I think I could do this. I think I could write the same material for half the price and twice a week at that! I mean, I have pets I could write volumes about, and a 90 year old mom that would keep readers in stitches for days on end. Not to rival Ms. Scottoline, but I’ve also got the two ex-husband senario going for me, and a list of ex-boyfriends whose stories I could weave into gut-busters. So what’s the deal? Does a person have to be famous to, ah, get famous? Does a person have to have “experience” in order to get experience? Kind of a catch 22 if you ask me.
Not to be redundant, but I love Lisa Scottoline. Her novel, Look Again, kept me on the edge of my seat and begging for more. I even went to one of her book signings at Barnes and Noble in Cherry Hill, NJ and waited in line to get a picture of myself, with, yes, a famous author. I have no shame when it comes to well-knowns, probably because I AM NOT ONE! The line was ridiculous, but I got a book, a signature, and a photo of my husband, Lisa, myself, and Lisa’s now slightly famous daughter, Francesca, who sometimes writes the Inquirer column for her mom. I guess celebrities get too busy sometimes. I would never be too busy! I promise!
In closing I’d like to say, I have nothing against Ms. Scottoline or her beautiful and talented daughter. I continue to read the column. Her books are still on my shelf, and I will never stop doing The Inquirer’s Sudoku daily while nibbling on my toast. But, if Lisa ever gets busy to the point of “I can’t do this anymore”, give me a holler. My dog, my mom, my exes, and my sense of humor are waiting. Just sayin’.
Respectfully – to one and all mentioned in this communication,