5
“Please, Gretchen, please don’t bring up the journal.”
She looks at me, finger hovering over the doorbell. Laughter and conversation float through a cracked window. Moths flit crazily around the porch light, hairy little addicts seeking their fix.
Maybe because Gretch can see the fear in my eyes or the lack of color in my cheeks, she relents. “Fine. But if they ask you what you write, and they will, don’t tell them you write obituaries. Tell them you’re experimenting with women’s fiction right now until you find your voice.”
“I write other stuff.” She doesn’t know about Jaina Jacen—my pen name. Star Wars geeks will know those names—the twin children of Hans Solo and Princess Leia. Fortunately, Gretchen wouldn’t figure this out if I punched her with a Star Wars encyclopedia. I almost
