In October, 2002, I stood across the street from the old HarperCollins Building at 10 East 53rd Street in midtown Manhattan and pointed it out to my traveling companions. “Someday,” I intoned tearfully, “Someday my novels will be published there.” “Great,” my husband said pointing at our cranky three-year-old in her stroller. “I think Layla needs a new Pull-up.” He was probably thinking, And someday, I shall pilot the space shuttle. The odds of either happening, we both knew, were about equal.
