Not that it's anything less than an honor to be accidentally referred to as "Miss Snark." I have, after all, created this blog in response to Miss Snark's influence on my writing.
But please. Please don't call me Miss Snark. I don't strive to "be" her; I never meant to step into her stilettos.
Now, I'm not being testy. (Or snarky, as it were.) I'm just treading lightly on hallowed ground. (Well, that's a bit melodramatic.) Miss Snark singlehandedly changed the agent/author playing field. She reached from behind the sacred curtains and bestowed knowledge, insight, correction, and, when nobody was looking, kindness.
(I know this is true. She once sent me a "hug" in an email.)
Hundreds (nay, thousands) of writers mourned the shutting down of her blog. It's still out there, archived. So the wealth of information is available to you even today. My lil' blog is not a diluted attempt to add to or supplant Miss Snark's trove of writerly treasure.
I'm only pointing this out because I've been addressed as "Miss Snark" in emails now and again, and I've been listed on blog rolls as "Miss Snark." So might you, dear whoever-you-ares, make that teeny-tiny change for me?
Because I am starting to have nightmares about bereaved, sycophantic Snarklings coming after me with cleavers and poisoned quill pens, mouths frothing, eyes rolling, soulless voices chanting in surreal unison.
Death to the mocker! Death to the mocker!
I'm certain that none of you want my blood on your hands.
And anyway, George Clooney is too old for me.
And I hate dogs. Especially poodles, which aren't really dogs, anyway.
That about covers it. I'm terribly fond of my readers (am I the only writer who forms emotional attachments to her readers? Surely not...) and I simply want to make the distinction between who I'm honoring and who I am.
I am Authoress. For better, for worse, for no clearly marked purpose.
Thanks. I feel better now.