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it’s the fame part that bugs me most. I don’t just want to be a writer. I want to be able to tell people I’m a writer, and have them say, “Oh, you wrote that?”
    Because here’s another thing about being a writer: every time you tell someone you’re a writer, someone asks what they’d know of yours. It gets pretty sad saying, “nothing,” for years on end.
    Hopefully, some of these awesome marketing strategies I picked up today will pay off with more sales. Lots more sales. A single hit, I’m not greedy. As long as it’s a New York Times bestselling hit for a year, that is. Maybe, eventually, one day, I can stop nicking bottles of free wine from my neighbor.
    Hahaha, who am I kidding? The best wine is free wine. Extra money now goes towards the “Employ Jane Full-Time Fund.”
    But all joking aside, I could maybe trade in my eco-destroying ’92 Buick. Don’t get me wrong, Betty Boop and I have been through a lot, but after a while, things like working air conditioning stops becoming a luxury in the heat of summer. In the humid heat of summer. There is no relief in the shade in Midwestern humidity.
    Behind the luscious bartender, I spy a group of women coming into the bar and my heart races. It’s Bethany Bonafont and her entourage, otherwise known as the Queens of Hearts, ladies consistently on the New York Times bestseller list. Their books inspired me to start writing. After sobbing and masturbating and laughing and cheering and maybe a little more masturbating, I decided to write my own books. Three years later, here I am. All thanks to them.
    My heart might actually win the race by exploding out of my chest.
    This has to be my year to finally break into the circle and make friends. I want to glean their secrets and break out of the dreaded Midlist Purgatory I’ve been stuck in. Maybe with enough hard-earned money, they’ll get wasted and spill the deets.
    “Hey!” I wave to them from across the bar. “We doing shots or what?”
    “Oh.” Bethany looks back at the others. “We’re just…looking for someone.”
    “I guess they aren’t here.” Karen Star pretends to look around, that bad-actress bitch.
    Bethany grabs Karen’s arm. “Oh well. Bye!”
    I jump up. “Wait…”
    They scurry off. Just like last year. And the year before. Damn it! All of them behave like cockroaches around me. I throw back the rest of my wine and order another glass. Queens of Hearts, my ass. More like Queens of Bitches. They barely even looked at me.
    I take off my badge and throw it in my purse. So Randi Rose isn’t good enough for them? Well, they aren’t good enough for Miranda Rosenstein. Eat that, Queens of Asses. Out of spite, I order two chocolate cake shots and take them one after the other. Although I’m not sure who got taught a lesson there. I basically just enjoyed two shots.
    “They don’t tip very well.” Hot Bartender leans across the bar conspiratorially. “And you know shitty tippers are shitty people.”
    “I like you. Give me another pair of shots, please, Hot Bartender.”
    He winks and whips up the shots with an experienced hand. I look around for someone new to take a shot with, so I’m not that sad girl who was just snubbed by a bunch of elite bitches who think they are so much better than everyone else even though they all started where I am and fuck them because one day I’ll be there with them and I won’t snub anyone and…
    Anyway. The bar is practically empty because everyone is likely at the Entwined party. I kick myself for not going straight off. I’m here to network, and Entwined is on my short list. I could have avoided this whole scene. By now, everyone is probably swarming the editors, and they’ve heard all they can possibly stand for pitches. I fucked up. And now I am just going to take both shots because I’ve already decided I’m Ubering home.
    As I’m picking up my first tiny glass, I happen to glance left and do a double take. One of the cover models is