Dear John Grisham,

I have to be honest with you. For a long time, you annoyed me with your “Note from the Author” where you would complain about research and you wanted me to just accept that you took creative liberties in making things up.

(Like teens with cell phones in 1998. Yeah, haven’t let go of it yet.)

Until recently. Like, today. I can now write you this and tell you that I understand. I have been going through my first attempt at a novel, and I suddenly get it. There’s a lot of shit I “have” to research too. I don’t know anything about owning an art gallery. I don’t even know anything about art. And now one of my characters is going to be an associate producer at a television station. Don’t know anything about that either. And doing the research to get a better grasp on it is just so time consuming (read: boring).

So, John (yes, I believe I have earned the right to refer to you by first name), I just thought I should let you know that I officially forgive you. You can make up all the shit you want. Because your stories are still incredible.

Except for the cell phone thing. I mean come on. That doesn’t take research. That takes being alive in 1998. Which I know you totally were.

Much Love,

Roxanne

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