Sam was up bright and early the next morning. After feeding Ninja and having a little breakfast, she picked up her laptop and completely re-wrote her column. Finally satisfied, coupled with the fact that it was 9:59, she sent it off to her editor. Drinking her juice, she got out a piece of paper and made a to-do list for the day. She had to get a few last-minute groceries, then go through the Christmas decorations that had been packed away since she had moved into her new home. After her parents’ deaths, she had decided that their house was far too big for just one person. She had sold it and bought a modest little one for herself. Her parents had been very successful since their move to LA, winning numerous Emmys and being in great demand. They had left her extremely well off, the majority of which was contained in a trust fund. Wisely, they had stipulated that she would just get a small allowance from it until she was 30. However, she could sell the house if she wanted to. The other reason she didn’t want to stay there was too many memories. Good ones, for the most part, but it had simply been more than she could bear at times. It was easier to start in a new place.

Before heading out, Sam decided to check her e-mail. Logging on, she saw there was a message from her publicist, John. She sighed; it was probably her new press release for that collection of greatest columns she was compiling for a spring release. Printing the press release out, she settled in to read it and add her own comments. Naturally, the publicist wouldn’t be seeing the comments. As funny as the comments might be to herself, Sam knew John wouldn’t share her sense of humor.

Samantha Harrison is a twenty-three year old writer phenom who resides in Los Angeles. (Oh please. You just don’t know how to classify her "unique" talent.) She writes under various pseudonyms and in various genres. (She listens to the little voices in her head and they drag her every which way.)

As Miss Jane, she writes humorous musings about life in the rural South. (Who knew the trauma of my adolescence would pay off so handsomely?) Her weekly column isn’t as irreverent as Dave Barry but it strikes just the right chord between humor and angst. (Now I’m being psychoanalyzed?)

She also writes as Sam Harris. One of the premiere hard-boiled detective novelists of our time. Her hard-edge style, witty dialogue, and tantalizing twists and turns have made her works sought out by many. (They make a great beach read.)

Another area she has seen success in is the field of romance novels. You are probably familiar with Desiree Flame. She is one of today’s best-selling romance novelists – a modern day Barbara Cartland or Danielle Steele. (Yeah, like they’re that hard to write. Just follow the formula of meet, break up, and get back together and you have it made. Of course, a little bodice ripping and heavy breathing are helpful too. Just don’t try to write a porn script…people can get that cheaper and quicker from the smut stores.)

S. J. Harrison is the name you might be familiar with if you read various magazines, ranging from Reader’s Digest to Truckers International. (Heh…easy grocery money.)

Samantha is the daughter of the late Sid and Mary Harrison, who were tragically killed in a private plane accident in the summer of 2001. (Great. Just had to get that little jab in, didn’t you?)

We think that everyone will continue to hear great things from this still young and very talented writer – Samantha Harrison. (Yeah, get the name in there just one more time.)

Sam dashed an e-mail off to John, letting him know that the whole article sounded great and wishing him a Merry Christmas. She’d see him tomorrow at Stacy and Ted’s party, anyway. After getting dressed, she went out to tackle one of her most hated chores: grocery shopping.

LATER

After putting the groceries away, Sam sat down on the floor and began to open the boxes of Christmas ornaments. Each had the contents listed on the outside, along with the year which they had been purchased. All of them had been carefully wrapped in tissue paper to protect them from whatever hazards an average attic could throw at them.

The first contained ornaments she’d made in school. The kind that only parents and grandparents could love. Sam laughed at some of her creations, a reminder that art was certainly not one of her talents.

Another box held the ones her grandparents had put on the tree each year. They all brought back so many wonderful memories.

The lights for the tree were some new ones she had picked up at the store the day before. With all these things ready, Sam decorated the tree. When she finally finished, she stood back and admired her work. Immediately, Ninja poked her little black face out from among the branches of the tree. Sam sighed, gently extracting the kitten from the branches and wondering if this had been such a good idea after all.

Taking the ornament boxes back up to the attic, Sam tripped over a box that she had missed before. It had come from her grandma’s house, but she had never opened it. Curious, she sat down and tore off the tape. Inside were copies of all the stories she had written in school, along with several writing awards. In the bottom of the box was a wrapped present addressed to her, with a small card on top.

Sam: Sorry I missed you on the last day of school. Best of luck to you in California. Write to me some time and let me know how you’re doing. Hope you like this book. I remember you once said she was your favorite. Your friend, Lance.

Sam let the card drop to the floor, tearing the paper from the gift with trembling hands. Inside was a collection of Emily Dickinson’s poems, some of her favorite works.

None of it made any sense. Why had Lance sent this to her? This was going to require some serious thought.