Some of you may have noticed that I wrote a book. Ok, I kind of wrote a book. I mean, I didn’t actually write it but I had a lot of input, which is only fair since it’s about something that really happened in my life. Father, who writes spy thrillers and who is also kind of a bit player in the story, said we were both “too close to the material” to write about it. I’m not exactly sure what that means but writing a whole book sounded like a ton of work so I was happy to have him get one of his writing buddies to do it. I kind of wanted some kind of writing credit as part of the deal. I mean, it’s my story, right? Didn’t get that but my name is in the title, which is way better, I think.

Anyway, I want my loyal readers to know about the book before it becomes a big thing, which obviously it will. I probably am too close to it to give any kind of objective book review and I totally don’t want to spoil it for you because the story is pretty interesting — at least it was pretty darned interesting when I was living through it. So instead of a traditional book review, I’m just going to share some things about it from my perspective as the girl who lived it.

Let’s start with the title — “True Stories of the (mostly) Flawless Penelope Hazard.” This is not the title I approved and I remain a little bitter it changed. The title I approved did not have the word “mostly” in it, in parentheses or otherwise. Someone slipped that in just before it was published. I suspect it was Father. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am under no delusion about my flawlessness. I have flaws. Duh. Some might even say “mostly” is the kindest adjective appropriate in describing my flawlessness. I get that. The real problem here is that my actual life has more than enough people and events in it that happily point out my shortcomings. I don’t need a book title staring back at me all the time — because, again, it’s clearly going to be a hugely popular book — reminding me of all the ways in which I am not, in fact, flawless. Seriously, the universe couldn’t just give me that one thing, that one little fantasy of a world in which I am perfection itself? How is that so much to ask?

Ok, I feel better now. Good rant. Very helpful. Everything else I have to say about the book is just a quibble. “Quibble,” what a silly word. I do like the way it sounds, though, and, also, Father said it the other day about something or other and I felt compelled to look it up, so you know I’m not going to let that be wasted effort. It’s going to start showing up everywhere in my life, at least until I get bored with it — so, like, it will probably last a couple of days . . . maybe.

The first thing is more of a disclaimer than a quibble. There are two chapters describing things that happened outside my presence, which also means there are two chapters in which I am not the center of attention. I’m not crazy about that but I’m working through it. Kidding. Actually, it’s a little weird that the other thirty-something chapters are very much about me. Love the attention, obviously, but still, it’s a little weird. The point is that I feel like some serious literary license was taken in those two chapters, particularly the one near the end. Don’t misunderstand, I definitely think there is something suspicious going on with my dad and his whole “quit work to be a writer” thing, but I think his writer buddy added some stuff just to make him sound cooler than he really is.

What I will call a quibble, because I’m now totally stuck on that word, is some of the stuff in all the chapters that really are all about me. The story is definitely what happened and I was pretty open with the “author” about what was going on inside my head during all the important parts. I just feel like I come off looking a little flaky and also a little too full of myself. I refuse to admit to either of those things. I mean, I think it’s totally fair to say most adults find me adorable — maybe not as adorable as I was when I eight, but hey, I’m at an awkward age right now. And I will totally own the fact that I am, in fact, a constant delight to be around. But seriously, did the storytelling really require that much honesty? Hey, guy I just handed an awesome murder mystery story, how about a little more of a humble girl spin? Help a girl out with her image. Seriously. I mean do you have any idea how many people might be reading that thing right now? Yeah, me neither. That’s not the point.

That’s about it for quibbles. Ha, quibbles, quibbles, quibbles, quibbles. Good luck getting that out of your head now. Anyway, everything else in the book is pretty much spot on, so now you have all the information you need to prepare you to read all about me. Oh, also, I’m not 100% in love with reading and I got through the final version pretty quickly, which I hate to admit might mean it’s an easy read. TTFN.

Umm, ok, we’re done here. You should go now . . . you know, to Amazon . . . to get the book. It’s easy to find. As is true in life, there is only one (mostly) flawless Penelope Hazard on Amazon.