Sometimes, in the long and mostly solitary days in the life of a writer, one may wish for a sign that one is following the correct path.
One may, while preparing the evening meal, be second-guessing a whole lot of stuff. Until one reaches into the bag of potatoes and pulls out The Heart Shaped Potato! Yes, I took a picture of a potato...on a fancy pillow. No, it did not go into the mashed potatoes that I made to go with meatloaf.
But hey--back to the matter at hand. Is this a sign? Does this mean I'm meant to be a romance author?
Or is it just the beginnings of potato soup later this week?