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Friday, July 7th, 1961, evening.
The Popular Fiction Publishing Awards, the Algonquin Hotel, the Oak Room.
[From here.]
I'm looking forward to this dinner much more than I expected. Awards ceremonies are always dull, but I normally quite enjoy the ritual around them and the schmoozing afterward, but I've been thinking a lot this week about my daughter and my ex-wife and have not exactly been in the best spirits for a party. But now Syl is on my arm, looking remarkably glamorous, and I think it may actually be a fun night.
There's a photographer waiting outside the hotel when we get out of the cab, which is unexpected but quite amusing. I'm sure he's just from Publishers Weekly, but when he snaps us going in I can be sure that we'll be one of the most glamorous couples photographed tonight.
"We might even end up on the front page," I say to Syl, raising my eyebrows. "If the editors can bear to let popular fiction get above page 10, that is."
The Popular Fiction Publishing Awards, the Algonquin Hotel, the Oak Room.
[From here.]
I'm looking forward to this dinner much more than I expected. Awards ceremonies are always dull, but I normally quite enjoy the ritual around them and the schmoozing afterward, but I've been thinking a lot this week about my daughter and my ex-wife and have not exactly been in the best spirits for a party. But now Syl is on my arm, looking remarkably glamorous, and I think it may actually be a fun night.
There's a photographer waiting outside the hotel when we get out of the cab, which is unexpected but quite amusing. I'm sure he's just from Publishers Weekly, but when he snaps us going in I can be sure that we'll be one of the most glamorous couples photographed tonight.
"We might even end up on the front page," I say to Syl, raising my eyebrows. "If the editors can bear to let popular fiction get above page 10, that is."