So while I am practically drowning in the pool (thank you, Laura), my compatriot, Chopf, informed me that the premise of my book, (here's the plug) Star-crossed: Secrets, sounds just like the premise of the TV show, Roswell.
To which I sputtered and wheezed in horror. More so. Not that I thought I was being totally original, but still.
But really, maybe that isn't terrible. I could market it: "Did you love the 1990s show Roswell? Then you'll love the book, Star-crossed:Secrets." I could even link them on Amazon...
Nah.
But, really, does it matter? How many novels have I picked up where young girl meets mysterious guy who, shockingly enough, turns out to be a werewolf-vampire-troll-angel-gnome-used car salesmen and yet I keep reading. Eagerly. The formula works, because the formula works. Just because my dreamy alien isn't the first dreamy alien doesn't mean he isn't dreamy.
And, yes, my title is stolen from Futurama. Which is awesome beyond compare.
Pardee, out.
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