Errors. I make errors. I make stacks and stacks of errors.

But usually not so many as are in CAGE OF STARS. Some are minute and intentional, such as the real nature of St. George, Utah. I wanted to portray it as a more REMOTE place than it really is. But some are unintententional, such as not knowing that all future children are "sealed" to their parents during marriage and only baptized later. There are other errors that we simply didn't catch -- that make me want to cut off my own eyelashes, such as having Grandmas alive and then dead and then alive.

It makes me feel contrite, and like a slob, and I am not.

Some of this is necessay in a novel -- as a friend once said when a portion of her tale let the husband sell their farm while the wife was temporarily in jail, which could not have happened in a community-property state, "It's fiction!"

I do the same thing.

In that friend's novel, Iit wouldn't have worked if they'd had a discussion about the sale: It was meant to be a betrayal. So you have to forgive her that trespass as part of the wonderr of that book. In my next book, how far and fast a sailboat can drift without power is a matter of weather and location: I simply had to pick a way and follow it. It might not be accurate in every situation, but it is the choice in the universe of that book. That's not the kind of mistake to which I'm referring, nor am I asking for comments on how someone SHOULD have acted in a given situation. That's an author's choice.

But I don't like to offend people with errors, even if I offend them with notions. And so those of you who notice errors in CAGE OF STARS -- those who are Mormons and those who are not -- and who care about such things, please write to me care of this website and I'll incorporate your changes as best I can into the large paperback edition of the novel, out next May.

Large format paperbarcks are what most readers will see, anyhow, since book clubs like to use them. So if you WANT this novel more accurate to reflect the sense if not the geography of Mormon life, help me instead of blustering about it and I'll do as you ask.

Though most Mormons were very positive about this book, I want everyone to be -- well not EVERYONE; people who don't like my writing will always be displeased -- but to do the best I can. You have months, until perhaps Thanksgiving, to send me your comments. So please do.

And I'll be grateful.

Jackie M.

A nasty little fellow once wrote, in an inadvertently comical review of one of my novels, that expecting good writing from Jacquelyn Mitchard was like expecting champagne at the McDonald's drive-through.

I wonder what he would have to say about the new deal Mitch Albom's publisher has made for his upcoming novel, which I believe is called JUST ONE MORE DAY, to be sold at Starbucks -- STARBUCKS! -- for two months. Starbucks -- the coffee shop on every street corner, in every bookstore, strip mall, airport and train station in the known universe.

Be still, my wanton heart.

Despite the fact that Mitch Albom is a magnificent human being and wonderful writer, whose two previous books have earned more money than God has pockets, I admit that I felt a tremor of slimy green envy upon hearing this news.

I mean, going to Starbucks is a form of near-religious ritual for some people (I am one); and the chance to order a Grande Sugar Free Vanillla Latte with skim and a side of Mitch Albom's new novel is one of those things that makes the rest of our souls shrink a little bit with longing. It's like a gimme on the golf course that turned into a hole in one. It's like a three-pointer sunk from under the opposite team's basket. It's like finding that the annoying piece of paper stuck to your shoe is a $206 million Power ball ticket.

Not that money matters to writers.

We're the only group of artisans on earth who do what we do for pure joy... I think. We do it for the pure joy even when it gives us acid reflux and keeps us awake nights, sours our friendships and puts permanent furrows between our eyebrows and permanent kinks in our necks, We're always being told that we should quit whining and try getting REAL jobs, because what we do isn't really work.

Even my kids tell me this: One said, "You have an idea and you write it down. WOW! That's HARD!"

I think it is harder for me than it is for Mitch Albom, for example, if the proof is in the pudding ... er, the Mocha Frappacino.

I can't help having this sinking feeling despite wishing Mr. Albom all good things (our wishes being, as it were, coals to Newcastle in this case).

Given the difficulty of selling novels -- unless you happen not to be Mitch Albom or Dan Brown -- and the consternation that publishers seem to feel about exactly how to sell more of them, I can see the attractiveness of the Starbucks-as-venue plan. Coffee once was called the "think drink." Put coffee and books together and voila!

Yep, voila!

But being a plucky sort of person, since Starbucks has not asked for me (although my own slim volume, CHRISTMAS, PRESENT will be re-published this holiday season and I'm, er, available, sniffle, sob...) I want to take that arch little reviewer's suggestion now.

I want to offer myself up to McDonald's or any other fast-food franchise.

I don't mean my "self" precisely -- I do mean my next novel. Or any of the others. Or one I haven't thought of as yet

Despite the fact that this yearning may not square with the longing of the true artist to be obscure and pure, I am so cheey that I might thrill to hearing millions of voices say, "I'd like a Number Three with a large fry and a copy of Jacquelyn Mitchard's novel, please..."

A cosmetics company (mail-order or otherwise) also may wish to offer my books, at a discount with a five-pack of lipgloss.

I have written some nice stories for the Lands End gang, and would be happy to be item number JGM11 in the summer cagalogue next year.

That lovely, literary little catalogue that feautres witty little stories a la 'Casablanca' along with suave shirts and sophisticated dresses can have me as well. "Spotted poolside at a gated enclave in the Hamptons, in the clutches of an enraptured countess so absorbed that her daquiri went flat, this novel of suspense and secret lives can now be your very own poolside companion..."

I'm not complaining, I hasten to add, about my publisher, which is a wonderful publisher where everyone does his or her darndest to sell my novels. And of course, selling them isn't the point, is it? Writing them is.

But having people read them isn't all bad, either.

Starbucks? Please throw water on me before I boil.

Jackie M.