I love how popular authors seem to run out of meaningful people to whom to dedicate their books. At first, it’s spouses and kids, teachers and literary giants who have taught them the love of story, those on whose shoulders they have stood. It’s all, “For Jane. Your love gives wings to these dreams.”
Flash forward 20 books or so, and they’re like, “For Jim at Marty’s Meats. Hardly anyone in the greater Hoboken area makes a corned beef sandwich like you.”
Sad, really.
The Thread 