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The Saturday before she died, Jenna came to a signing of the Datlow anthology, Wolf At the Door. I was one of the contributors and was sitting on the far left of the table. Jenna and I chatted for a bit and, as was our wont, we joked about her thinking my Sister Light books, with its heroine White Jenna, was written for her. And I joked back (as usual) that in fact I thought I had made Jenna up.
But if I had made our Jenna up, she would have lived well into her nineties, creating books, making authors happy, running St. Martin's Press, and dispensing fairydust whenever and wherever needed.
Sometimes we need to believe in our fictions. Even when we know they are not true.
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