It’s time for a confession. For years now, I’ve harbored a secret addiction. I’m not talking about my addiction to books. For writers, a book fetish simply goes with the territory. Right now, my nightstand is piled so high with books that if the stack toppled and fell on my foot, I’d end up with several broken toes. You understand what I’m talking about. Probably your nightstand is in the same condition. If not, you wouldn’t spend your time reading Fresh Fiction blogs, would you? No, the addiction I’m talking about is much more personal and insidious. Until recently, I’ve been in denial but the time has come to face the truth. I’m addicted – to fabric. I’m a quilter, Dear Reader, and I’ve got it bad. My home in New England is loaded with quilt shops and I can’t bypass any of them. There is a particular store in the wilds of New Hampshire that I been known to drive three hours out of my way to visit. Not three hours round trip – I’m talking three hours each way! Imagine how that went over with my kids, who thought they were just taking a little drive to see…