Hello, Fresh Fiction! As I’m writing this, Tropical Storm/Hurricane Fay is barreling towards lucky south Florida, and nobody is sure where she’s going to hit. This means that I am not writing outside at the wrought-iron table, looking at the water. It means that I have piled that wrought-iron table, along with all the chairs, chaises, potted plants, plant stands, decorative garden objects and my husband’s green froggy ashtray into the formal living room . . . which is now not looking quite so formal. A pool net will do wonders for anybody’s décor, know what I mean? I’ve been wrestling with hurricane shutters, making room in the garage for the cars and hitting the grocery store, gas station and ATM like every other person around here. It’s probably all a lot of overkill, but you can never be sure. And I have a friend who writes weather-related thrillers which keep me up at night, so I take these little ole hurricanes seriously. Typical writer, though: I’m so glad that I met my revisions deadline on Friday, because now if rogue electricity streaks, say, from a window to my coffee table, through the couch, around the doorframe, down the pool…