Earlier this week, this happened:

I still remember my first one. Back then, we were notified by a phone call. I'm pretty sure I broke the poor woman's eardrum with my scream. That was the only time I screamed at the news. Every time since then, I've sobbed happy, grateful tears. Now, we're notified by email, so only my husband gets to witness my tears. 

We don't know who else is nominated until the official announcement. 

I have so many wonderful readers who are cheering me on. "This is your year!" they say. I smile and silently remind myself of Einstein's definition of insanity: "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." Of course, I always hope to hear my name called. Part of me has an irrational lust to possess one of those Agatha teapots, but I'm well aware that the true honor is in the nomination. I've shared the stage with Louise Penny, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Ellen Byron, Margaret Maron, and many other deserving authors. This year, Tara Laskowski, Ellen Byron, Gigi Pandian, and Korina Moss are my fellow nominees.

Sidenote: They all have teapots. All of them.