For a year and a half, I have been receiving emails about the story of Diane Fanning in North Carolina who displayed the antithesis of southern hospitality when Candidate Obama came calling during the campaign.  At first, I freaked out, thinking that everyone who read the story would think it was about me, the true crime and mystery writer.  In a week, I decided that I was silly to be concerned.  If I just ignored it, it would go away.  But 18 months later, I am still getting email–proving the old adage that once something goes on the internet, it has eternal life.

To set the record straight, I am NOT that Diane Fanning.  I do not live in North Carolina.  I live in Texas.  I think name calling is the last resort of someone who is rude and has nothing worthwhile to say. And I’ve never been close enough to the President to speak to him.
While I’m at it, I might as well strike down a few other entries:
  • I am not the concert pianist Diana Fanning.
  • I am not the artist Diane Fanning living in Barbados.
  • I am not the Diane Fanning who cruised with her husband Jim.
  • I’m not the Diane Fanning I follow on Facebook.
However, if you see a link connecting me to scared monkeys, sewer rats or serial killers–well, yeah, that’s me.