The book party's just a memory now, and all that's left are the decorative Ugly Dolls, a few bottles of wine, and some uneaten Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

I think it went really well. I think people had a good time. The trailer for "In Her Shoes" looked spectacular. The girl had a ball rolling around on one of the beds and consorting with the dolls and her aunt and uncles. And my agent could have a thriving second career as a party planner.

Other than that, it was kind of a blur of smiles and congratulations. Sort of like my wedding, without the hora, or one of the guests sneaking into the bridal room to breast feed. ("And here I thought the only breasts I'd be seeing tonight would be yours," my husband of ten minutes said.)

My favorite moment of the party was meeting thriller writer Gregg Hurwitz, and asking him the titles of his books.

"The Kill Clause...Minutes to Burn...The Tower..."

"Oh," I said. "So the kind of books where the cat solves the crime!"

I'll have more B.E.A. roundup later, and a response to Curtis Sittenfeld's takedown of Melissa Bank's THE WONDER SPOT -- the only write-up I can remember where, if you listen closely enough, you can actually hear the reviewer's lips pursing in prim distaste. (It was marginally kinder than Joe Queenan's review of A.J. Jacobs, I guess -- Sittenfeld didn't call Bank a jackass; she just implied that she's a slut. Progress!)

Meanwhile, I wrote a piece for my old paper, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the first in an occasional series about my adventures in Hollywood. Enjoy!