My good friend Justin, editor extraordinaire at Peace Hill Press, has practically photographic recollection of historical facts. He also proofs my manuscripts for me and keeps me from making errors both small (I should have spelled that caliph’s name Al-Muizz, not al-Muzz) and embarrassingly obvious (my metaphor of Blues and Greens in Constantinople being like savage hockey-fans was apparently marred by my assumption that hockey has a half-time).
He also turned thirty this week, which meant that my husband and a small cadre of dedicated friends had to help him celebrate. Which they did by convincing him to put on a chicken suit (long story) and then kidnapping him and taking him out to dinner at the Greenleaf in Williamsburg. During Homecoming weekend.
Happy birthday, Justin.