Unfortunately, not as a published author, but as a character:
Lucille used to look on the pines, watch them turn black against the horizon as the earth turned away from the sun, one cigarette after another, coffee making her hands shake or gin inviting her to hum Willie Nelson tunes before the spectacle. (p. 158)
If you’ve been with me here at Spinning for the last three years, you’ll surely recognize the similarities.
Only my name’s not Lucille.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology