I’m sure it looks gorgeous to you, but it makes me want to gag.  Literally.

There’s no getting away from peanuts, no matter how hard I try.  That was the point of an article I wrote and published in Living Without Magazine‘s 2006 winter issue.  It was called Fighting Back, and was more about fighting back my fears than fighting the omni-prevalence of peanuts.  It was my first glossy sale, and I sent my Grandpa a contributer’s copy of the magazine–only to spend the next several years wishing I had a copy for myself.  It sold out early, and was impossible to find.  I finally had to have the editors xerox a copy of the pages so at least I had something to use as credits.

That all changed today.  Yippee!

In honor of cleaning out my basement and finding a long-lost copy of the magazine that I didn’t know I had, I’m putting together a top five list of things you should know about someone with a peanut allergy:

1. No, I’m not making this up.  You’d be surprised how often this comes up–and it makes me laugh every time.  If I was going to pretend a food allergy, you can bet I’d choose brussel sprouts or cabbage, not peanuts!
2. Yes, I carry an epipen.  Yes, I’m still going to ask you to put your peanuts away. In all fairness, this one probably only comes up cause people don’t understand what an epipen does–and doesn’t do.  They think that if I have my epipen, I can still be around peanuts and I’m fine.  And that’s true.  I’m fine so long as I quickly stab myself with a elephant-sized needle and call 911, then spend the rest the day twiddling my thumbs while they pump benadryl into me through an iv.  So…yeah.  You still might want to hold off on the peanuts til I’m gone.
3. Sure, eat peanuty treats on the plane.  But don’t blame me if we have to make an unscheduled landing. This is the one that bites the most, and I apologize to anyone and everyone who packed their kids a peanut butter sandwich and then got on a plane with me.  But, the truth is, if you eat peanuts or peanut butter on a plane you are raising the risk that your plane will have to make an emergency landing if there is someone on board with a peanut allergy.  Sorry about that–I don’t like my flying either.
4. Isn’t a peanut allergy kind of a kid thing?  What’s with you? Wellll…haven’t you noticed yet that I’m not exactly grown up? lol  Seriously, not everyone outgrows their peanut allergy.  Mine has gotten worse the older I get.  Go figure.
5. Don’t you realize how annoying you are? Umm, yeah.  I kinda picked up on that the first sixteen dozen times I had to push myself into other people’s lives and ask them to put away their child’s snack or clear the class/plane/conference of peanut foods.  I get it, I really do.  But, I’ve also made up my mind that I have a right to live and move safely in public and you can choose a different snack.  So, I’m not going away, but I will smile and I will apologize and when possible, I’ll offer a snack of my own as an alternative.  Preferably clean dark chocolate!

There you have it.  And just to show that the peanut eaters and the peanut allergic can live peaceably and coexist, I’m dedicating this post to the fabulous folks at my daughter’s school, who always make me feel welcome and watch my peanut-free back, and the good people of Guinea Fowl International, who recently showed grace and ingenuity under pressure when I sprang my peanut-allergy surprise on them the first day of our conference.  They and so many others have shown me sympathy, understanding, and an open mind, for which I am grateful.  Thank you so much–and enjoy!

Our latest addition to the animal brood is four gerbil sisters, adopted just shy of a week ago.  We’re calling them the Spice Sisters.

Salt, Pepper, Ginger and Curry.  You can tell it’s Ginger and not Curry because she has the white on her tummy.  If you can’t tell Salt and Pepper apart, you need more help than I can give you.

We’ve been planning and scheming in this direction since the middle of December, and talked about a rabbit, hamster, guinea pig (for some reason, our guinea fowl nixed that one–afraid of the competition, if you ask me) and penguins.  Of course we had to veto that last one, as we haven’t been officially declared a zoo.

When we settled on gerbils, we planned to bring home three if they were boys, two if they were girls.  That’s what the books recommended, and it sounded good to us.  Somehow that multiplied into four girls…which may be why one proposed set of names for them was One, Two, Three, and Five.  Cause that’s they way we do math.

The first day we set up the tank, their new home looked like this:

It’s got a wheel, food dish (buried), water bottle, house, and a few toys.  Not bad, for their first day home.

Less than a week later, their pad looks like this:

It’s got all of the above, plus a new and improved chewable house and two extra levels with a hammock, rolly house, sand dish, bottle cave, and more toys.

Remember what I said about our kind of math?  Well, I think it applies to English, too.  We now have an official new term for the kind of expansion you see in the second picture.  It’s called gerbling.

Gerbling [gerb-ling]  The act of sitting before a gerbil tank, watching the gerbils.  Also, adding to the gerbil tank, planning new gerbil items, or creating new gerbil toys.

We’ve also found that gerbling can be addictive, and needs a regular ‘fix.’  Should I be concerned?

And that’s a beautiful example and a fine tribute.  Today, however, my thoughts are a little closer to home as I think of my Grandpa and my brother, Jake.  I see each of them standing tall and proud in their uniforms, one Air Force and the other Army.  The picture of Grandpa is an old black and white photo, while my brother’s is in color and has a glossy sheen.  Overlaid across the pictures and scribbled around the images are memories.

Grandpa and me, walking down that dirt road from his house to the farm, carrying milk buckets and looking at the stars.  He’d tell me about the constellations, and I’d mix them up, but I’d remember the sense of discovery and wonder in his voice, and the knowledge that he loved me. 

My brother, fresh home from his second tour, showing me pictures of buddies in uniform, the little cat they adopted, the desert and sand and something burning in the night.  Holding other pictures back, knowing they were too raw, too violent.  His understanding that I couldn’t look at them even though he lived them.

Grandpa, his voice a little gravely as he reads us a story he’s written.  It’s about a little mountain goat and though it hasn’t got any spaceships or magic, I feel myself go still as I listen.

My brother, back when we were kids and I was the big sister he could always sucker into reading stories.  I loved the way he listened, the thrill of bringing the story to life with my voice.  We always took time for ‘just one more.’

Thank you to veterans, and to their families, and thank you to my veterans.  Your choice to protect this country is woven up in my story, and in my ability to tell stories.  I am grateful today–and every day.

But this year, I’ve been inspired by a master, and don’t know what to do!  Check out these pumpkins, carved by Tim Trudeon at the state fair!

He did hour-long demonstrations, showing us how he finds the face within the pumpkin,

and brings it out by removing the pumpkin skin and pulp around it.  I don’t know if he usually names his carvings, but this fellow was dubbed Grumpy Guy by our family.  Isn’t he just so sad?

Now I have a big, beautiful pumpkin…and the burning desire to carve something spectacular.  Unfortunately, I suspect it takes more than a burning desire.  I suspect it takes skill.  Plus, it helps to have the right kind of pumpkin (Tim suggested sweet pumpkins, also called pie pumpkins, rather than the typical carving pumpkins) and the right kind of tools.  It also involves trusting myself and a willingness to make that first cut.

I guess if it looks really, really bad and so botched I can’t put it out on display, I can always feed it to the chickens!

Answer:  They’re all inspiration for characters in the new series I’m working on.  They’re also all proof you should think carefully before inspiring a writer.  People often get excited when they meet a writer–they love the idea of having a character based on their very own self and being made famous in fiction.  But in my fiction at least, they’re more likely to be infamous!

Take the traffic cop, for example.  I’ve known lots of great cops–I’m even related to a few.  And in a general sort of way, these law enforcement officers will make it into my books.  But, good guy characters quickly take on a life of their own and become a whole person in the book, seperate from the real-life person that was their jumping off point.  Villains will change, too, but often don’t need to change as much.  This is probably because the person that inspired the villain wasn’t someone I knew well and yet is someone I can readily associate a lot of emotion with.

Emotion is a writer’s best friend.  And who doesn’t feel emotions of one kind or another when looking at this?

The emotion I feel is outrage, and I associate it with the cop who will be immortalized as one of my new villains.  When I looked into my rearview mirror as he walked away, the emotion was strong.  I knew he had speculated my speed based on my having passed a slow moving trailer.  He drove behind the trailer for awhile to see how fast it was going, then figured how fast I must have been going when I passed it.  Except the trailer had slowed down and pulled half off the road when I passed it, asking me to pass, so the cop was wrong.  And he didn’t care.  He didn’t even pretend he’d actually clocked me going the speed he ‘wrote me down for.’  But outrage is a great emotion to pull from when developing a character, so I’m grateful to the cop for providing me such an easy building base for my next villain.  He’ll make a good one.

I don’t have as much emotion to pull from when thinking of the tent-camp manager.  For the sake of brevity, let’s just say that if an entire campground is bedding down for the night and the children are trying to sleep–after all, it was midnight–the manager really shouldn’t join the one rowdy group that won’t shut up and turn down the radio.  Not the best thing for business.  But, while he was thoughtless, and bumbling, he’ll only make rude-guy or henchmen status.  As for the shark?  He’s inspired a whole new race of shark-men hybrids that can come out of the water, and he’ll be immortalized as a truly scary cold-blooded killer with the desire to annihilate.  I hope he doesn’t mind.

Just for comparisons sake, this is me before the cut.  As you can see, it’s gotten all scraggly and scary.  Small children have screamed and little old ladies have fainted.

The basics are pretty simple:  Comb all the hair up on top of the head, right at the crown.  Make sure you center this over your nose rather than, say, your left or right eye.  Unless you go around with your head always tilted to one side or have some paper bags you’ve just gotta find a use for.  Here I’m making that first brave snip.

You’re guesstimating how many inches you want lopped off, based on where you want the hair to land on your face.  Such as, cheekbone or nose.  Hint: Measure first, then snip.

As a second stage, I gather just a bit from the top and give it a twist, then cut it straight across.  This time I’m only taking off a little bit–maybe a half inch.  I then twist the other direction and even it up.  I do this to add to the layered look on top and remove the clear line between the old cut and new.

And, voila!  I have a new haircut!

I can’t remember anymore where I first learned of this cut, but here you’ll find a pretty good step-by-step guide, in case you want to try it yourself.

DISCLAIMER: I am not suggesting anyone use scissors unless they can do so safely, and without the poking of eyes or trimming of ears.  If you are underage (or drunk), get a (sober) adult’s help.  Don’t blame me if you hate your cut.  If you represent or advocate for brown paper bags, please note that I in no way discrimate against brown paper bags and fondly use them for many other things.  Like a peace-offering to my son when I cut his hair.

Perhaps I can make it up to them when I blog about the conference.  Until then, I beg their forbearance.

You see, I never wanted to visit New York.  Nope, not at all.  I’ve never openly admitted this.  I’ve even gone so far as to pretend enthusiasm.  But in reality, I was much too prejudiced against the place to ever give it a chance.  Whenever my husband came back from a visit and bemoaned the plain-jane faire of DC’s street vendors, or friends thrilled at the chance of a weekend in the city without sleep, I smiled banally and mentally turned my nose to the sky.  I planned trips to every other spot on and off the planet, but until the SCBWI winter conference this last weekend, none to New York.

It’s not my fault.  I was misguided as a child!

The desperate cry of every hardened criminal and cornered politician, and now my plea for sympathy.  But, it’s also quite true!  Whenever someone waxed eloquent on the titilating virtues of New York, a little ditty ran through my head.  I picked it up as a child in some dark hole of a sunny neighborhood, and it went something like this:

New York, New York

is a dirty rotten place

where bums and idiots go.

As you can see, it was a musical masterpiece even Mozart would be proud of.  When sung in an annoying little voice with a superior tone, it was almost enough to make one believe that Nowhere, USA was so inherently superior to NYC that those who chose the latter were to be pitied.  Never envied.  No, no, of course not.

Imagine, then, my surprise at finding that I love New York!  I even heart it.  And not just the obvious things–the lovely memorial being built at ground zero, the one-of-a-kind shopping, the to-die-for food.  No.  I love the traffic.  I have never felt so self-actualized as the moment I realized I could use my car’s horn to say all those things a car says most eloquently when someone stops mid-street.  I could zoom through the little gap left between a bus and a truck without danger of offending my fellow drivers.  I could nudge into the constant flow of pedestrians without earning myself any nasty looks.  I could even ‘overlook’ the lines on the street and use the entire road, as it should be used.  In fact, I could drive exactly as I’ve always wanted!

Driving in DC taught me to long for the streets of New York–and now I’ve finally experienced the fulfillment of that nebulous desire.  After a round or two with the taxis in the financial district on a Friday afternoon, I felt a glow of joy that no amount of putt-putting in rural North Carolina will ever extinguish.  I have found my driving soulmates, and fought a good fight.  I have purged prejudice from my soul.

All is well.

After testing the waters with a few queries for The Popcorn Potion, I discovered a new and fascinating obsession: that of attempting to extract from a single nondescript sentence why oh why the rejecting agent would pass on my manuscript.  And without even taking a look at the poor overlooked baby!

I know I’m not alone, so I appreciate these insights provided by Editorial Anonymous on the subject.  Read it and weep.  You and I are only mortals, and may fall into the sub-mortal category of writers.  We simply can not aspire to this level of fluency in the interpretation of rejection letters.

As a young woman and an outsider in a rural area, I remember being in code red a lot of the time, and being downright afraid a handful of times.  I confess that sometimes, now, I wonder why I kept the job. It seems a bit foolhardy. Then I remember how tight the money was, and it all makes sense again.

Mostly it was just a rather odd series of experiences, with the occasional pleasant surprise–and, on a positive note, I’ve always felt it made for some truly outstanding story material!

It can be strange, new, outside the box.  That’s okay.  But it can also put a spotlight on something that’s spoken to the human souls for hundreds of years and generations beyond time.  The beauty and grace of the human form doesn’t go out of style, in my book.  Neither do animals, plants, lakes, mountains . . .

Trees.

So, I’ve added Yuken Teruya to my list of favorite artists.

Beauty with Art.

And garbage.  Bonus points for that.