Isn’t it cute? A vintage 1950’s Tommee Tippee sipper cup exactly like the one my mother said was mine. Not my older sister’s. Not my baby sister’s. Mine. The one I drank from even after I didn’t use the mouthpiece anymore. The only one Mom ever offered me.
The one I couldn’t look at because it scared me to death.
By the time I was in high school, I believed I would never have children. Why? No idea. But by the time I entered college (an era when over-population of the planet was a growing and alarming concern) I had decided I would never have children.
I trundled through life for the next 10 years content with my career, independence, and unencumbered lifestyle. I had friends, relationships, wine and cheese tasting parties… what more could I possibly need?
Some might call this shameless self-promotion, but until we sign an agent, who else is there to do this dirty job? Tomorrow, it’s back to the fun stuff! I promise.
Why was I going to apologize? Robb and I wrote Enhanced so we could work together to create a story we could share with people like us — people like you. We’re proud of what we’ve written. We believe it’ll stick with readers like good books do, and we dare to hope it can be a beacon for kids — and adults — who feel like they’re outside the mainstream.
So without apology, I want to tell you about it. But not about our “writing process” — in the name of all that’s holy, not the “writing process”! (…unless you ask…)
Since the beginning of language, there have been storytellers.
“Hey, do you mind if I tell you a story? One you might not have heard.” The 11th Doctor
Have we got a story for you!
“All I read is young adult science fiction, so when I tell you I’ve never read this story before, you know it’s original!” Jessica Watterson of The Sandra Dijkstra and Associates Literary Agency talking about Enhanced
Dogs always terrified me. They’re loud and unpredictable. They’ll jump on you with their mouths wide open, their tongues hanging out, and their savage flesh-ripping teeth coming right for your face. If you’re five, Marsha Gumber’s aggressive little mutt might cut you off from your house and bark and bark and bark while blood runs from the scrape on your knee to the edge of your lacy chartreuse ankle sock. Maybe you’ll cry. In your heart you’ll know that a dog will never be your best friend.
I was a Licensed Child Care Provider. For more than 22 years, as a single parent, I spent-12-hours-a-day-5-days-a-week-raising-6-to-9-children-who-had-other-parents,-while-home-schooling-my-son-and-costuming-3-musicals-a-year-with-65-to-73-kids-in-each-show-for-a-nationwide-children’s-theater-company,-after-the-other-kids-went-home-and-on-weekends,-living-too-many-days-with-never-enough-hours-in-any-of-them-so-I-could-sleep-only-5-and-1/2-hours-a-night-for-117-years.
I lived in a circus — a three-ring, never ending circus.
Deep, cleansing breath.
Sometimes I’d stop the minivan at the signal half a mile from home, close my eyes, and think, “Please let the light stay red so I can take a nap.”