When I rolled over in bed this morning, I realized I hadn’t written a post for today. When I shared this with my sweetie, he muttered into his pillow, “Share your wisdom with the world. Like you did with Circus Peanuts”, and I realized he was feeling a tad bitter about last week’s blog. Glynn's a proud man, and he didn’t enjoy seeing one of his favorite candies disparaged in the comments section of a website that is, on some level, joint property.
 
So let me share what I’ve learned recently. For instance, I’ve learned that bananas release ethylene gas in order to speed ripening. Since overly-ripe bananas have no appeal for anyone in my household – brown bananas end up in my freezer, until I tire of pretending I’m going to make banana bread with them and throw them out – I was pleased to find a trick that theoretically slows their ripening. The next time you buy a bunch of bananas, separate one from the other, and wrap each of the stems in plastic wrap. Either this works, or I’ve just imagined it works, because my freezer is currently empty of bananas.
 
Here’s another life tip I’ve recently discovered: It takes a long time to paint a Santa gourd, especially when you’re attempting to complete a 30-day novel in only 60 days. I’ve painted fun little gourds before, adding a few Sculpey-based embellishments, but these have always been short three or four day projects. When a friend gave me a rather larger than ordinary gourd, I ignored it for months until, one day, I realized it should be a Santa gourd. You might think I'd have realized this during the Christmas holiday, but you'd be wrong. As the weeks went on, my project grew more detailed. I’ve finally finished it and you can see the results above.

I'm pleased with the results. Glynn likes it, too, probably more than me. The Good Witch thinks it’s a perfectly adequate Santa gourd, but she’s ready to read the The Third Brother and believes we’d be in mid-story by now if I hadn’t allowed myself to be distracted my side project. She’s wrong about this, according to Emily Wenstrom, who believes it's good to take the occasional writing break. Emily fails to say when people should take their break, but I imagine it's daily, between the hours of 4 and 5 PM, for however many weeks it takes to finish your side project. If you follow the link, you'll notice that Emily doesn't specifically address painting Santa gourds, either, but  read between the lines, people. It couldn't be more obvious.
  
Finally, thanks to eater.com, I’ve learned that Circus Peanuts are not a cardboard-based food byproduct. They are actually a wizard’s blend of pork gelatin, sugar, more sugar (corn syrup), food coloring – mostly orange food coloring, in my experience, and lots of it – soy protein and artificial banana flavoring. You’re probably thinking, “Yummm!”, and wondering what you’d have to do to be able to start your day with a heaping helping of pork gelatin. You're not alone with that concern! Many years ago, some inventive soul chopped up his package of Circus Peanuts, added the spongy bits into his cereal, and soon realized he’d made a terrible, terrible mistake. Wait, no, he didn’t think that at all. He liked the mixture so much, he packaged the combination and introduced Lucky Charms to the world.
 
I'm not teasing. Yummm, pork gelatin!

Unlike Ichabod Crane, who is too manly to ever require the care of a physician, I tired of having the flu, so I went to my general practitioner. My very nice MD told me I was dealing with a virus, not a bacteria, and the only real cure was time. She also said I should get a flu shot as soon as I felt better -- even though the shot wouldn't have helped with this flu AT ALL -- because I live in Arizona, the epicenter of flu bugs this year. So, as lousy as I felt at the time, I had a solid shot at getting the flu again because (a) well, that's life and (b) I'm not Ichabod Crane.
 
Unlike lesser writers, I didn't immediately go home and start watching DVR-taped episodes of Sleepy Hollow. You might think, this is because this season's episodes of Sleepy Hollow aren't engaging my interest, despite the presence of Tom Mison, and you'd be correct. But it's also because I am such a dedicated writer, a person who loves her craft, a woman who won't let a simple illness keep her from doing what must be done.
 
(Yes, I'm aware that illness HAS been keeping me from what must be done, but that was then. This is now. Really, you can't continue to live in the past like this.)
 
Returning home from the doctor's office, I kicked up the computer and worked on my 30-day book project. Checking the calendar this morning, I saw that I'm almost exactly at the 30-day mark since starting the project, but I'm far from done. My novel isn't ready for editing, much less publication, but that's okay because (a) well, that's life and (b) I'm not Ichabod Crane. That is my new life excuse, no matter what happens. If I fail to complete a project on time, if I burn supper, if I crash my car because I wanted to try blindfold-driving (not a thing; don't do it), I'm going to say, "Whatta ya want from me? I'm not Ichabod Crane!" and, during the initial period of confusion that will follow, I'll escape.
 
It's enough that I'm working on chapter fifteen, I'm almost well enough to smooch with my sweetie, and I've never before came close to finishing a novel in 60 days. If I have my first draft wrapped by the middle of next month, I'll count that as a triumph, believe me. Fingers crossed. I wonder if I'll make it.
 
Speaking of smooching on sweeties, last Tuesday was Valentine's Day. While we often celebrate the occasion with a meal out, I decided not to infect my friends and neighbors at a local restaurant. We had a quiet supper at home, then Glynn told me he'd bought me "a little something", but it hadn't arrived in time for our low-key celebration.
 
"I thought we weren't exchanging gifts," I said, which was true, but it's a rule we both break on occasion. Then he said it wasn't a gift-gift, it was nothing I'd ever asked for, he wondered if I'd like it. This is not how someone normally starts a conversation about yet-unseen presents. His comments sparked a little curiosity, while also inspiring a little fear, because my life partner often makes unusual choices.
 
My spider sense tingling, I asked, "Is it a decoration?" 
 
This was part of my fear. Glynn is not especially skilled when it comes to interior decoration. I once returned home to find an enormous wooden sword mounted in our living room, a room that was gently decorated in a much more contemporary fashion. He'd found it at Goodwill, he had the five dollars they were asking, and now it was ours. You might think, An enormous wooden sword, that'll make a statement, and you'd be right. It states, "Welcome, Enormous Wooden Pirates! You'll feel right at home here!" Everyone else, not so much.
 
He told me, "It's not a decoration." He added the gift had nothing to do with dolls or babies or baby dolls, all things I love, and I should quit asking because it was very unlikely I'd guess what he'd bought. It arrived yesterday, my little present, and Glynn believed it was a 19th century opium bottle. When researching the Third Brother, he discovered that opium was enormously popular back in the day, readily available, cheaper than beer, given to babies if they were a bit restless, and tremendously addictive. Lizzie  Borden had enjoyed a touch of the stuff on the day she went to show her ax to Dad and Stepmom. A relaxed acceptance of the drug continued until 1905, when new laws brought the party to a screeching halt.
 
He bought the 2" bottle because he liked its tiny wooden spoon (just right for 19th century opium use, he thought) and he hoped I'd think it was cool. Since most opium bottles were brown or clear glass, he contacted a seller who offered a collectible with a little color. After he made his purchase, he did more research on tiny bottles and wooden spoons, and decided he'd bought a Chinese snuff bottle (turns out, the wooden spoon is just right for 19th century snuff use). Since there's a huge number of Chinese snuff bottle collectors -- any number over "four" would have been a surprise to me -- and most Chinese snuff bottles go for a huge multiple of what he paid, he worries he may have picked up a counterfeit.
 
Me, I think receiving a possibly-counterfeit-Chinese-snuff-bottle-presumed-to-be-an-authentic-19th-century-opium-bottle for Valentine's Day is so much more fun than getting flowers. I can't wait to show it to the Good Witch.

Wouldn’t it be great if the production crew behind the television show, Sleepy Hollow, realized what a complete and utter bollocks they’ve made of what used to be a very fun program and decided to start a new story line? No, wait, I guess they’ve done that. Since those results haven’t been greeted with acclaim at my house – Glynn told me, when he wants to watch the Scooby Gang, he turns on Mystery, Inc. – let me rephrase my opening statement.
 
Take two: Wouldn’t it be great if the production crew behind the television show, Sleepy Hollow, decided they wanted to go in another new direction ASAP so they contacted me, asking for my advice? (It would certainly be great as far as I’m concerned.) In this scenario, the production team has noticed the latest ratings and realized they need to do something drastic.
 
Discovering that Hallmark’s sweet romance movies are building an audience, the SH producers decide to tinker with Ichabod Crane’s reason for being. Instead of making the character a champion against supernatural evil, they want him to be a romance writer. In the upcoming season, Ichabod’s driving force, his most urgent crisis, will be his need to get a new novel out in a month’s time.
 
The idea is either genius or blindly stupid, but that’s Hollywood for you. Since Ichabod is now a writer, the showrunners look for a romance author who is attempting to complete a novel in a short amount of time. In between power lunches, they read all about my 30-day write-a-book challenge and realize I’m the go-to girl of their dreams. And, in my fantasy, they buy my plane ticket, fly me out to the West Coast, arrange for me to meet the cast, and ask me to spend some time in the writers’ room.
 
Afterwards, I meet with the show’s producers. If the show is to be saved, season five needs a little verisimilitude. They ask me how to make Ichabod Crane/Romance Writer ring “true to life”, and satisfy their viewers.
 
And, then, the following conversation begins:
 
“Thirty days, thirty chapters, a done and finished story, that’s what you promised your readers, right?” the Big Wig show runner asked.
 
“That’s what I promised them in theory,” I said. “A project like that is difficult but it can be done, absolutely…unless things go astray. Horribly astray.”
 
“Horribly astray?” Immediately, B.W. was intrigued. “You hear her, Lance? This is why we brought Anne in. While none of us understand why she had to spend all morning in the steam room with our star, Tom Mison – ”
 
“It’s part of the creative process,” I interrupted. “Also, don’t tell Glynn.”
 
“It’s worth it for this, the true scoop behind the challenges of a writer’s life. Start from the top, Anne, we want to know what happens when things go astray. Better yet, pitch it like a story, something we can use for the first few episodes of Five. Use Ichabod’s name, make him the writer, so we can envision it on the show.”
 
“You want a pitch, you got it,” I agreed. “The show opens, Ichabod is working on his novel. He’s never written before, but he’s a natural, all the publishers want him. Um, his book.”
 
B.W. nodded. “That happens all the time, right? Publishers fighting over a brand new author who’s never written anything?”
 
“You’ve done your research,” I said. “But Ichabod’s big dollar contract has a catch. There’s a thirty day deadline and he’s never felt this kind of pressure before. Not even when Abbie disappeared. Worse, he’s already spent the million dollar advance on digging up Alexander Hamilton’s corpse.”
 
“He dug up the corpse?” Lance asked. “To fight evil?”
 
“Sure, if you want,” I agreed. “Tom – I mean, Ichabod is sitting at the word processor, covered in sweat, his shirt open and his chest fully exposed. His powerful arms are tense as he types.”
 
Lance wrote my words down on a yellow sticky.
 
I wondered if the producers would let me be on the set during filming. “He didn’t know that writing a book would be so hard. The first couple of days, Ichabod’s hitting his word count, following the outline precisely, but then the story becomes something more than a simple project. It grabs him. Chapter after chapter, the page count starts increasing. The novel is taking longer to write than he ever expected.”
 
“Even with his deadline, he can’t help himself,” B.W. said. “Ichabod’s an artist. As a wordsmith, he has to follow his heart.”
 
“You understand!” I exclaimed. “By the end of the first week, he hasn’t finished seven chapters. He’s only done four.”
 
“That’s trouble,” Lance chimed in.
 
“The second week, things don’t go any better. Ichabod tries to get up to speed, he wants his novel out within the month, but it just isn’t working. If he wants to be true to the story, he has to do the research, he has to get things right. It all takes time.”
 
“More trouble,” Lance chimed in.
 
“Then he gets an invitation to try out for a local choir, so he decides, what the hell, why not?”
 
“A choir?” B.W. asked. “What about the contract's deadline?”
 
“Ichabod knows the best writers live a full life. He attends one of the choir’s practices. It’s more tiring than he expected to spend four hours standing in one spot, but the women are so nice, the opportunity to sing is so enjoyable, he goes back a second time. That second night, some of the women are coughing, turns out there’s this miserable flu racing through the community, but he’s been so busy with his book, he didn’t know.”
 
“Four hours is a lot of standing,” B.W. said, “a lot of singing. Can Tom sing?”
 
“I’ve never heard him sing,” Lance added. “We could dub him.”
 
I’m on a roll, so I continued. “Wouldn’t you know, Ichabod gets the flu. He feels miserable, can’t seem to think clearly. The novel gets as far as chapter thirteen when the fever, headache, and coughing get to be too much. Recently sick, he’s sick again. He sets his pages aside, knowing he’ll get back to the book as soon as he feels better.”
 
The Big Wig shook his head. “Now he has the flu? Viewers don’t like it when the star is sick. I think maybe – ”
 
“And then,” I said, “the Headless Horseman shows up at the D.C. Barnes & Noble. He’s there to to do a book signing for his latest sci-fi fantasy. Fever or not, Ichabod knows he has to force himself to get writing again. He’s afraid the Headless Horseman will get on the bestseller list before he does.”
 
B.W. and Lance looked at one another. B.W. smiled. “Now you’re talking.”
 
…and that’s all I’ve got for today. Hope you’re doing well. As far as me?
 
I’m on chapter thirteen of the new book.