Sleep Therapy

Ah, dreams.

In my previous post I referred to a couple of dreams from the past that could both qualify to be scandalous and/or slightly disturbing. However, tonight I am hoping to look at dreams in a different light.  I am of  the belief that humans (and possibly dogs for that matter)  can really work out some important issues while sleeping. I am interested in exploring if "sleep therapy" can be a useful tool when attempting to write.

 I once dreamed of a complex and feasible (not to mention a bit crazy and highly exhausting) child care situation that once put into action, allowed me and a good friend to spend more time at home with our first born children. (And I have lived to tell about it.) This is one example of "sleep therapy" in action. A problem was resolved by my brain which was wheeling and dealing while I slept. How amazingly efficient.

This morning I awoke after just having had a couple of ideas, that were sure to be borderline genius, visit me in a dream.  The first was to refer to my couch as "the purple people eater" in my next writing piece (true story).

EXHIBIT A: The Purple People Eater

The next was how elastic waist pants, (which I hold in quite high esteem with my new, post-holiday body) can be related to writing in some way. 

Well, I have just mentioned "the purple people eater" in my writing (check) and now I will attempt to relate the greatest invention known to yo-yo eaters such as myself, elastic waist pants, to writing.

Elastic waistbands, which may be found on elastic waist pants, are terrific because they get bigger and smaller according to the physical state you are in. They are great for a little extra breathing room when the going gets tough. Not like those other alternatives that send chills across even the most moldable of muffin tops ...such as button waistbands. Dun, dun, dunnnn.


EXHIBIT B: Elastic Pants (Please note how label so appropriately reads: Comfort Zone)

When someone writes, they have a draft that they probably visit and revisit about twenty billion times before it is finally considered finished. The piece expands and contracts in size just as someone's elastic waistband  would if  they were to experience spurts of exercise and healthy eating followed by blasted holiday eating. (Bollocks to you delicious, frosted gingerbread men cookies!)

The expansion and contraction of a writing piece is a wonderful and gratifying process. With time and revision, the writing piece becomes polished. Rarely does my writing get worse from too much TLC. The piece may get twenty times longer and then be cut down to half of its original size in a day. Nothing is set in stone.There is breathing room, as if  bound by elastic. Expanding and contracting. Contracting and expanding. When it is all said and done, perfect as can be, no matter what size it is, you feel comfortable and satisfied and at peace with yourself. Just as you would if you were to relax in your elastic waist pants, on your "purple people eater" couch for a nice session of "sleep therapy".

Check.Check.

FEAR OF THE BANANA PEEL V. TWAIN

Well hello there. I'm back. A little older, a little wiser, and a bit chubbier.

During this last winter holiday, while others' noggins were dreaming of dancing, sugar plum fairies, my dreams were filled with scenes of post-holiday writing contest triumph.

Dancing in this noggin of mine were one-way conversations such as...
"What? I won?  Me? No! But I just started writing! It couldn't be? I don't deserve it. This is all happening so fast!"

Also dancing in this noggin of mine were visions of  my writing career taking flight due to the recent successful contest outcome. Agents would hear of this novice writer who just happened to win the contest, with such raw talent.  I would then be jetted off to book signings and school visits, and speaking at conferences about how I began my writing career.

Outside of this noggin of mine, in real life, my husband would ask as we awaited the contest results,"Are you excited? Are you nervous?"
"I would just be happy to be one of the top three finalists, honestly" I  admitted.

Ah... but 'twas all a dream. A dream right up there alongside one curious, nocturnal encounter/one night stand with Agent Skinner from X Files or my confusing delivery room dream where I gave birth to my husband.
Not only did I not make the top three contest finalists, but I didn't even make the top SIX contenders! Yikes!

Was I disappointed? Ashamedly, yes!  I didn't even want to eat a piece of fudge to soothe my pain!(Not even fudge? Good Lord, help the girl!) I was able to pin my disappointment on the fact that this was my first public writing experience and I guess I was looking for some kind of approval or better yet, some kind of sign that I was on the right path.

Of course, I am not suggesting my entry was stronger than the others submitted by any means. Honestly, I did not deserve to win. All of the entries were so creative and unique. I am still in awe of how polished these writers were (as well as amazingly supportive towards others in the group).  You should read these other entries at at Susanna Leonard Hill's blog. (I especially loved the Fishmas and Jelly Bean versions.)

After the contest results were released I came to the very rational conclusion that writing just wasn't for me.  My mind tried to calculate all of the wasted hours spent writing stories and revising them, with bouts of spousal spats and the occasional neglected child.  Was writing now another hobby to go by the wayside like my short stint of snow globe collecting or my Tae Bo workout regimen?

With well-intentioned, encouraging words such as, "Don't be upset. You're not that bad. You're all right" (insert the truth hurts, guttural sobs here) and "Besides, you can't quit now.  I just got you a SCBWI membership"(insert snort laugh here), I drooled my way to sleep, hoping to wake up with a clearer head.

Lucky for me, rational thought made a strong comeback after a few, good hours sleep.

What effect did rational thought have on my outlook you ask? Well, let us return to the oh-so-relevant title of my blog: Banana Peelin' shall we?

My contest entry and loss is my first public banana peel slip in the writing world.  I took a risk by putting my work out there and it didn't pan out the way I had hoped. I faced my biggest fear and insecurity: Having someone read my work and say, "Hmmm... What is she thinking? SHE wants to be a writer? She stinks!"

Not finishing top in a contest makes this fear seem to be more of a reality. It is a humbling experience to say the least. But thankfully, it is also motivating. 

Mark Twain said, "The only difference between a published author and an unpublished author, is the published one didn't give up." Although my fearful and insecure-self  might have given up after a contest loss or critique or ten, my rational-self feels motivated to continue working on her writing abilities.

However,with that being said, I am very aware that I will continually face the great internal debate:

                                    FEAR OF THE BANANA PEEL V. TWAIN

I have to believe that this is the greatest struggle for anyone pursuing their dream.

'Twas the Girl's First Writing Contest...

     Tomorrow (or today, depending on where you are in the world) is a big day for little me. Drum roll please.....I am entering in my first, official writing contest! My normal self would NEVER do anything like this. But my new gutsy-self, a slightly kinder version of my off-my-rocker-self (see "My Poor Husband" post) is completely excited. The chance of winning is slight, but just the act of being involved in such an event is absolutely, monumental in my book (pun completely intended).

     The contest, hosted by the author Susanna Leonard  Hill(susannahill.blogspot.com), asks participants to create their own versions of  The Night Before Christmas. This being my first contest is nothing less than lucky because:

a) it has to rhyme (yo soy rhymaholic)
b) I had just finished my story a few weeks before for my daughter (our little Christmas baby) and zipped it if off along with a query letter to an agent. (Did you hear that Universe?)

What timing!

With that being said, eh-hemmmm.....

How many people feel slighted with their birthdays being right before or after Christmas? Well, what if your birthday was ON Christmas?

Happy Christmas Birthday Little LuLu Rose was a story created in attempt to prove that you CAN be born on Christmas and have a happy life. (Yes, it is true people!)

Here is my submission.

                        HAPPY CHRISTMAS BIRTHDAY LITTLE LULU ROSE!

                                             By: Elizabeth Stevens Omlor


‘Twas the night before Christmas, and wouldn’t you know, not a soul was asleep (that’s just how it goes)!

The kids ran around, hyper as can be, excited about Santa and LuLu’s party.

“What party?” you ask, well, I’ll have you know, that Christmas is the birthday of little LuLu Rose.

How lucky was she to be born on Christmas day? Well I’ll have you know, not all felt the same.

“Ah, what a shame”, lamented Mr. McGrew. “She’ll have to share her day and that’s not easy to do.”

“Poor little thing” cried Mrs. McBenz. “What kind of party can she have when she can’t see her friends?”

“Are you kidding? What a jip!” exclaimed cousin Stew. “They’ll give her only one present, instead of two!”

But you see LuLu’s parents were with it, they thought ahead. Each Christmas morning they’d sing her Happy Birthday in bed.

Then they’d come out to see just what Santa had brought, and wow you should have seen the Christmas presents she got!

Tap shoes, a bike, books and tangerines, a doll, a drum set and a model airplane.

The crinkled paper would sit all crumbled in heaps, with Christmas presents all opened, it was time to go eat!

LuLu chose her special birthday breakfast to eat every year, ginger pancakes with powdered sugar stacked up to her ears.

Orange juice and pomegranates, eggs in a nest, man did she think her birthday was the best!

When bellies were full, they went to their rooms, to spiff up for family who’d be arriving real soon.

The doorbell would ring, LuLu’d slide in her socks, to swing open the door and be clobbered by hugs.

“Happy Christmas Birthday!” Grandma and Grandpa would shout, her party had started, the house now cheerful and loud.

“Here open this one, LuLu my dear. Happy Birthday my darling, has it already been a year?”

Then they’d break out the pictures from LuLu’s first days, they’d ohh and they’d ahh, “What a cutie!” they’d say.

For in those first days, they couldn’t believe, how amazing little LuLu could already be
Relatives came from near and from far, they danced and they sang with such joy in their hearts.

Little LuLu Rose was now here to stay, to be celebrated and doted on each year on Christmas day.

‘Twas the day after Christmas, not a soul was awake, except small, little LuLu, who woke eager to play.

The relatives asleep on the living room couch, their feet perched on another, drool spilled from their mouths.

“I love this” she said quietly on her own, “On my birthday I know I’ll never be alone.”

“How lucky am I to be born on Christmas day? I know I would never want it any other way.”

Confessions of a Rhymer

     I am a rhymer. No, not a member of the Reimer family from fifth grade with whose daughter I shared a short lived obsession for playing softball and collecting baseball cards. I mean rhymes just pour out of my little brain as I go about the day, changing diapers, shoving the kids in the car, etc. Maybe I have read one too many Dr. Seuss books or watched too many Elmo segments with that one cartoon lady who raps. Or maybe there are some things you just can't help. Like being a belly-sleeper or a snort-laugher. It just happens.  You are who you are.

     I was so excited to finally be able to put my rhymes to use. My husband writes music and whenever he would ask me to help him work on his lyrics, he would become so frustrated because I would always want to rhyme. (Husband: Love hurts....Me: juice squirts?)Well, now I found my niche...kids' books! Only it isn't that easy. Rhyming, I am beginning to notice isn't always welcomed in the industry. It's kind of like listening to the song "Jingle Bells" on repeat or eating scrambled eggs with ketchup for breakfast on a daily basis. It seems like a good idea at first, but then after a while, you just have to change it up or you'll find those around you going insane.

The question is, how can I leave the comfort of rhyming's arms? It's so warm and sweet here. I feel naked adventuring off into anything else. Then I might need to deal with things like... voice! YIKES! Insight? Advice? Anything would be welcome for this rhymeaholic.

little blue

     I hate goodbyes. I have never been good at them. Tonight is no exception. I have decided it is time to become organized in the writing/querying process. This means that little blue has got to go. (I say little blue because BIG BLUE is my husband's hand-me-down, poof-jacket from his mom, circa 1973ish. It is perhaps the bestest, warmest, most comfortable, and unflattering jacket ever made by man.)

our beloved, BIG BLUE

   We love BIG BLUE... but I digress. little blue, to continue, is my peachy folder I have been stuffing my manuscripts in since I started taking this writing thing seriously. It is torn, tear and  grease-stained, and graffitied by my almost-four-year-old with her hallmark, "H".  One pocket is stuffed with a rough draft stack and query letters and the other with finished pieces. Flimsy as she may look, this little sucker has traveled up and down the state of California in my green, valour purse along with other hard to get-rid-of items like gum wrappers, Target receipts, and moldy mandarins. It has been little blue who has been known to cause dread and panic in loved ones because once she's is out, you're cornered into reading and opining on at least one manuscript (please see "Poor Husband" post to understand the terror and anxiousness one might feel). I love little blue.

my dearest, little blue

 

 Goodbye little blue.

The Pits

There once was a family who'd get the flu,
whenever there was something real important to do.

It would start with a headache, a cough or sore throat,
and then, ah man, you just don't want to know!

First one poor kiddo, and then the other,
until everyone was ill, even their mother.

It didn't matter what plans they'd have before,
The whole family was destined to be sick and indoors.

Two times on Halloween, one time on Christmas,
this year for a birthday party, and one pre-paid field trip.

The thing is, they learned from these times, (they're hard),
how it's important to have family live where you are.

They have not one grandma near them, no great-aunt Ruth,
to cover them with blankets or make them soup.

One thing they know of next year to be true,
is before they get sick, they'll just have to move!

Mommy Juice

I have to believe that sometimes, writing is just not in the cards.

Underdogs

     I have created quite a reading list much to the dismay of many young readers in my area. I feel slightly guilty requesting such popular books from the library and leaving the shelves without other copies.  My goal was to investigate the voices of authors of middle grade fiction. So far, I have made only a small dent in my pile by finishing two of the books, which sits staring at me from my dusty night stand: Ramona Quimby, Age 8 and Diary of a Wimpy Kid. 

EXHIBIT A

     What I love about reading children's literature is that for the most part, the protagonist is the underdog, THANK GOODNESS. I was raised on the Dodgers, a team that many consider to be ultimate underdog of California baseball (sorry Dad).  I became a teacher to work with the underdogs in education, students that have the odds stacked against them. Underdogs have special qualities about them. They have depth from experiencing isolation or loss or low expectations. They have a dedicated fan base because deep down, people feel as if they deserve justice.

      I am a white, female who has had a pretty good go at things. I consider myself to be extremely lucky.  However, the underdog may seem appealing to me because of some memories I have of not always fitting-in while growing up.  I know it may seem that I have it ALL together, I mean I am practically Martha Stewart's twin, but let me tell you, I am and have always been  a nerd. Yes, that's right.  Gap-toothed, big-eared, gangly-limbed, and high-waisted.  I have no shame in admitting it. As a result, nestled deep inside my little caffeinated heart are gently, stowed  nerdisms.  From the get-go,  I have liked the wrong music (what ten-year-old likes Heart?), the wrong clothes (baggy, wool, oversized sweaters and overalls), the oh-so wrong hats (thanks to my love for Blossom), the wrong cereal (I was a Wheaties kid), and the wrong shows ( I used to BEG to stay up past my bedtime to watch ... Murder She Wrote).  I was so innocent and naive as a youngster with all my lovely nerdisms that I made the most perfect target for little, mean-bodied, she-bullies. Back then I think bullying happened  just as often as kids mistakenly throw their retainers out into school trash cans (which happens quite a bit,  in case you didn't know). 

EXHIBIT B: (Thankfully it doesn't get any bigger.)

     What is wonderful about my former (and so, very current) nerdisms is that I can now use them for the good of humanity. I can validate the experiences of other underdog-kiddos in my writing just as some of these authors I am reading have done in their work. I can't remember reading about an "overdog". It just wouldn't be that exciting. There would be nothing to root for. It makes me wonder if there is such a thing as someone who has never experienced underdogness. I think they'd be really boring.

Make Way for Stories: There’s a good reason why people are passing up picture books

Make Way for Stories: There’s a good reason why people are passing up picture books

Saturday Morning Thank Yous

This morning's blog is powered by a large cup of coffee and a house full of people and animals.

I just wanted to say thank you to the universe for the following:

1. Thank you coffee, you mean the world to me.
2. Thank you spell check, for I never knew you existed on blogspot until last night.
3. Thank you Lynn A. Davidson for being both my first follower that I do not know and my first follower from Canada! Exciting stuff!
4. Thank you Matt for the advice on how to market myself, the eggnog, and for allowing us to spend some quality time with your  amazing wife and little baby.

Thanks.

The Case for Children's Literature

     Although I have only been obsessed with writing for children for a short period of time, I have begun to notice a slight rift between those who write books for adults and those who write books for young people. Now, I am not sure, and don't quote me on this, but it seems that children's authors are not taken very seriously in the writing world. I just can't imagine why.

    Since the day my daughter came into this world via a human suction device, we have pretty much shoved books in her face. As you can probably understand, we did not start her off with The Grapes of Wrath. Although there is key vocabulary in this literary classic such as ma and pa, which admittedly would have done her some good, we felt that if we really wanted to create a reader, we would need to introduce something more appropriate for her developmentally.  And so it began. Snugly, bed-time reads of Goodnight Moon. Then it was family beat boxin' to Oso Pardo, Oso Pardo, (which is the Spanish translation of Eric Carle's Brown Bear, Brown Bear.) Soon, anything with funny language became an instant hit, such as I Love You, Stinky Face. And now we are on to books that help us explore some of the hard-to-grasp concepts for kiddos. Our daughter has been really wondering about death as of late. I get things like, "Look at the worm, mommy. Is it died?"  So I picked up a copy of Charlotte's Web from the library.  Now I get, "When is the girl's daddy going to kill Wilbur, mommy?" And then,  "I want to see the picture." Morbid as it may be, she is hooked! Heck! I am hooked! Reading books together is one of the sweetest ways to bond with a little person.

Our growing book collection:

    Children's literature is the stepping stone to other great literature. I don't think you can have one without the other.  Literature for children is so important because it help the wiring of their sweet, little brains and perhaps more importantly, to bolster their imaginations. It causes them to make worldly connections like hey, my baby brother is sometimes stinky... he also has a face...I can call him "stinky face" like the book! I would be so honored to one day be considered part of the literary world that creates life-long lovers of books.That is where YOU my friends come in to the picture. There are a few things I learned this week from blogging:

1) how to finally spell zucchini
2) that carpal tunnel syndrome is serious business and I might have to invest in some wrist gear
3) that by blogging, an aspiring author can really get a start because their name is out there in the universe.

     This weekend, I will give everyone a break from my obnoxious Facebook notifications but I challenge you to  do one thing and one thing only... tell one person about this blog. Your grandma, your third cousin Helga in Bavaria, your parrot Winston. ANYONE! Who knows? The next person they talk (or squawk) to on the street may be a literary agent or editor for children's books!  Wouldn't that be wonderfully serendipitous?! Have a great and relaxing weekend! Read a book!

Mother/Daughter bonding over Do You Want to Be My Friend?

True story: "You look yucky in this picture mommy." "Why, thank you my child."

My Poor Husband

     My poor husband. In this whole becoming-a-writer process, he suffers. He suffers more than my young children who I bribe to listen to my stories with books to follow that actually have pictures. He suffers more than my mom who is forced to find out all of my childhood wrong-doings, the hard way. Yes folks, he suffers the most because he is the first one I pitch my itty-bitty ideas to. He is the first one to read each new draft.  He really does try his best to help me with his critiques. I realize this. But people, the man is in a serious bind! He is living with someone I like to call my "off-my-rocker-self". She comes out when new ideas are generated and insecurity gets the best of her. I am deeply ashamed to say that basically he finds himself in some deep, up to the elbows, doo doo no matter what he says. If he says I have to keep working on a certain part of a story, my "off-my-rocker-self" says, "What, you don't like it? What's wrong with it? Well, what should I say instead? What do you mean? That doesn't make any sense! You don't know what I am trying to say! Just forget it."   If he says it's great,  or even worse, perfect, my  "off-my-rocker-self" gets frustrated and goes on a rant on how he isn't being honest with her.  "Well, there has to be something wrong with it! It can't be perfect! You don't need to lie. I won't be mad." (That one's my favorite).  No matter what, each time we decide it would be better if he just didn't read anything of mine ever again, in our whole, entire lives. Not even a birthday card or a grocery list...well, maybe a grocery list. In the end though, the fact of the matter is that my story always ends up being better than it was before because of how he pushes me and what he recommends. That is what keeps me coming back...the poor guy.

P.S. Disclaimer to husband: Don't ever tell me I am being my "off-my-rocker-self" or you will be in deep doo doo. Only I can say it. Thanks. Love you.

Blog Junkie

     Four days ago, my life was normal. I had minimal to average daily doses of online social networking. I had healthy face-to-face conversations with people about normal day-to-day things such as zucchini bread or  my ever expanding muffin top. Four days ago, I wasn't addicted to anything but coffee. That was four days ago. But today I think I would qualify for the title blog junkie. I eat and sleep blog.   I am hoping this is just some kind of honeymoon period that I will get over next week, hopefully. But until then, I will call my sister and ask her how she is doing, when she really knows I just want to see if she has read my blog. I will call my dad and ask him on his birthday if he checked out the site yet, and when he hasn't I'll ask him, "how come?"  Yes folks. It is that bad. I'm officially an addict. We're talking laundry piles, a moldy shower curtain, our Christmas tree is leaning too far to the right...I don't care about ANY of it! Is this what it is going to take to become a writer? God help me.

Ammunition

     I think the best part of writing for young children is that I seem to have an endless supply of ammunition at my disposal. I cannot tell you how many times per day my kids do or say something that would not be considered to be at least borderline classic.  For example, tonight I get home from class and my husband is working diligently trying to reinsert our laptop's keys back into the keyboard. My husband's frustrated grunts and eye rolls left me hanging so I walked over to get an explanation straight from the horse's mouth, who was poking her little, wide eyed face guiltily out her bedroom door. When I asked why she wanted to pluck each key from the machine she whimpered, "Well, I wanted to pretend like they were my chocolates." As my heart melted into oblivion I immediately smiled with complete admiration for her ability to imagine those tiny keys to be pieces of chocolate, without a doubt  inspired by our new advent calender.  Other examples that spring to mind are her comments about being sick or hurt.  "I have the cold" or "Mommy, do you see my pain?"

     This brings me to another topic I have been tossing around in my little noggin the last few days. The issue of voice. I think my sweet munchkins supply me with endless examples of voice for their age group. But recently I have been wanting to give middle grade literature a go. Only, my manuscript was filled with wackadoodle words like, wackadoodle.  With a four and a two year old, I feel as if I am destined to talk as little people do the rest of my life. I tell adults I have to go potty. "My goodness!" is my exclamation of choice. I am a modern day Mr. Rogers spin off. So how can I find the voice of a middle grader if I do not encounter them every now and again? I have devised a plan: One, check out more popular middle grade fiction from the library. Two, watch Nickelodeon like a mad woman. Three, well, I only have two I guess. But I believe I am off to a great start! With the end of the semester winding down, you can find me now with my nose in books entitled, The Diary of a Wimpy Kid or Hugo Cabaret something-or-other. Amelia Bedelia here I come!

Rejection City

     Alright. So after some good, hardy laughs that only Stephen Colbert can evoke, I am ready to admit to defeat. This evening I received a rejection for one of my first manuscripts, Dinos and Trucks. While I am not devastated, I must say, I am quite grumpy. And while I consider myself a mostly, mature person, I did kinda have the urge to throw a silent tantrum in response to the news. I quickly regained composure and thought how I could better handle the situation and then it was off to the fridge to sneak some carrot cake!  As I licked the frosting off my fingers to get the most out of the experience, I realized that this is the tradition I owe myself after each rejection. No silent tantrums, just silent fridge-raids! Usually I would feel guilty about such behavior, but don't I owe it to myself?

     A rejection of one's writing is like a rejection of one's soul. Okay, maybe not that dramatic, but close. You are putting yourself out there, exposing your thoughts and what you think is your best writing.  To have a professional say they aren't "feeling your writing" brings out that inner child who just wants approval and to be told they are good at something that they love to do. Along with my new and exciting  fridge-raid tradition, I am going to make and effort to send off a manuscript each time I receive a rejection. By sending another piece out (which was a genius coping mechanism of another author- although not as delicious as mine), I will be creating another sense of hope, as delusional as it might be, that my work is out there in the universe and will someday be picked up by someone? Anyone? Hello? Hmph.

Here We Go!

     So this is my first official post and I am not sure who in their right mind will read my thoughts on writing because I am defintely NOT an expert. What I AM an expert at is taking risks and that is exactly what I am setting out to do on my journey to becoming a writer. These past few months, I have sent my manuscripts out along with their at times awkward query letters to agents from coast to coast with hopes of finding representation.  With each non-response, autmoated or friendly rejection, I try to stay positive. But I have to admit, sometimes it is REALLY hard to keep my chin up.  I have become much more senstive to the critiques of my readers (mostly my husband and mother) and find myself questioning what in the world I am doing. I spend so much time writing these days...in the car when I am stopped at a light, after my daughter says something hysterical at breakfast or in the middle of night, I am finding it hard to focus on school. I would rather be at the libarary in the children's section reading through the picture books or at home reading a YA novel than doing my research.

     This weekend, my husband asked me a question I have been dreading for a while now: Do you consider yourself to be a writer?  I don't. However much I would love to be able to call myself a "writer", I do not deserve the title due to the fact that writers know what the hec they're doing. When I write, it's like I just spit it up, blah! Like an infant with their oatmeal.  Sure, I revise, but any old Joe can do that.  So at what point does one truly become a writer? I know that you don't need to be published to be a writer. I know that there are many talented eight year olds who should consider themselves writers. I think there just becomes a point where an author's work becomes an artform, where each time the pen hits the paper is magnificent and beautiful. At least this is what I imagine. I am sure Anne Lamott would disagree. That's why you gotta love her. The title of this blog, Banana Peelin', was taken from Ann Lamott's idea in Bird by Bird, where she admits that everytime she begins to feel confident and proud of her writing and status in the literary world, it is as if she slips on a banana peel and she's humbled back to reality. That is the nature of life and will be without a doubt the nature of my experience as a person on their way to beoming a writer.