So I’ve run into a problem in my WIP. I run into this problem regularly, in fact. I’ll be cruising along, writing a new scene, playing with the dialog and making fiddling with the setting, thinking…Now, what?

And then the other day, I was flipping through a how-to book for a chart on structure, and I found the answer to my question.

Yes, but…

Let me explain. In each scene, there should be a goal, right? Something your protagonist is trying to attain or achieve.  And there’s some form of obstacle in her way, be it the hottie next door or the vampire trying to suck her…blo0d.  So she has a goal in each scene. Does she get it?

There are only four possible answers to that question:  yes, no, yes but, or no and furthermore.

Yes and no are boring answers. They don’t leave you with anything next. You say yes or no to the conflict of the scene, and then you’re stuck staring at the screen, going, “Now, what do I do?”

So how about the other two options? “No and furthermore” gets more interesting. No, she didn’t get attain her goal, but furthermore…fill in the blank with a way it can get worse.

“Yes, but” gets interesting too. Yes, she attains her goal. But…

Recently, I had a scene I was floundering with. Josephine, my protagonist, had a goal. She was being released from prison, and about to face the media storm standing between the gates of the prison, and the car taking her to the airport. And she did it. She withstood the media, made it into the car with her dignity intact.

And then. . .

So I thought, what if the answer was “yes, but” instead of just “yes.” What if she gets through the shit storm of cameras and questions, but there’s something worse waiting for her in the car?

Suddenly, there are new possibilities. The things I needed to have happen plot-wise can, yet the possibilities in front of me are now endless.

So how about it wenches? Anyone have a scene they seemed to stall out on, and are left going “Now what do I do?”  Check if the answer to the protagonist’s goal is a plain yes or no. Will giving that scene a “no, and furthermore,” or “yes, but” ending open up your future options? What else do you use to get you past the “Now, what?” sticking moments?

There are a lot of parts of the male body we can admire. The abs, the pecs, the face, the jaw, the thighs, the quads, the…

Where was I?

Oh yes, the good parts on hot boys. One that gets looked over is their arms. And man, do some of these boys have great arms.

So what else? What body parts do we not pay nearly enough attention to?

Blame it on the Bo’sun, if this blog holds together better than mine normally tend to. I was really floundering on this and have come to the conclusion…I take bad notes. So, trying to pull enough together to make sense and not meander about… I give you 3 items of interest from the Donald Maas workshop I attended last Saturday.

I’m going to start with the third point, because I like working backwards. It amazed, what I heard during breaks and at the end of the day. “Well, guess I’ll just scrap what I have and start over!”

No kidding?

And I thought, “What? No bloody way!” My inner censor held me back from standing up and staring then all down, “Are you all mad? He’s hasn’t said anything that isn’t fixable!”

I do have some instincts toward self preservation. And these were my chapter mates and I need to continue meeting with them once a month.

Now, I am not so egotistical to assume nothing he said pertains to me and my manuscripts. Quite the contrary! Some wonderful ideas for adding verve and excitement and sharpening the works… Lots of great ideas.

But this was an important point for me…I’m not writing perfect, but I don’t believe in pillage and burn. I mean, how can I continue to build a mutually satisfactory relationship with any manuscript if I just pillage and burn it?

He spoke of revisions. He spoke of receiving a rejection and resubmitting according the suggestions made. He didn’t say…burn it.  So, last thing I walked away with? Don’t burn it.

Secondly, protagonist! I discovered that I write great protagonist. Oh, boy, sounds egotistical again, don’t it? No, not that way! But Donald said that protagonists tend fit into two types. Those that are born great and those that have greatness thrust upon them. Say…the Navy Seal compared to the stock clerk. And he emphasized with both of these types…make the reader connect with them in the first five pages.

(I hate the first 5 pages stuff. I know, it’s realistic. But I struggle within the confines of reality all the time.)

But I listened and understand the gist. Those that are great need to be made fallible so the reader can relate. Those that aren’t great naturally…well, my notes suck here, something about giving them attributes to admire and enable to them rise to the greatness they are headed for. I create protagonists that are already great. (Not in an egotistical way, remember, but in a already a warrior sort or thing… Oh, never mind, I’m getting myself into trouble enough.)  

The gist of it? Examine where your protagonist fits into this world and make sure you bring them into the world. Not so great that no one can relate and not so…uh…not-great so that there is no suspension of disbelief when they end up doing great things. (Did I use a double negative there?) Suspension of disbelief? Yeah, that might be better.

Firstly, oh…I loved this one! Special Characters! This topic fascinated me. He spoke of how to use this tool to address a need for action, for information, for climax wrap up. Special characters, the larger than life presence that hovers over the action, but often isn’t ever introduced. The general in charge of the troops, the scientist, the head of the school board. The one we writers use as an off screen device.

Donald recommends bringing them on screen and let them relay information, spur action, add color.

I have the Guardians in my current WIP. They know why the world changed, they make rules, but for the most part, they are off screen and they don’t interfere. Until one of them pops up near the end and because he’s eccentric and disagrees with some of the original Guardian doctrine, he drops bits of information that changes everything for the H/H. But he does it in almost an accidental way.

I love it, I can use him more. Not just at the end. It’s going to be fun to incorporate him just a bit more. Just a bit….mostly at the end, but I can do some gentle foreshadowing using this character.

Delish!

There was more, of course. At one point I wanted to thrust my fist in the air and shout out “YES!” Because he spoke of how telling can be as important as showing. How an objective POV can be useful to make the intangible dynamic.

Donald is my hero.

Details? Give me more time to reflect and I hope I can give you more. And maybe I’ll read the book…find the specifics that struck me as wonderful. He did use an example of a paragraph from an author he represents. Daniel Depp. Yup, related to our favorite pirate actor. Wrote a mystery of sorts set in Hollywood. Great passage he read. (Gotta look for this book!)

The last question he addressed was great. Asked how he recommended an author approach revision, he replied that a linear approach was fine and good, but he suggested a more scattered and random approach. Work out of order. A sort of shuffle things around and grab a scene, a bit of dialog, some action…read it, apply the methods he suggested…grab another. From anywhere.

This appeals to the chaos imp that lives inside me and likes to play.

So, to reiterate…

3) Don’t burn. (Sin, this is for you. Stop the bonfires. Now.)

2) Great or greatness thrust upon them? Either way, still need a way to connect to the reader, for the reader to believe this could be them…

1) Special Characters are to be used.

.5) Edit out of order

Now, lets see how you might find some of this useful with your current WIP… (And keep tuned in…one last point he made I am writing up as an entire blog on all its own. One I know Hel is going to take great delight in…)

I’m up at me Mum’s and time will be tight today. Bear with me as  I pop in and out…and play nice! The bar is open!

It’s no secret I’ve felt frazzled these days.

Yesterday, it culminated with my son coming down with some cold that officially made it impossible for him to sleep.  Up all night, no real nap = cranky.  Add a pregnant mom who’s been up all night and the situation became nuclear.

My solution?  Death by pop culture… toddler style.  I zoned on the couch with my kid snugged up against me, his nose running all over my unwashed person while we took in a fill of Dora the Explorer, Go Diego Go, and the incredibly annoying Max and Ruby.  What is with that show?  They’re two kid rabbits living for all intents and purposes by themselves in a house alone.  Where are their parents?  There are other adult rabbits around.  Has no one thought to call child services?  And Max seriously needs to be tested because I think he’s on the autism spectrum.  He says one word the whole show but solves every problem in Penny a la Inspector Gadget fashion.  He’s like Rainman.

This flurry of toddler television is the best I could manage.  Most days, I try to do it all.  I attempt to be entertaining, at least for most of the day, to this kid who’s the light of my life.  He does give me that look now and again.  The one that says, “Why does Daddy leave me with you?  Does he not know how seriously unhinged you are?”  But most of the time, I manage.  In the midst of all the parenting, I try to write a couple hours a day, be a good wife/friend/daughter/etc, and keep the dust bunnies at bay. 

Pregnancy has not helped.  Something about being pregnant reduces your IQ to roughly that of a turnip.  Recently, I don’t have quick comebacks to my three year old.  That’s just pathetic.  When he says stuff like, “You’re bad, mommy, you’ve got to stay in Walmart” (I have no idea what this means, but I think it’s the equivalent of mommy hell) I have no ready response.  I fire back with something along the lines of, “Well, oh yeah?”  which sounds just as stupid here as it does in real life.  I’m only saved by the fact that he doesn’t understand how ridiculous I sound.  Now and again my husband catches this witty repartee but he’s smart.  He says nothing.  He knows I’m a hormonal mess and I’m holding the strings of our life together on a knife edge.

I confess all of this to you not as some sort of therapeutic session.  Deep down, I know I’m doing the best I can.  Pregnancy saps your brain cells.  I think there are studies about this.  (Someone?  Please let there be studies about this.)  I’m tired.  I’m big–awkward.  I can’t get up and down as easy and it’s only going to get worse the next few months.   Logically, I know all of this and acknowledge that I’m managing pretty well on the majority of days and I try to give myself a little slack.  No one expects me to always be perfect.  Only me.

In the same way, I think we try and balance everything when we write.  We try and do it all:  titillating dialogue, fabulous conflict, description that puts us right there.  Characters so real and POV so close that we feel like we’re them.  We try to be fresh; we try to take risks but still stay inside the lines.  We try to put it all together and on the first go around even.  Like if we don’t get it right that time, the story, our careers, everything about us as a writer will be ruined forever.

I don’t know for sure, but I suspect that’s not true, in the same way that my son will probably not be emotionally scarred forever because of one day lazing on the couch watching bad toddler TV with his mom.   Or a few months of his pregnant mommy being less brilliant than she usually is.  *cough cough*

But the fear of failure, the quest for perfection, can absolutely destroy our self-esteem.  It can wreck our good intentions.  And I think maybe, just maybe, we don’t have to be perfect.  Maybe we can just be the best we can and that’ll be enough.

If we let it.

Are you a perfectionist?  What things cross your mind while writing that stop you in your tracks?  Any ready comebacks for a three year old, something more authoritative than, “Because I said so?”

Song Choice of the week:  Rollin’- Limp Bizkit
Don’t ask. I’ve been in a really random selection mood. Stress at work is starting to take it’s toll on what little of my brain that still half-assed functions.

*cue busy tone* I’m sorry, but the person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please hang up and try again. *end busy tone*

So in the spirit of trying to accomplish something in this lifetime, I’ve decided the only way to do it is to lock myself in a dark room with just a computer and no internet and have at it. Otherwise, it will be in my next lifetime that the book is written.

I wonder if my reincarnate will have a darker mind than me. I’m also trying to imagine what that would be like. I once wrote about a guy having his fingers chopped off, thrown into a shark tank to start a feeding frenzy and then when he was of no use informational wise anymore, he was thrown into the tank and disposed of.

So a darker version of myself would use what? Flesh eating flies?

Ooh, that’s actually not a bad idea. Let me scribble that down for later.

Hells, in her infinite brilliance, gifted me a wonderful book during our last writing meeting. I don’t know if she was hinting that I should try out some new “experiments” or if she was merely suggesting that I try poisoning people instead of torturing and killing. The book, “The Book of  Poisons (A Writer’s Guide)” is super fascinating. We will completely ignore the fact that I know two-thirds of the book from personal experience. I think the most interesting thing I found was in the back of the book where it lists off in order which poison will cause a reaction the fastest.  Did you know that a Gila Monster is ranked higher than Acid.

And I’m not talking like psychedelic Acid- see hallucinations and trip balls; I’m talking flesh eating, burn like the depths of a fiery hell Acid.

So much like Renee, I had to go do some writerly investigating. Honestly, I can’t write with something like this in my head and not knowing the truth of the matter.

I went to the Wiki. Everyone knows how reliable the Wiki can be.

Stop giving me that look.

It is very unlikely on my trips to Arizona that I will die of a Gila Monster bite. Apparently they are slow and sluggish. But like snapping turtles, if they get a hold of you and clamp down, you’re screwed. The Wiki- in all it’s brilliance- says that you have to submerge a Gila Monster completely into water to get them to let go. Well, Wiki, have you been to the desert lately? Ever seen a puddle deep enough to submerge anything? If you’re clumsy enough to fall and get bitten by the slow ass Gila Monster, you better pray it’s the monsoon season (or right now because it’s been raining cats and dogs on the coast and in the southwest). Otherwise, you’ll hemorrhage from the poison and that’s probably not before a Rattler sneaks up on your ass and liquefies your bones into- well- liquid.

Still not clear how this is faster than Acid.

While I’m not particularly worried about plugging in random assault weapons and looking up F.B.I information for background research into my writing, there is something that stops me at putting, Gila Monster venom vs. Acid into my Google search. Like plugging that in is finally going to get me the red flag. I’m pretty sure they’ve been watching me for three years now.

“Why the hell does she need to know that?” *looking into the Google search and pulling up articles* “Did you know the odds from dying from a stray blow dart are 5 to 1?”

*scratching head* “Are you sure she’s some backwoods kid from Missouri?”

It gives me hives to think someone out there has probably pulled up my complete record and medical history merely because Google is the very devil and allows me to research anything and everything. I try not to think about it.

Lots of good stuff and food for thought on last week’s blog. I want to know how everyone feels about research and investigating. Half the fun of writing is learning new things to incorporate into your writing. Have you uncovered anything interesting you want to share with the rest of us? Anything useful stored in your back pocket about putting someone to sleep permanently that I might need to try out in my next scene?

The movie Valentine’s Day is coming out. There is a clip within the clip that never fails to make me fall into guffaws every time I see it. Taylor Swift and Taylor Lautner as high school students, being interviewed by a reporter.

Reporter: “How do you feel about each other?”

Taylor: “OMG, I totally love him!”

Taylor: “And I’m crazy about her!”

Taylor: “Look, he wrote his number on my hand.” *turns to gaze adoringly at Taylor*

Reporter: *turning away to look at the camera* “There you have it. Young love. Full of promise. Full of hope. Ignorant of reality.” *pan shot of Taylors kissing like wolves*

And really that’s the meaning of life summed up: Full of promise. Full of hope. Ignorant of reality. Applies to just about everything, doesn’t it?

Marriage: “Aww, he’s so sweet. He brought me roses for our two-week anniversary! I bet he’ll never take me for granted.”

Kids: “Look at him so quiet as he sleeps. I bet he’s going to be one of those kids who advances early through those Einstein classes. He’s so smart!”

Graduation from high school: “Thank God! I will never have to work with people who are so self-absorbed and shallow ever again.”

Graduation from college: “Yeah! Now I can finally get that job where I’m paid $100,000 a year! No more working for peanuts!”

Movie theater: “Another Jennifer Aniston romantic comedy? Okay. I heard this one was really funny. Really. How bad could it be? Vince Vauhn is hilarious!”

Bookstore: “Yeah! The newest book in the Wallflower series! I bet Daisy and Cam get together finally!!!”

Lies. Lies. Dreadful, awful lies. (And don’t bother telling me “let it go”, Sin, because I won’t. I still want my money back for The Breakup.)

If it works so well in basically every other aspect of your life, why wouldn’t it be the same with writing?

I remember writing when I was a teenager—I still have the drivel somewhere—and it was these lovely anachronistic knight-and-lady masterpieces where the bluestocking won the heart of the rakish jock. I never worried then about plausibility, plot, or whether people would actually act in the ways I had them behaving. The heroine, perhaps, who was acting like an overdramatic teenager was the most likely. Being I was an overdramatic teenager. (Write what you know.) It never felt particularly hard, I thought; I just loved writing. And I’d go wherever the whimsy took me.

Of course, now when I try to read it and try to discern anything that remotely smacks of a plot or even a thought process, I wonder, “How in the world did I ever think of myself as a writer? Honestly. This is awful.” The same sort of horrific wonder you get looking at your husband twenty years later and thinking, “I used to think the belching was cute. Why?”

Still, despite the awfulness, you read those beginning works and you definitely get the sense within the writing of those teenagers from the clip: full of promise, full of hope, ignorant of reality. You can’t rule out passion as a necessary substance for writing. Only passion for something will get you to do it every day, regardless, because frankly there are a lot of other awesome uses of your time you can be doing, like sleeping or reading your TBR pile or even laundry. (Don’t you hate how that piles up?)

But like all things, you have to put it in perspective. You look at those teenagers and give one of those grown-up little snorts of laughter. Bemused to remember being that way once, thankful you’re not still that deluded. Same with writing. Some of those first writing forays were really, really good for the soul. They suck you right in, really make you crave the thrill you get from stringing words together like popcorn and cranberries at Christmas until you have enough to drape all over the tree. But then when you look at later pictures of that tree, you go, “WTF?” It’s always the way. Hindsight is 20/20 and all that.

When you start a project, there is always that glimmer of “full of promise, full of hope, ignorant of reality” that begins the project, and it’s not until a few weeks into it you remember how hard writing really is. The reality returns, but the ignorance is always an important aspect of the process.

What do you find important about the process of writing? What reality are you reminded of every time you start writing a story? And will anyone be seeing that Valentine’s Day movie? It’s got everyone in it….

Look at Jason.  This is, indubitably, a fine specimen of the human species.

Now look at this. Once again, a brilliant specimen of that which we call Book. Even if half this ship hasn’t read it.

These two seemingly different genres (namely: Homo and Literature) actually have much in common.

Let’s start with Jason.

For starters, Jason is not really…Jason. Jason is actually millions and millions of teeny, tiny Jasons—cells—that all contribute to the great big Jason you see here and love. And even though each cell is individual, it does not exist except to be a whole of the great big Jason; and even though there are cells for blood and cells for nerves and cells for nostril hair, they are all connected by the fact, they all make up a unique and important part of the great big Jason. I mean, look at Jason [wistful look at Jason]: he’s a finely tuned machine, isn’t he? His body is constantly working and restructuring and getting rid of waste that is not needed to keep Jason in good working order. It’s really quite brilliant.

Now what is the point of Jason? And what does this have to do with books?

Good questions. The point of Jason is that novels are also built one scene—cell—at a time. You may write hundreds of scenes. You may write scenes that give you great insight to Jason, but when Jason is presented to the rest of us (see: above and sigh wistfully), those scenes have been discarded, no longer of use to the whole. No scene is wasted per se, but you can’t keep them all. Sometimes you have to do some exfoliating to get to the bright, shining layer. Some days you spend a lot of time with Jason in the shower, loofahing him to finely tuned form.

What is the point of this sexist, gratuitous eye candy blog? And again, what does this have to do with books? Again, good questions.

A larger-than-life, heart-clutching novel is really nothing more than lots and lots of little larger-than-life, heart-clutching scenes, created one at a time to contribute to the whole. Start small in order to finish big. And a lot of times sitting down to page one of the 400-page Great American Novel can be daunting because Fluffy shows up (everyday) and points out that you can’t possibly keep this up for 400 pages. It’s too big. You’re trying to capture a story that’s too big and put it into a book that’s too big. And you’re just a moron…and it’s going to take too much time. To kill Fluffy you have to be prepared to write one scene at a time instead of trying to write the whole novel at once.

Scenes are basically two things—1) An action or reaction and 2) Basic journalism. Characters are either doing something (pursuing a goal) or reacting to something (overcoming obstacles that are keeping them from their goals; dealing with conflict.) The action is the story and the reaction is the conflict. The basic journalism comes in with: who, what, where, when, why, how, and significance. Whose point of view are we in; what are they doing; and where, when, and how. When can be very important because it is frequently observed in writer articles that characters with urgent problems (i.e. not a lot of time) are characters we care more about. Also characters with urgent problems tend to try to solve them in more madcap ways, which tends to make the reading more exciting. The why is for “why do we care”—motivation—and we always need to care. If the why is non-existent, the POV is probably not deep enough and it will be too easy to put the book down. Lastly is: what is the significance of this scene.

No scene is an island…

Oops, wrong metaphor. Back to Jason and the mini-cell Jasons. All those cells making up Jason are necessary. The same applies to your scenes. You can’t just have a scene—no matter how brilliant and funny it is—that does not move your story to the ending in some way. If it does not reveal plot, character, or the Mayan secret of life, you need to cull that llama from the herd.

Now I believe if you make every scene bigger-than-life and heart-clutching, your book will come to be a very fine-looking Jason. But if you don’t, you may end up giving your readers this:

And that is not what we romance readers came to the bookstore for. Don’t kill trees; Al Gore will come after you.

Since the topic of professional athletes came up this week, I figure it would be nice to round out that conversation with some eye candy. Somebody’s gotta keep these pirates organized!

What do you think?

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And since we started by talking about baseball, it only seems right to round out the week with………a baseball bat:

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So what do you think, wenches? Feeling more organized now? They were even in alphebitical order!

OK, I think I’m a real loon. I’m not sure when I crossed over from simply interesting to sweetly quirky to totally bizarre. But as I write stranger and stranger stories, I’m coming to the realization that…in Sin’s dear words…I ain’t right.

Course my ain’t right is different than her ain’t right. I seldom create scenarios involving the demise of innocent characters just for the heck of it. (I’m not denying envisioning numerously painful ways for the twit in front of me at Starbucks to die when he pulls out a list of 45 drinks that have to be made before my single little caffeine fix is done… Nope, not denying that.)

My ain’t right involves the directions I find my stories taking once I get going. I recently started a new book… (Needed something to entertain myself between editing duties. Once I’m actually doing the editing, I’m fine. It’s the thinking about doing or the break I need once I’ve spent some time doing it… I long for something light and frothy and fun.)

So, I started the book I’ve been talking about to myself and to the blog. I wanted to write a nice sexy loves story staring two not so young people. Like a woman in her 50s, a man in his 60s… It would be sweet and sexy and fun… I’d make it a pirate adventure, but nothing too wild…

Well, maybe a little wild. No magic, just some fantasy stuff. Friendly… No time travel. Well, maybe a little time travel. And a touch of magic. Ok, a curse and a wicked ice queen. Absolutely no vampires…

But I’d have i-pods and good drinks and toss in the kraken. An albino kraken! Oh, damn. Vampires snuck in…but they aren’t really sexy or alluring. They do, however, know how to waltz.

At this point I figured what the heck. I added a swamp and some zombies wandering around. And what’s a romance without a pack of werewolves racing around the forest? And a voodoo queen who can mix up a cure for hangovers…

Toss in some pirate ships, and maybe some goggles, for the steampunk fans. No aliens. (So far.) And no dukes! (Or viscounts, or duchesses, or royalty of any sort.)

You know, this stuff just happens to me. I’m writing and my mind just takes this detour somewhere strange. But…come on! Doesn’t this sound like a party?

I do believe that sometimes, the muse just needs to chug that pitcher of margaritas and dance the wild one on the bar. Is it marketable? I have no idea… I don’t even know how long it’s going to be. But the sexy love story is central to all of it. I got a heroine who longs to become the sexy woman at 53 she’s always dreamed lived inside her. A tortured hero who starts out a villain but eventually redeems himself and teaches her that she sure the hell is that sexy woman. And he sure the hell deserves her!

I actually have a plot in the midst of this madness. I have motivation, goal, AND conflict. Internal conflict and external conflict. (Remember the curse?)

Actually, it’s one of the first MS I’ve ever worked on with all of these things pretty well established before I’ve reached the editing steps. I know this isn’t really…normal.

Maybe it’s normal for me. Because I ain’t right.

But I’m not necessarily wrong either. I’m just a bit…different.

OK, a lot different.

Unless, maybe I’m not!

Here’s your chance. Another confession Friday! Who else has decided to try it all, toss your hat into the stew pot, in fact, jump in and have a hot tub party? Or maybe a little less wild…mix just two odd elements together? Or what would you like to see put together? I mean, we had Jane Austen and zombies… Of the current trends…your passions…what would you like to mix and match?

By Scuttlebutt Stone a.k.a. J Perry.

I’m sure it comes as no surprise I consider myself a bibliophile. I like the way books smell, the way they mute noise in a room better than any soundproofing, the way those crinkly plastic covers from libraries show every fingerprint—as though we readers have joined an anonymous club with our most personal signature.

And then there are the insides: the verbal ballet, the shock of recognition, the titillation of some siren author’s pen making my nerves throb.  To me, there is no greater artist than s/he whose paints, clay and notes are in fact words. Graceful words. Tough words. Melancholic, flowery, and gritty words. I’m seduced by them all–from McCarthy’s and Hemingway’s, to Nin’s and *moment of silence* Keats’.  In essence, I am a word slut, opening for the promise of printed bliss.

In every word slut’s background, however, there is one moment heralding future biblio-whoredom. Mine came at three years of age (and yes, I realize it is rather creepy to connect the words “slut,” “whoredom” and “three years of age”).

I could already read, thanks to my mother, but it was a visit from my grandfather that made me realize just how much I adored books. Papa always came to our house bearing gifts. Assuming I couldn’t read, he brought me a small white radio and my older sister a book. The book was called MILK and had a salmon-colored price tag showing he’d paid a whopping .69 cents for it.  

He probably bought it at an airport gift shop, but it was AMAZING, exploring a variety of mammals, as well as the journey milk takes from udder to shelf. It also detailed the history of milk, spotlighting a queen who bathed in it. God, I loved that. She actually bathed in creamy white milk, reposing in her stone pool as handmaidens poured urns-full over the side. 

So at three, I convinced my seven year old sister to trade her cheap little milk book for my expensive radio.

And here she thought she got the bargain.

I still treasure that little book while the radio is long gone.

So what about you? What was the moment you realized you were a word slut (or were biblio-phallic, as the case may be)?