Total Lack of Imagination

I've done a few interviews for my book recently. Nothing like talking for a half-hour about yourself for a mood enhancer. God, I'm so important I shouldn't even be blogging. I should be courting Oprah.

Or.

Playing with caterpillars, which is actually what I've been doing quite a bit of. It takes some imagination to write a novel, but these children, they have it in CAPITAL LETTERS. They think if you pull a flower off a stem you can put it back on, and if you don't look at a cut, it will heal faster, and that air can become cake, and arms wings. Makes me feel terribly literal and dull.

Until I get asked a dozen questions, then, naturally, I feel interesting. I was asked what I have in common with the main character in my novel. She's cranky and angry and funny and sassy and tired. So, not much. But we both really love chocolate.

And you know what? My son still believes me when I eat M&Ms and say they're vitamins. Talk about the powers of imagination. Though he may be catching on. The other day he said: "Mama, when I'm old enough, I'll be able to eat vitamins." "Yes," I told him. "But not Mama's. Never Mama's. Only Mama can eat her vitamins." And to think I keep wondering why he's no good at sharing.