Becca Kinzer's Blog

If you’ve read my author’s note in Love in Tandem, then you already know the story was inspired by a similar trip my husband and I took years ago on a tandem bike down the Natchez Trace. A reader at a recent library event wanted to know more about the raccoon story I reference in the acknowledgments section to my husband. That was one of those experiences that didn’t make it into Love in Tandem, but certainly made it onto the pages of my journal when we got back from our seven-day trip and I started writing about all our adventures.

I thought you might like to hear the story too. And you know what else I thought? Why not share the story exactly (minus a few boring details) as I wrote it down fourteen years ago?

So here you go, friends. The Tale of the Raccoons, straight from the pages of Becca’s journal entry written on July 19, 2010.

Love in Tandem, published in 2024, sitting on top of one of the journal entries I wrote in 2010 about our tandem bicycle trip.

Alright, I believe we were coming into the evening of day two. We stayed at an actual state park camping site that night. The park ranger’s office was already closed when we got there at about six in the evening. We spent a little time trying to find him, but finally gave up when we stumbled across a posting that explained what to do in the event of arriving after the office is closed.

The campground had a bathhouse, and I can assure you that the shower felt beyond wonderful. We set up our tent on a lot towards the end of a long row of camping sites where everyone else had parked their RVs. All the camp sites bordered a small lake, where we did see a few people canoeing before it got too dark.

We ate some snacks at our picnic table, including one of Dave’s favorites—Twix bars smeared with pb—then hit the tent for a peaceful night of slumber, not knowing then like I do now that there really is no such thing as a peaceful night of slumber in a tent.

I fell asleep quickly and was surprised to hear Dave coming into the tent later since I didn’t recall him leaving the tent. I asked him what he was doing. He said, “You didn’t hear that?”

“No,” I said.

“A raccoon was trying to get into our bags. I resecured them and put the rain covers on. They should be okay now.”

“Oh okay, that soundszzzzz—” I was back asleep.

About an hour later I was very much awake when I heard the sounds of a fierce rabid battle taking place outside our tent. I tapped Dave on the shoulder and said, “I think there’s something outside our tent.”

“Oh, there’s something out there, alright,” he said.

I stayed bunkered down in my sleeping bag with no intention of ever leaving the tent again. Dave, however, grabbed the flashlight, unzipped the tent and poked his head out to take a look. His words were not reassuring. “Oh jeeze,” he groaned. Then he climbed out and I heard him walk over toward the bike.

I immediately rezipped the tent, bunkered down in my sleeping bag and estimated the cost of damage an army of raccoons could do to a tandem. I imagined they’d disassembled the bike, eaten a tire or two, and were now using the chain to tie up Dave and hold him hostage for food.

Or perhaps the bike was just a decoy so they could get to me in the tent. I was afraid to look out the vent in the tent, convinced I’d for sure see two glowing eyes staring back at me before a long claw sliced through the fabric. Apparently the raccoon I was imaging was not only demon possessed but also part mountain lion.

I honestly couldn’t believe Dave had gone out there. With no shirt on to boot! He acted so nonchalant about it, I’m pretty sure I found him to be the bravest man in the world at that moment.

After 15 minutes or so he came back into the tent. I braced myself and said, “Well . . .?”

“There was only one raccoon, but I’m afraid it’s pretty bad.”

I could tell Dave was trying to hold it together for my sake. “It’s okay. You can tell me,” I said.

He sighed, and with a small quiver in his voice, he said, “He got the Fig Newtons.”

Do I even need to describe the sense of mourning one experiences at such a loss? Perhaps I do. For me it was zilch. Nada. For Dave it was . . . well, let’s just say that raccoon might as well have just kicked him in the balls.

Oh well, such is life.

Dave put our food in the bath house for the rest of the night, and thankfully, we never had any more runs-ins with raccoons that night or the remainder of the trip.

The bells on Amelia’s Christmas wreath jingled as the front door opened and slammed shut.  “Grandma lost her phone again,” Kylee yelled from the entryway.

“I thought she was supposed to glue it to her forehead, so this didn’t keep happening,” Amelia responded.

Her ten-year-old niece giggled as she entered the kitchen. “She wants you to call her phone. Can I do it?”

Amelia looked up from the snowman sugar cookie she was frosting and nodded toward her phone on the counter. “Absolutely. Have a cookie, too.”

Wasn’t that part of the cool aunt creed? Spoil thy niece with screens and sugar at all opportunities, especially during the Christmas season.

“I’m going to Facetime her looking like a shark. She loves that,” Kylee said, biting into one of the snowman’s hats.

“Who wouldn’t? Ask Grandma if I can borrow a stick of butter while you’re at it.” That was one of the perks of living in a house two doors down from her mom in Cookeville, Tennessee. The downside, of course, was having to track down her mom’s phone at least once a week. The day her mom stopped losing her phone was the day her niece stopped loving sweets.

“She must’ve heard it. She’s answering.” Kylee clutched the phone close to her face. “Hi Grand—”

“Hello?” A male voice answered.

Kylee jabbed at the screen, ending the call. “I think I called the wrong number. Some weird guy just answered. I’ll try again.”

“Hello,” the same male voice from earlier answered.

“It’s Weird Guy again,” Kylee whispered. “What do I do?”

“Ask Weird Guy why he has Grandma’s phone,” Amelia said as she finished adding a carrot nose to the last snowman cookie.

“I don’t think my mom would want me talking to Weird Guy.”

“I found the phone in the parking lot behind the Plenty Bookshop, and to be fair, I don’t think my mom would want me talking to a shark.”

Kylee offered a cheeky grin, no doubt showing off her pointy cartoonish teeth. “I’m going to give you to my aunt now.”

“Probably wise,” Weird Guy responded.

The more Amelia heard him talk, the more familiar his voice sounded. Did she know Weird Guy?

“Here.” Kylee set the phone down. “I better go tell Grandma to stop searching the house for her phone since Weird Guy has it.”

“The name’s Ethan,” he called out. “You know, in case Weird Guy ever gets to be too much of a mouthful.”

Ethan? Couldn’t be . . . Amelia reached for a hand towel.

“Nice talking to you, Weird Guy,” Kylee yelled as she dashed out of the house, the bells on the front door clanging with her departure. She better not have knocked down the mistletoe.

Amelia finished toweling off her hands and picked up the phone. Then nearly dropped it. “Oh my goodness, it is you.” She’d recognize that dirty blond hair and handsome ruggedness anywhere. He’d always put her in mind of a young Steve McQueen.

“You know me?” Ethan said.

“Yeah, we were—” Supposed to go out on a date two years ago. She didn’t finish the sentence. Partly because it might sound pathetic that she was still thinking about their almost date from two years ago. But mostly because she was trying to figure out how to remove the shark head filter.

She clearly needed her niece to give her some FaceTime lessons.

“Wait a second. This isn’t Amelia, is it?”

She shook her sharky-looking head. “Who’s Amelia?”

“I knew I recognized those chompers.”

“Ha. For real though, how do you turn this filter off? I feel ridiculous.”

“Does this help?” Ethan’s face suddenly turned into a cartoonish mouse head.

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes. Now we can have a serious conversation like real adults.”

His cute mousey face smiled. “Maybe while we’re being serious adults you can tell me why you never wanted to go out with me.”

“What?” Her shark face somehow looked appropriately appalled. “I wanted to go out with you.”

“Then why’d you cancel our date with the vaguest excuse on the planet?”

“I had a stomach bug. My intestines wouldn’t stop exploding.” Obviously she felt more comfortable explaining things to a mouse than she did a Steve McQueen look-alike.  

His whiskers twitched with amusement. “I’m starting to see the merits now of keeping it vague.”

“For the record I was planning to call you to reschedule after I felt better, but then I heard your grandmother died. It seemed a bad time to see if you still wanted to go out on that date.”

“You kidding? Nothing would’ve made my grandma happier. Pretty sure her dying words were ‘For the love of Pete, take that Amelia doll out on a date.’”

“Then why didn’t you say anything when we bumped into each other last year at the grocery store?”

“Because all you seemed to want to talk about was the discount going on for pork chops.”

“It was an amazing discount. It deserved to be talked about. Also, I didn’t want you to feel pressured into asking me out again in case you weren’t still interested.”

“I was absolutely still interested.”

“Really? I was absolutely still interested too.”

His mousey face groaned. “I can’t believe I let that opportunity slip through my fingers.”

“It’s not too late to ask me out now.”

“No, I was talking about the pork chops. You were right. They haven’t been discounted like that since—”

She snapped her shark teeth at him.

He laughed. “So, what do you say, Jaws? Want to try for that date again this Saturday?”

“You’re lucky I think mice are cute.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a yes.”

“Even if your intestines are exploding, you’ll go out with me?”

“Even if I have to wear a diaper, I’ll go out with you.” Again—the mouse filter was clearly making her say things she’d never say to Steve McQueen.

Her doorbell rang. “Hey, someone’s here. Mind if I call you back?”

“Not at all.”

When she opened the door, Ethan, looking not at all like a rodent and even better than Steve McQueen, stood on her front porch. “You’re here,” she stammered.

“I was in the neighborhood. Figured you’d want your mom’s phone back. Also . . .” He took a step closer. “I was thinking since neither of us is currently dealing with death or exploding intestines, maybe we should take advantage of this perfect moment. What do you think?”

He glanced above her.

Amelia followed his gaze to the mistletoe hanging above her doorway, then slowly lowered her eyes to peer straight into his baby blues. “I think not taking advantage of this perfect moment would be an even bigger tragedy than not taking advantage of discounted pork chops.”

“Spoken like a true shark.”

She tried to think of a witty comeback about a mouse, but when he dropped a sweet kiss to her lips and whispered, “Merry Christmas,” a witty comeback didn’t feel so important. She’d come up with one later. Like this Saturday when they finally went out on their first date.

THE END

Look, I’ll admit it. I judge a book by its cover. Which is why I got nervous last year when I knew I was opening an email that would show me the cover for my debut novel, Dear Henry, Love Edith.

What if I don’t like it? What if it’s not cute? I’m a rom-com writer. I need a cute cover. My publisher knows I need a cute cover, right? They better have given me a cute cover. I don’t know that I can promote a book in good faith if it doesn’t have a cute cover. Not even my own book. Especially not my own book. I have my dignity to maintain after all. Please be cute, please be cute . . .

I opened the email and covered my eyes. I wasn’t ready to look. Except part of me was also dying to look. So I let that part peek through my fingers.

My first thought—It’s yellow! Do I like yellow?

I spread my fingers a little wider. Maybe I like yellow. Yellow’s happy. I definitely like the blue toaster. Why exactly is there a blue toaster? Oh, it’s popping out letters. Love letters. Oh look, there’s hearts. I love the little hearts. This is adorable. This is perfect. This is cute. I love this cover!

Dear Henry, Love Edith released earlier this year, and you know what—I still love this cover. Which is why I didn’t have any anxiety opening up the email showing me the cover for my second book, Love in Tandem.

“Just work the same magic you did for my first book,” I’d essentially told the design team when I filled out the cover design form. This is a form where I briefly describe what the story is about. If there’s any important themes or ideas they might want to incorporate into the cover. If there’s anything I absolutely don’t want to see on a cover. If I have some examples of other covers I like. (I showed them a picture of Dear Henry, Love Edith. I’m sure that was very helpful.)

When I opened the email for Love in Tandem, I didn’t have to hide behind my fingers. I knew I was going to love it. Early in the process they showed me a mock-up of the design, so I was already head over heels for the smokey heart coming up from the campfire. But seeing it in color for the first time made me love it even more.

What about you? Are you a cover snob? Have you ever been fooled by a cover? Tell me all about it. And let me know what you think about this cover while you’re at it.

“Not again,” Beth grumbled loud enough to be heard. She shelved the last book from her cart—an Agatha Christy novel—then tried swerving around the giant customer who was staring her down like an angry bull. Well, an angry bull with cute dimples and an adorable cowlick.

Aiden shoved his work boot in front of her cart, the faint whiff of sawdust wafting from his jeans and Carhart utility jacket. “I just don’t understand.”

“And I don’t understand why you don’t understand.”

“It’s Little Women. Little Women!”

Even though she didn’t have any customers inside her used bookstore at the moment, Beth motioned for Aiden to lower his voice. “It doesn’t matter how many times you yell the title, I don’t like the book. And I’m never going to like the book. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“But you’re a woman.” Aiden waved his hand from her honey-colored curls to the blue polka-dotted material skirting her knees, as if she needed visual proof. “And you’re little. You shouldn’t not like the book.”

She straightened as tall as her petite frame would allow. “Well, you’re a man and you’re . . .”

“Strapping? Burly? Muscular?”

“Spacious.” Beth pushed her cart next to the box of Nancy Drew books she needed to shelve once she cleared more space in the children’s section. “You shouldn’t not not like the book.”

“All these double negatives are getting confusing.”

“What’s confusing is how we were having a perfectly wonderful first date last Friday and you made it all weird over this one little issue.”

“One little issue? It’s—”

“If you say Little Women one more time, I will have security escort you off the premises.”

“Since when do you have security?”

“Since always.” She lifted her chin toward Moses, her twelve-year-old golden retriever napping on the braided rug next to the front window display. “Just like I’ve always had books of actual quality. Books like The Count of Monte Cristo.”

“Okay, you want to talk about security needing to escort something off the premises? That book. You know how many hours of my life I’ll never get back trying to make sense of that story?”

“That’s because you never finished it.”

“Of course I never finished it. Who can finish a book like that?”

“Me, actually. Twice. Because that book is amazing.”

“I don’t understand your brain.”

“Which is why I didn’t agree to a second date. We’re clearly not compatible. You love Louisa May Alcott, which is very strange. And I love Alexandre Dumas, which I think we all agree is understandable and dare I say, admirable.”

“You don’t love Alexandre Dumas. Nobody loves Alexandre Dumas. People just love saying they love Alexandre Dumas because it implies they can understand complex things.”

“Better than implying we love boring things.”

Aiden grabbed his heart as if she had stabbed him. “The intricacies of family life and young girls coming to age in 19th century America is anything but boring. Besides that, you share a name with one of the characters.”

“Who dies.”

Now he massaged the area over his heart. “Such a brave girl. Such a brave brave girl.”

“You’re not going to start crying again, are you?”

“To be honest, Beth, I don’t know if I can continue being in a relationship with a woman who doesn’t have a soul.”

“Since when are we in a relationship?”

“Since I started coming into your bookstore every week to buy books. It’s called a business-consumer relationship.” He grabbed a book off the endcap next to him and waved it to make his point.

“Are you seriously buying another copy of Little Women?”

He cradled the book against his chest. “A man can’t have too many copies of the March family. Everybody knows that.”

“One copy of those sisters is too much for anyone. Everybody knows that.”

“That’s it.” Aiden spun and snapped his fingers at Moses. “Sic her, Moses. Sic her. Come on, boy. Don’t let her say things like that.”

Moses’s tail beat against the wooden floor with a short happy wag, before he rolled over and returned to his nap.

“See? Just the thought of Little Women puts Moses to sleep.” Beth led Aiden to the counter and began ringing up his purchase.

“That’s because he’s never seen any of the movies. But you have, right?” Aiden handed her a twenty-dollar bill.

“Why would I when the book was so terrible?”

Aiden palmed the counter and dropped his head as if needing support to keep breathing. “Okay, that’s it. We’re watching the most recent film version of Little Women together this Friday. My place at seven. I’ll have popcorn. And tissues.”

“I don’t think so. Unless . . .” Beth handed him the extra change, then grabbed a free bookmark off the counter and slipped it into his book. “You agree to read a chapter of The Count of Monte Cristo every Saturday with me. My place at four. I’ll have coffee. No tissues needed.”

He held her gaze several seconds before taking his book. “You know it’s going to take a lot of Saturdays to finish that book, right?”

“Oh, it’s going to take a lotta lotta Saturdays.”

“Then I think it’s only fair we watch a movie of my choosing every Friday. Maybe even grab dinner too.”

Beth pressed her lips to the side. “I suppose that’s fair.”

He slowly backed away from the counter, still holding her gaze. “Sounds like we better clear our calendars for a while then.

“Sounds like we better.”

He gave her a firm nod, then spun for the door. His grin reflected off the glass panes just before he exited.

When the bell on the door stopped jingling and the bookstore returned to silence, Beth couldn’t hide her own smile any longer. “And that, my dear Moses, is how you do it when you want much more than just a second date with Aiden.”

 THE END

What? No. Kat had to be seeing things.

She raced out the front door and skidded onto the porch. “Brady, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be there. At a conference. In Colorado.” She pointed toward the blue house across the street, then realized Colorado would be in the direction of Ms. Appleblossom’s house to the left since that was more westward.

Ack! Why was she worrying about the direction of Colorado in relation to her tiny Illinois town when the real issue was Brady. Here. In his driveway. Dragging a duffel bag out of his SUV right as Mr. Walton, their mailman, ambled down the block with a bag full of mail. Mail that included a love letter Kat never would have written and mailed if she thought Brady was actually going to read it.

No, no, no. It was supposed to be a cathartic exercise. A chance to pour out her undeniable attraction to her adorable neighbor without any danger of ruining their friendship because she planned to retrieve the letter herself when she brought in his mail.

“I thought you weren’t getting back until Thursday.” Kat scrambled down the porch steps, needing to stop Mr. Walton from delivering that letter.

“I know, but . . .” Brady adjusted his duffel bag as if it were chaffing his skin. “Something came up. Needed to get back early.”

Kat pressed her lips together before she shouted something crazy. Something like “Go away and burn that mail, Mr. Walton!”

But she had to say something. Mr. Walton wasn’t going away. He’d obviously taken a postal code oath to deliver mail in all situations, including ones where a woman frantically waved her arms in a shooing motion every time Brady’s back was turned.

“Well gee, Brady. You must be tired.” Ah. Yes. That was something. Something that might get Brady into his house long enough for Kat to retrieve her letter.

“Actually, I am tired.”

“Wonderful!” Kat tried toning down her enthusiasm. If only Mr. Walton would tone down his. The man was practically prancing. What could possibly be so exciting about delivering the mail?

“I mean it, Brady. You should go inside and rest. I said inside,” Kat added when Brady started inching down the driveaway in the opposite direction of his house.

“I was actually thinking about some coffee.”

“Coffee’s a great idea,” Kat said, her voice sounding shrieky to her own ears. “Make some.”

Brady continued shifting his weight, edging closer to the sidewalk. The way he squirmed, you’d think he needed to go to the bathroom. What was wrong with him?

“I know,” Kat said, one eye on the wiggly Brady, the other on the jolly mailman looming behind him. “How about I fix the coffee? Then you can tell me about your conference. In fact, I can’t wait another second to hear about it. Come inside. Right now.”

“Sure.” Brady glanced over his shoulder at Mr. Walton. “Just let me drop off my bag and grab the mail first.”

“No!” Kat raced forward. “I mean, that’s my job. Let me grab the mail.”

“Nah, I owe you for bringing in my mail this week. In fact, why don’t I bring in your mail today? I mean, you’ve got to be exhausted. Bringing in all that mail. Your mail. My mail. I’m sure you could use a break.”

“Oh, but it invigorates me. It does. Let me.”

“Hey you two,” Mr. Walton interrupted, eyebrows dancing up and down. “Got a special delivery. Have to say, I didn’t know people still wrote love lett—”

“Yay, the mail,” Kat shouted, hoping she’d drowned out Mr. Walton’s words as she lunged toward him. “Thanks. I can take it. All of it.”

“Oh no, that’s okay.” Brady reached past her, his duffel bag plopping to the sidewalk as he jutted out a hand. “She’s done enough. Just put Kat’s mail on my tab if you will.”

“Oh, Brady’s such a goof, isn’t he?” Kat fought her way between Brady and Mr. Walton. “But seriously, give everything to me, Mr. Walton. Everything.”

Two strong hands gripped her by the waist, spinning her away. “The letter, Mr. Walton,” Brady whispered. “Give me the letter. Now.”

“Don’t listen to him, Mr. Walton.” Kat jumped over the duffel bag and onto Brady’s back. She didn’t know how Brady had learned about her letter, but no way was she letting him read it. “It’s not his. It’s mine.”

“Lies, Mr. Walton. Lies. We all know it’s my letter.”

“How is it your letter? I’m the one who wrote a love letter and mailed it. It’s mine, okay? Mine.”

“What do you mean you’re the one who wrote it and mailed it? I’m the one who wrote a love letter and mailed . . .” Brady’s voice drifted to silence. “Wait, are you saying you wrote me a love letter?”

Kat slid from his back. “Maybe . . . Are you saying you wrote me a love letter?”

“Possibly.” Brady adjusted his t-shirt. “May have also possibly panicked and caught an early flight back so I could intercept it before you read it because I was afraid of losing our friendship when you discovered how wildly attracted I am to you.”

Oh wow. Kat slid her gaze to Mr. Walton, who was staring at them with both bushy brows raised and a letter gripped in each hand. “So . . . can I deliver these love letters now or what?”

“Sure.” Kat jumped into Brady’s arms, meeting him kiss after kiss. “Don’t know why you waited so long in the first place, Mr. Walton.”

 

THE END

I love telling stories. I love quirky characters. So more than anything I love telling stories about quirky characters. Which is why I’m going to tell you this story. (For the record, I’m not the quirky character in this story. I don’t know why, but there always seems to be some confusion about that aspect in my storytelling.)

The Story:

The other day I took my dog for a walk around our neighborhood. As we were walking past a driveway, a man had just parked his car in the garage. “Beautiful dog you got there,” he called out.

“Oh thanks. She’s a wild one,” I said, making friendly small talk.

“You ever seen a garage?”

I paused in his driveway, glancing past him into the shadowed interior. I wasn’t quite sure what he meant. Have I ever seen a garage? For a second I thought he might be talking to my dog. “Me?” I said, just to clarify.

“Yeah. Have you seen my garage?”

His garage in particular. Okay. Well . . . “No?” I’d obviously walked past it a bunch of times before, but I couldn’t say that I’d ever really looked at it.

He waved his hand toward him with a little smile. “Come a little closer.”

Part of me thought this encounter was strange and it probably wouldn’t be wise to come a little closer. But the other part of me, the part that adores quirky characters, thought “We can’t leave now. Things are just getting good.”

So I came a little closer.

As I stood in the driveway with Bonnie, he moved to the back of his garage and flicked on a switch. Then the inside of his garage started lighting up with beer signs. Everywhere. Every wall. Every surface. Budweiser. Coors. You get the idea.

“Oh wow,” I said. Because really, what else is there to say when a man’s garage is filled with flashing beer signs?

He held up a finger and smiled. “Move a little closer.” Apparently there was more.

So I moved a little closer.

And now music started playing. Loungey jazz music. You know, the type you might hear floating out of a garage on a Sunday afternoon when you’re taking your dog for a walk.

“Oh wow.” Since I knew I couldn’t just keep saying Oh wow, I added, “You must hang out here a lot.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. Hey, what’s your name?”

“Becca.”

“Becca?” Like he wanted to be sure to get it right.

“Becca.”

He gave another one of his smiles.

There’s more? I thought.

Oh, there was more.

Because from somewhere he’d pulled out a microphone. “We’d like to welcome Becca and her beautiful dog to the driveway. She’s traveled all over the world to get here. From London, England to Paris, France to Springfield, Illinois.”

I’m sure I said at least three more “Oh wow’s” by the time he had finished.

But the biggest “Oh wow” moment came later after I got home and told my husband about my walk with the dog. And my husband informed me that not only had he had a similar encounter with this man a while back—minus the music and microphone—but he’d gone into the garage with our daughter, and the man had closed the garage door on them so they could experience the full effect of the lit-up signs.

So I guess I have two points to this story.

One—quirky characters keep life interesting and make for the best stories. I love them. And it’s why Dear Henry, Love Edith is full of them.

Two—if you ever want to lure one of the Kinzers into a death trap, just say, “Hey, you want to see my garage?” and we’ll walk right in.

Since a couple of podcast hosts have invited me onto their podcasts before the release of my novel, I’ve been anticipating the questions they might ask.

How long have you been writing? What snacks do you eat when you’re writing? What in the world ever possessed you to think you could write a novel and then have the audacity to get it published? Oh, and while we’re at it, which Mr. Darcy do you prefer—and it had better be the right one.

Okay, some of these questions I haven’t anticipated. They’ve just appeared in my podcast interviewing nightmares. Which is why I’ve been practicing interview questions inside my head in an attempt to be prepared for anything.

So, Becca, how did you get into writing?

Great question, Becca. How did I get into writing? Well, let’s see. Huh. Such a great question. Did I mention that’s a great question? Because that is. A great question. One I’m sure I know the answer to. If I can just think of the answer. Why can’t I think of the answer? Oh my goodness, how about that Mr. Darcy, right?

Wow. You really stink at this.

Why do you think I’m practicing inside my head right now?

All right. Calm down. Let’s try again. (Clears throat.) Hi Becca, thanks for being here. Let’s start off with an easy, and I do mean easy, question. How did you get into writing? And please, my lovely fragile guest, keep in mind it’s not a trick question.

I guess you could say . . . I’ve always loved it?

That’s a start. Keep talking.

Growing up, I always loved keeping a journal. I always loved jotting down silly ideas or poems in notebooks. I always loved paper. I always loved pens. I always loved the office aisle in Walmart.

Okay, we get the idea. Let’s move on to the next question. If you’ve always loved writing so much, then why, dear sweet Becca, didn’t you go into a career that involves writing?

Good question. Truth is I did consider a career that involves writing. From upper grade school throughout early high school, when people asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I told them I wanted to be a journalist for either a newspaper or a magazine. But then one day I had an epiphany.

I love epiphanies.

I realized I didn’t like newspapers or magazines.

That’s an epiphany, all right.

I realized that if I made writing my career, something I had to do for a paycheck, I might end up losing my love for it—especially if I was writing for something I didn’t even like to read.

I see. So then—

I’m not done yet. I realized if I chose a different career path, I’d always have writing as a creative outlet to enjoy.

Yes. I find—

Still not done. So I ended up pursuing another interest. Nursing. All along though, part of me always associated with being a writer. Which is why years before I wrote my first novel, I was devouring Stephen King’s book On Writing, soaking in tips and advice I wouldn’t use until over a decade later. Why movies like Finding Neverland spoke to my soul. “All great writers begin with a good leather binding and a respectable title.” I remember hearing that line from the movie and reaching for my journal, thinking I had the good leather binding at least. Fifteen years later I discovered the title. And somewhere along the way I discovered pursuing your dreams doesn’t always require taking the obvious route.

Inspiring indeed. Well, Becca, as much as I’d love to continue this conversation, I’m afraid we’re out of time.

Already? You barely asked me anything.

And yet, we’re still out of time. Anything else you’d like to say before we go?

How about a quote I came across in Allen Arnold’s book Waves of Creativity that sums up everything I was attempting to say, only better?

This is your pretend interview. Do whatever you want. Except answer more questions. We’re seriously done for now.

“The discovery process is finding out what makes you come alive. It is knowing what you love to do—which isn’t always the same as what you’re paid to do or even as what comes naturally.”

— Allen Arnold

You’re right, Becca. He said that so much better than everything you just rambled about. But hey, thanks for being here. We’ll have to do this again. Not necessarily because I want to, but because you certainly need the practice.

In roughly six months my debut novel will release into the world. Which means scary words are popping up more frequently these days. Words like marketing. Promotion. Launch. Preorder. Sales.

Ah! See? I warned you it was scary. Part of me wants to hide under the bed until all those scary words go away. Especially when those scary words are followed up with an even scarier word—strategy.

I’m supposed to have a marketing strategy? (All the members of my marketing team are nodding their heads yes. It appears I’m supposed to have a marketing strategy.)

Well, good thing I’ve been saving a special marketing strategy in my back pocket for such a time as this. It stems from an incident I had about nine years ago. An incident that resulted in my husband suggesting I never answer the door again when he’s not at home.

THE INCIDENT

It was the day before Thanksgiving. I was home on maternity leave with our then three-week-old daughter, who had just fallen asleep in her car seat carrier, allowing me time to hopefully catch a quick nap before my husband got home from work and family started arriving to town.

That’s when I saw him. A young man walking past our living room window on his way to the front door with a box in his arms, obviously selling something.

Maybe because the spirit of Thanksgiving was in me, maybe because I was excited to see family soon, maybe because I just wanted to hurry him along so I could get to my nap, I don’t know, but I decided to do something I typically hate doing. I decided to answer the door. Even if I had no interest in what this stranger was selling, I could at least hear him out with a little kindness, right?

So I swung open the front door with a smile, prepared to listen to his pitch. What I was not prepared for was this young man to shuffle back and forth on his feet with a box of Tootsie Rolls in his hands and say, “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Oh. Uh . . .” My thoughts: No. Go away. I’m not comfortable letting a stranger into the house.  

My words: “Sure. Come on in. Bathroom’s this way.” Because the sad truth is I’m even more uncomfortable with confrontation than I am with strangers. But really, this stranger didn’t seem that old. Fourteen? Fifteen? A young forty-two? I’m not good at guessing ages, but I figured it’d be fine.

Once I let him into the house, I started doubting it’d be fine.

Okay, sure, he looked young. But he also looked big. Like linebacker on the high school football team big. And I swear he grew a foot taller the moment he stepped through the door.

Plus, he was acting nervous. Why was he acting nervous? All that nervousness made me nervous. Which is why I nervously told him to leave his box of Tootsie Rolls on the floor by the front door.

Why it felt important to have control of the Tootsie Roll box when I don’t even like Tootsie Rolls, I don’t know. I don’t know, okay? I was nervous!

And the more time he spent in the bathroom, the more nervous I became. Why is this kid spending so much time in the bathroom? What is he doing in there? Oh, I know exactly what he’s doing in there. He’s working up the courage to come out here and murder me. This is obviously some sort of gang initiation. Well, it might be too late for me, but it’s not too late for my baby!

I picked up the car seat holding my sleeping daughter and tip-toed through the kitchen so I could hide her somewhere in the back of the house even though part of me realized how stupid it was that I was hiding my baby from a kid selling Tootsie Rolls.

Or was it stupid? Maybe not. For all I knew this “kid” could be a dangerous criminal known in certain circles as The Tootsie Roll Killer.

Once I had my daughter tucked out of sight, I stepped back to the living room and wondered what to do next. Call my husband and leave a message? Hey honey, just wanted to call and say I love you. Also, if by any chance I—oh, I don’t know—get murdered today, can you let the authorities know it was a guy somewhere between the age of fourteen and forty-two?

Finally, I heard the toilet flush. That’s a good sign, right? Like maybe he was in there using the bathroom this whole time and not plotting a homicide? A minute later, it flushed again. Oh yeah, definitely a good sign. Then another flush.

Okay, by the fourth flush I was growing less concerned about my life and more concerned about my toilet.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, neither of us could make eye contact. I figured the first words out of his mouth would be something about a plunger. Possibly a plumber. Instead he pointed down the hallway and said, “I like your cat.”

And you know what? That was fine with me. We didn’t need to address whatever took place inside that bathroom. We certainly didn’t need to address the frantic moments that took place outside the bathroom. We could just talk about my cat.

So that’s what we two nervous people did. Then he picked up his box of Tootsie Rolls, I gave him ten dollars, and he left.

Only later, when I had time to reflect on this experience, did I realize he was the greatest salesman I’d ever encountered. He got into my house with one simple question. Clogged my toilet—then left a handful of change next to the sink as if that somehow made everything less awkward. Never said a word about what he was selling. And somehow, I ended up handing over money for a product I don’t even like. Gladly. Mostly because I was just glad to be alive, but that’s not the point.

The point is if I ever show up at your door with a box full of my books in my arms, all I can say is have your plunger ready. I know a great marketing strategy and I’m ready to make the sale!

(Or you could just preorder my book now and we could bypass that whole clogged toilet situation later. Just saying . . .)

A few weeks ago we took a family trip to Disney World. Considering my two kids started a countdown back when we still had seventy-plus days to go, I think it’s safe to say they were excited. And since they now claim everything about the trip was totally epic, I think it’s safe to say the trip was a success.

In fact, here’s a few pictures of my kids having a blast.

Okay, maybe not having a blast. Maybe more like discovering what spending time at the happiest place on earth entails—heat, long lines, heat, lots and lots of walking, sudden rainstorms, more long lines, and HEAT.

Yet if you ask them, they’ll still swear everything about the trip was totally epic! Why? Because they’re remembering the rides. The thrills. The shows. The fireworks. The excitement. Not the waiting. The disappointments. The fatigue. Or even the tears—and believe me, there were tears.

After experiencing it all, I can’t help thinking going to Disney is a lot like getting published. You go into it feeling fresh and excited. The thought of someday seeing your book on a shelf at a bookstore feels like the happiest place on earth. You step into the “publishing park” full of joy because you’re only thinking of the thrills ahead.

Enter a contest? Oh, definitely want to do that ride. Go to a conference? For sure. That’s your chance to meet agents and editors, which is a bit like meeting your favorite Disney characters, right? Get a publishing contract, absolutely!

But it doesn’t take long to discover that navigating your way through this world of publication takes time. Patience. It, too, is full of long lines. And waiting. Lots and lots of waiting. Entering a contest can take months of waiting just to hear a result. And sometimes that result stinks. Sort of like waiting to see The Indiana Jones Epic Stunt Spectacular only to find out right as the show starts that they won’t be able to perform all of it because of an oncoming storm.

It was tempting to think we’d wasted our time. But you know what? The kids loved what little they saw, and it made them hunger to come back when we could see the rest of the show. Which we were able to do . . . later. After more waiting. Just like entering a writing contest again for better results . . . later. After more waiting.

Other times in publishing you find yourself wondering if the wait is going to be worth it. Like our last night when we stood in line for the Guardians of the Galaxy ride. I use the term line loosely because it didn’t feel like a line. It felt more like standing at Times Square on New Year’s Eve. And for the record, the last place on earth I ever want to be is Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

I don’t consider myself an anxious person, but getting crammed into a room, shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, only to get shuffled into another room where you stand even more crammed together, with flashing red lights and no hint of moving forward, well . . . let’s just say maybe I should start considering myself an anxious person. I wanted out of there!

This is so not worth it. That’s all I could think. I don’t even know who the Guardians of the Galaxy are. What am I doing here? Never again. This is awful. Where’s the exit? Can I get to the exit? I don’t think I can get to the exit. Oh Lord, I can’t get to the exit. This is where I die.

I’m happy to say we did make it onto the ride—without dying. And you guys . . . it was amazing. The whole time I was torn between screaming with delight because the ride was so stinking fun, and screaming in agony because, should I ever make it back to Disney World, I knew I’d be willing to go through that whole terrible ordeal of a line just to experience this ride again.  

Which once again reminds me of publishing. How many times have I been tempted to take the nearest exit and forget the whole thing because in that moment it felt awful? How many times have I thought I’d die before I ever made it to a goal that I wasn’t even sure would be worth it?

Well, thank goodness I’ve stuck with it. It’s turned out to be a ride that is totally worth it.

But a week at Disney World has also reminded me that thrills, whether in an amusement park or on the path to publication, are always short-lived. The adrenaline and excitement eventually wears off, and at the end of the day, the rides or accomplishments don’t really matter.

What matters is having people you love willing to sweat it out and stand in terrible lines right next to you, wherever life leads. When you have that, it doesn’t matter how long or miserable the wait is. Or how exciting and fun the ride is. The journey to get there will always be worth it. Or as my kids would say—totally epic!

A lot of authors get asked the same question. “How did you come up with the idea for your story?” So it only stands to reason you’ve been curious to know how I came up with the idea for my story.

No? Not really? Never crossed your mind?

Okay. Well. I’m going to answer the question anyway, because I’m sure afterward you’ll be glad you asked. (I know. You didn’t ask. But let’s not get hung up on semantics at this point.)

His voice. His music. His occasional shout at two in the morning. “If you’re going to leave, at least put your pants on!” That was the extent of my interaction with the new neighbor who’d moved into the apartment below me several months earlier. 

He lived his life. I lived mine. And not once since he’d moved into the small building we shared with two other tenants did our lives intersect. Not once while we checked for mail at the entrance. Not once while we tossed in a load of laundry in the basement. Not once.

For months, this guy lived directly beneath me, and for months, I had no idea what he looked like. I was the only tenant who parked in a driveway at the front of the building—my seniority perk for having rented there the longest. Everyone else parked in the back. We simply never crossed paths.

And yet, I was pretty sure I had this new guy pegged. Especially after the night of the “If you’re going to leave, at least put your pants on!” shouting match. After overhearing his muffled voice and taste in music for months, I had even developed a picture inside my head of what he must look like. So much so, if you’d asked me to pick him out of a police lineup, I would have straightened my shoulders and approached the endeavor with full confidence, perhaps forgetting that I’d never actually seen him before.

Because I knew this guy. Right? Sure, I did. Knew him like the back of my hand.

Then one day my apartment doorbell rang. Which was strange. The outside door to the apartment building was always locked, so why would my doorbell ring unless . . . oh. It had to be one of my apartment neighbors. Inside. At my door. And for some reason, I don’t know why, but I had a feeling it was the guy from downstairs.

Well, good. Maybe this was our chance to finally discover some footing as neighborly neighbors.

I opened the door to find a young man standing at the top of the stairs with his hands meekly clasped. “Hi,” he said. “I’m your downstairs neighbor.”

Are you sure? I wanted to say. Because you look nothing like the downstairs neighbor I’ve never seen before. 

He went on to say what a pleasure it was to meet me. I told him likewise. We chatted briefly about how crazy it was we’d never run into each other before now. Then he informed me he was moving out the next day and wondered if he could use the front driveway for his moving truck. 

Shoot. And here I thought we’d made such wonderful progress in becoming neighborly neighbors.

After assuring him that using the driveway would be fine, he thanked me, again saying how nice it was to meet me, this time with a weird expression on his face. Two steps down the stairs, he turned as I was starting to close the door. And now I could tell the expression he wore wasn’t weird. It was confused. 

“How come all this time I thought you were a little old lady?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he shook his head, then disappeared down the steps. 

The next day he moved out, and I’ve never seen him again. I don’t think. (Considering I only saw his face once and I don’t really remember what that face looked like, I should probably decline picking him out of a police lineup if the situation arises.)

Brief as that interaction was, it stayed with me. Why did he think I was a little old lady? At the time I was still in my twenties. 

Perhaps he’d overheard my Billie Holiday album playing on occasion. Perhaps he’d seen my cat in the window. Perhaps he’d heard my tea kettle whistle a time or two. Who knows? But somehow, without ever laying eyes on me, he pictured me as a little old lady. And let’s face it, at heart I am a little old lady.

Maybe that’s why that scenario amused me so much. He’d pegged me without actually pegging me.

Years later, when I sat down to write my first romantic comedy, I knew I wanted to work this situation into my story. But one character under the wrong impression the other character was elderly didn’t seem enough. 

What if both characters had made the same wrong assumption? And what if instead of an apartment building, they shared a house together without ever meeting? How would that work? How could I make it believable? How long until they figured it out? Then what happened after they figured it out?

Well, friends, answering those questions is what introduced me to two characters I now love dearly, named Henry and Edith. I’ve had so much fun writing their story, and I cannot wait for you to meet them in my novel next year. 

And if next year feels to you the same way it does to me, like an absolute eternity away, be patient. Hang tight. Don’t leave. Unless you need to leave. In that case, I offer you the same wise advice I once overheard many years ago—“At least put your pants on!”