My morning's confidence should've been a giveaway. But, no. I confidently assured my fellow travelers, who had to go through airline security with a baby, that I’d wait on the other side of security for them.
After all, I have TSA PreCheck. I didn’t have to shed my shoes or jacket. The TSA people in my line always brought me chocolate mints and an arm flourish as I walked through. (OK, I might have exaggerated that part.)
But that morning, I cleared the metal detector with no problem, only to watch my carry-on bags slide to the other side of a glass wall.
How was I supposed to get them over there?
Some Good Sense...
I did have the good sense not to reach over the barrier or I might be writing this from a cell.
Before long, I realized that the other side of the glass wall was reserved for suspect bags.
Like mine?
They were flagging quite a few, so I stood by patiently–which of course I always do (stand patiently, I mean)–until they got to my bag.
The attendant peeled back the zippered cover and went digging. She snagged my shaker bottle with the plastic bag of powder stuffed inside.
“That’s just protein powder,” I said. She didn’t even look at me. Instead, she scurried to another counter, dipped a small sample out of the bag, and dripped something onto the powder from a bottle that looked like it held eye drops.
“It’s protein powder,” I said. In case they were confused.
Nope. Not confused. My powder tested positive for something–they didn’t know what when I asked–and so my suitcase innards, my electronics, and I all got a pat-down.
Then they re-packed my suitcase, including the protein powder, and sent me on my way.
Repacking It All
I texted my hosts for the week: You may be housing a terrorist.
She texted back: Is it too late to run a background check?
Haha.
My morning’s confidence had melted away in the pat-down, but then I thought about my fellow travelers. Have they made it through security yet?
Right then, their text message arrived. Oh, good. I could still help. Maybe carry the baby. Or a bag.
Then I read the text: We’re at the gate.
I Learned
I once held the belief that airport security lines took forever. Long snake lines measured in eons.
But I’ve learned. Nothing takes as long as being threatened with protein powder prison.
I thought I had found my publisher. He had earnest blue eyes and an idea for a series.
I was all in.
Then I learned he wanted me to write his book for him. The first of his six-book series.
He amped up his determination and locked those blue eyes on me.
“OK,” I said. “What are we writing this book about?”
“I need you to tell me a story about Buzzy the bee.”
“You’re not going to tell the story?”
“I don’t know it yet.” Connor shrugged like seven-year-olds sometimes do.
Buzzy the Bee's Adventure
I threw together a quick story while we sat together.
“Yeah, that’ll do.” He nodded. “OK, go type it up.”
In short order, we had the story in a digital file.
“Now we have to print it,” Connor said.
I copied the text into a formatting program, bumped the type size to sixteen-point, and widened the margins.
Voila! We had a three-page book. Because I could.
Hoping to impress this young author. Publisher. Probably both, like many are these days.
Making the Book Cover
“Now we need a cover.” Connor had this book stuff down better than I thought. “Maybe Eric could make us one.”
Eric is his nine-year-old brother, who nodded enthusiastically. “What do I draw?”
The technology bug hit me again. “Let’s create a Photoshop version while we’re waiting for Eric.”
Connor liked that idea.
Photoshop churned out a yellow-and-black bumblebee soaring over a field of flowers—Buzzy in all his glory. I slapped the title above him and added Connor’s name.
We printed it and Connor was happy. “That works.”
As the printer chugged out the first cover, he was already planning his marketing plan for his second book. (I am not kidding.)
Eric studied the book cover. “Why doesn’t it say ‘Illustrated by Eric’?”
“Well, you didn’t illustrate this one,” I told him.
Orville came to town when I was a first grader, which was where the whole Colorado mystery thing started for me.
Orville was a UFO that appeared most every night for a month or so. Or maybe it was a bright light that would crown a hill when someone was driving home at night. Or maybe it was a story the high school boys made up. I heard fresh stories every morning at school, and I hung on every description. My imagination was on fire.
Nobody seemed to know, and I sure didn’t, the truth about Orville. I was only six, and I opted for a UFO. That was much more exciting. Who chooses reasonable when you’re six?
Not The Data
Advance to my ninth-grade year, when I had to do a science project. With that beloved Orville story embossed in my brain, I opted for a UFO-focused display. It was all about the story for me. Definitely not the data.
I hauled my younger brother out to a nearby field where he flung garbage cans and old footballs in the air while I took photos with a shaky hand. Sure enough, those photos resembled UFOs. I even made a cardboard saucer spray painted silver with Christmas lights flashing inside. To impress the judges.
Don’t ask what my hypothesis was, except maybe to see if UFO photos could be duplicated. We had fun throwing things in the air, though.
None of this dazzled the judges. I was thinking blue ribbon. Champion. That sort of thing. I think the judges were looking for data and premise. Science stuff. So no blue ribbon for me.
The Next Puzzle
Fast forward. Now I’m out of college and curious about a new Colorado mystery. A whole spate of cattle mutilations were reported across the state. Once again, the puzzle deepened. Aliens stealing cow parts? Cults staging rituals? The FBI investigated – and blamed the deaths on common predators. Colorado ranchers differed.
You might think of Colorado as a state of rugged ski slopes or mountains thick with evergreen trees and elk. But I think it’s also known as an enigma. I say this as a Colorado native.
The oddities just keep coming.
A New Question Mark
A mysterious monolith popped up like a mushroom in northern Colorado last summer. A tall, rectangular, metal mushroom. I know mushrooms aren’t exactly metallic, but don’t get all analytical on me now. Remember, I’m the storyteller.
The landowner, who also owns the Howling Cow Cafe near the monument, doesn’t know who or what is behind this appearance.
She didn’t even to ask people about it. Just let the mystery continue. How she did that is another riddle to me. My questions would have been springing like popcorn.
Apparently, a similar monolith showed up near Las Vegas earlier this summer. Imagine finding a connection between Las Vegas and northern Colorado. Vegas, where high rollers match wits with glittering casinos. Northern Colorado, where cows and deer roam the grassland. The differences are minuscule.
Some of the Colorado locals say the metal mushroom reminds them of the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey, which spawns more ideas for me. Is this thing the alien? Or is it the space ship that delivered out aliens the size of ants or grasshoppers?
We did have an abundance of grasshoppers in northern Colorado this summer … But I digress.
An Unsolved Mystery
The Howling Cow Cafe first scored on sales of drinks like Beam Me Up, Crop Circle, and Radio Waves. Their monthly ice cream flavor was named Cow Abductions.
But after an onslaught of lookie-loos, the landowner sent out a forklift team to haul off the monolith. It’s now said to be in safe storage until the creator claims it.
Maybe I need to write something more. I mean, between Orville, flying garbage cans, dead cattle, and monoliths, I’m ideally equipped.
So, what’s your theory? Your ideas will absolutely, totally, never-ever show up in any story I write. Unless I change my mind.
A few years ago, I bought a cleaning robot and named him Robot Boy.
But Robot Boy got anxious about the edge of my throw rug, and his robot fear fried his little circuit-board brain.
Done, dead, fried with panic.
After Robot Boy refused to charge, refused to leave home, refused to even turn on his lights, I let him sit. Like he would heal himself or something.
About then, I decided to look at reviews. Some people read reviews before they buy. Wise people. Me, I went for the adventure of guessing. I learned not to do that again.
About half the reviewers loved their little robots and half said theirs kicked the can in six months. I got a kick-the-can one.
A New One Came
I finally bought a new brand robot, well-reviewed and a brand that’s been around for a while.
The software always wants a name for the robot and I couldn’t use Robot Boy again. Too many memories
I named this one Rosie1 because, well, the Jetsons. Remember that they had a robot maid, complete with a little apron and cap? Mine had no apron and no cap, but I still thought I was clever.
There are probably several million Rosies running around households in America. That’s how clever we all are.
But Rosie1 is special. The “1” could mean that, if she also kicks the can, I will someday have a Rosie2. Or maybe it’s because she’s number one. Or maybe I bumped the number-one key and didn’t bother to fix the name.
My New Buddy, Rosie1🦾
Rosie1 sends me texts on my watch. Who would guess that a robotic vacuum could communicate through my smart watch, but here we are. The Jetsons had nothing on us. Well, they had flying cars, but not much else.
One day, my watched beeped frantically, alerting me that Rosie1 ended the job stuck. And, boy, could I relate. I have the same problems sometimes, Rosie1. Ending a job stuck.
We were bonding.
Another time, Rosie1 got lost. In my house. She sent me a text of despair and I had to go search for her. She couldn’t even whistle because she was exhausted. Well, she ran out of battery power, but work with me here. That’s kind of like exhaustion.
She doesn’t have a whistle either. That would have been a handy thing for the designers to include. A hiking whistle that could be heard a mile away.
Then a day came, when I wasn’t even home, that Rosie1 sent a distress code. I guess a whistle wouldn’t have helped.
The Hunt For Rosie1
I hunted in every room in the house before I found her trying to make smoochies with a whisk broom.
This became a pattern. Not the smoochies. The getting lost. She needed rescued a lot. I found her hugging a flour bag on the floor in my pantry. I discovered her snuggling with my sneakers in my closet. She especially loved wrapping up in the kids’ swim towels.
Her adventures have become mine. Right now, I’m in a search of Error 14. I think that could be an avalanche on her ski slope or maybe a lightning show on her lake house.
Whatever Error 14 is, I’m committed to finding out.
Because Rosie1’s life is more interesting than mine.
You Gave Me Name Ideas🎉
In my last newsletter, I asked for suggestions to dub my rogue iPhone with something more clever than Rogue iPhone. Here are some that came in:
Seri
App(ple)
Stray
Ramble (Rambo)
Rogue 14
Rand M. Call
Got more ideas? Send them to me!
WHEN Is Your Earliest Memory?🧐 🤔
Think about your earliest memory. About how old were you? Feel free to share what the memory was, but I’m more interested in your age at that first memory.
My daughter remembers something that happened when she was less than 18 months old. She’s described it to me and she’s very accurate. And it’s not the sort of memory that comes from hearing the story. I mean, who repeats the story of a baby lying in a stroller being wheeled around town and then having a friend lean in to say hi? Not exactly story quality. More under the boring category. But her details match what I remember.
Early memories will be vital in my novel and I'd like to know WHEN your earliest memories were. Reply to this email or go to my website and leave a comment. Thanks!
Nadine Brandes, in her Self-Editing Sessions at the Realm Makers Conference this year, talked about how a story rises in our imagination because God gifted it to us. Your story is yours and only yours. Mine is mine and only mine.
And each of us is the only one to write the story that God gives, the way it needs to be told. For some of us, this will be turning our imagination into words. For some, it will be through other expression. Paintings. Photography. Sculpture. Music. You get the idea.
God is unfathomably creative. He touches our imaginations and urges us into further creativity. He teaches us how to translate into words or images what he has placed in our imaginations.
The Listening Project has become an adventure for me of trying to translate what God has placed in my imagination. Here's another to share with you:
I attended two funerals of close friends in July. The emotions of those were, for me, like standing in a driving hailstorm. My brain and my body still remember my husband's funeral just over two years ago. But a good friend pointed out to me that I have resources that restore peace to my heart - because God prepared me before Matt died to stand up in these emotional storms.
That's what my book, written the year I lost Matt, is about: drawing close to God so that hardships and loss don't slam us off our feet with the buffeting winds of emotions. Cutting Through Despair: Dare to Hope traces the stories of several people who overcame tremendous loss because they clung to God.
If you haven't read it yet, consider grabbing a copy for yourself. Or perhaps for someone you know who is experiencing devastating loss. We were never meant to manage these storms alone.
I have never been a smoker except for one puff when I was six years old, but that one puff has produced some weird stories.
Several years ago, back in the day when we still answered the phone without knowing who was on the other end, I got snagged by a survey taker.
The questions had to do with tobacco use. Had I ever used tobacco?
I am entirely too honest. That puff at age six leaped into my consciousness and I told her I had once. I regretted that transparency shortly.
No Obsession Like a Survey Taker
She jumped on my admission like a starving wolf. “What did you use?”
“Um, well, I was six years old, and I took one puff.”
“Was it menthol or filtered?”
“I was six years old. And it was one puff.”
“What brand of cigarette was it?”
Really? You'd Ask Again?
“I was six years old, and it was one puff.”
“Did you continue the habit?”
“I was six years old, and I never wanted another puff.”
She kept asking, and I only had one answer.
What I’m going to share with you didn’t fit into her survey questions. But we’re friends and I am entirely too honest.
Here's The Story
At age 6, I approached my dad after supper one evening. He sat at the dining room table with a cigarette poised between two fingers, white smoke drifting like a lazy river toward the ceiling, and a glimmering glass ashtray beside him.
I guess I was staring with eager eyes. I thought he looked sophisticated, although I'm certain I didn't know that word yet.
“Would you like a puff?” He beckoned to me.
Yes, I would. I scooted up to him, eager to share this special moment. I lifted the white tube to my lips and took a long pull on the cigarette.
A loooong pull. One loooong draw.
White Heat
Dragon's breath first roasted my tonsils before descending with white raging heat down my throat. My lungs were seared and my stomach rolled with burning coals.
The scalding smoke slammed into my eyes and my nose filled with the stench of dead mice and scorched banana peels. Angry flames blew out my ears and singed my eyebrows.
My throat cramped like a sore muscle. My toenails curled with the heat and hot tears ran down my cheeks.
Certain that my life was about to end, I spun and sprinted on my hot, toasted legs into the bathroom. I stuck my mouth under the faucet, slapped the cold water handle open, and tried to drown myself.
As rushing water sluiced across my tongue in the faint hope of dousing the fire, I had one thought, assuming I survived: Never again. A single swallow of the dragon’s breath was more than enough for me.
Done, Done, Done
I imagine that was Dad’s idea, and it worked.
Besides making me a lifelong nonsmoker, the experience also had another benefit. My experience roasted the caller’s survey results.
Mountain flowers look delicate but have to be tough. They don't get a long growing season and often have to battle other plants and predators. Yet, these had shot up in what looked like a triumphant victory. They deserved their own composite.
Download Escape, a YA dystopian story from the setting of Beyond the Last Breath. Check out other free resources here. You'll also join my group of newsletter friends to receive the latest news, updates, and resources. You can unsubscribe at any time.
