Jen Barton's Blog

A few weeks ago my daughter started talking about doing the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. One of her friends was on a team and they wanted to walk together. It sounded perfect; support a great cause, let her learn the value of volunteering, and all on Mother's Day weekend. Sweet.

But to be honest, I couldn't get into it. I'm ashamed to say it felt like a chore, like one more thing to check off the list. I know, I know. Bad mom. Bad person. And as I grudgingly entered our information on the website, I can't even tell you how tempted I was to click the "Sleep In for the Cure" button instead.

But I didn't. Which I was reminded of as my alarm went off at 5:30 am that Saturday morning.

As we closed in on the Expo Center (where the event was), I was shocked by how thick the traffic had gotten. There were lines of cars at least a mile long waiting to exit. This was a big deal.

Half an hour later we were walking toward the registration desk, in a sea of energized pink chaos, the air buzzing with laughter and snippets of conversations: "...I promised my sister," and "If my tests come back positive I'm going to have the other one removed." "Yeah," another woman said laughing and rolling her eyes, "my aunt lost both of them and then had her uterus taken out too."

They could've been talking about what they were having for dinner or where they were going on vacation. They could've been laughing over coffee. They were that comfortable. But then, they hadn't been given a choice.

A chill ran up and down my arms, despite the warm morning. I wrapped my arm around my daughter, wondering if she had heard. "Let's not fight today, okay?" She looked over and nodded, her eyes full of understanding, "Okay, mom."

We registered, pinned our numbers on our new t-shirts and headed toward the starting line, trying to find her friend. There was something very powerful about putting on that white shirt and fading into the crowd of pink ribbons, feather boas and hats, walking together under signs like "Jogging for Jugs," "Walkers 4 Knockers," and one of my favorites, "Erin Go Bras."

For a few hours we walked beside men and women with pink square signs that said things like, "I walk in celebration of Joan," and "In memory of my wife."

We walked beside families with pictures of passed loved ones on their t-shirts; women with big smiles and even bigger strength. We walked beside women who proudly wore bright pink shirts that said, "Survivor."

All day the mood was positive, celebratory even. These women had no time for sadness or loss. They were on a mission. They had seen it all, had been through it all, and were done with crying. I think I was the only one who had trouble keeping it together. I spent the morning taking it in, realizing how lucky I was and how glad I was that I hadn't slept in. And I kept it together.

And then I saw a little boy, about 8 years old, walking with his dad. He had bright blonde hair and little silver sunglasses. And pinned to the back of his shirt was a square, pink sign that said, "In Memory of My Mom."

He turned around and smiled, and on the front of his shirt was a picture of a beautiful young woman, surely his mom. Above the picture were the words, "No Tears."

I was glad for the brightness of the day and for my big California sunglasses, because I couldn't follow his rule. I cried like an innocent, like someone lucky enough to be naive to the whole scene.

It was a pretty amazing day. I guess sometimes even good people need a kick in the ass. I just had mine.

Do the exams, donate, participate in a race. Be good to your boobies. Whether they're small and perky, large and luscious, or somewhere in between, whether they're your own or just a pair you love like your own, take care of the boobies in your life and the women who stand behind them. Because trust me when I tell you, there are already too many square, pink signs pinned to t-shirts on race day.

Last week I got an email from my brother sharing a new recipe. Most of my family likes to cook (except one brother who prefers frozen things in boxes, hates Foodie culture completely, and has vowed to start a new product line called Plain Ass, as in "Andy, what kind of pizza do you want?" "Plain ass pizza, with some plain ass soda to wash it down.") so with us scattered around the country raising families of our own, sharing recipes is a fun way to stay connected. Normally I would've appreciated it very much. But one look at this one and my day was ruined.

Behold, from the Dr. Oz Show: Quinoa Chocolate Chip Cookies.

A while ago I wrote a piece, Nanny McState Returns, for a blog no one cared about. It was a reaction to Mrs. Obama's crusade to lighten food in restaurants and healthify everything. I get it, I guess. But sometimes the best of intentions can go awry. Even presidential ones. Sometimes the day is long, the traffic is terrible and your favorite skirt gets caught on the gearshift, ripping into a useless wad of fabric that's now dangling from your partially-clad bum as you climb from the car to say hello to your daughter's kindergarten teacher. Sometimes it's comforting to know there's a Big Mac around the next corner, waiting to soothe your embarrassment with melting cheese on a salty beef-like product.

When I asked my brother why he'd subjected me to the horror of this recipe, he seemed confused. "I just thought it was a good way to add protein to a snack."

This, perhaps, was the root of our problem. In my world, chocolate chip cookies are not a snack. Carrot sticks and hummus is a snack. Yogurt and an apple is a snack. Cookies are dessert, meant to be savored and enjoyed, with no hint of nutritional value clouding their bliss.

I should probably note, before you get the wrong idea, that I'm a fan of health food. I own a juicer, my oven has baked a batch or two of kale chips, and every morning I enjoy stevia and soy creamer in my coffee. Once, embarrassingly, I even offered soy nuts as a snack to my three-year-old nephew who'd just gotten off a very long cross-country flight. (Spoiler alert: he did not think that sh*t was cute). And during dinner last night, when I asked my daughter how she liked her pasta, she responded in the weary voice of one who gave in years ago. "It's good. I just wish it had less broccoli and no arugula." So, to be clear, I'm no stranger to almond milk or the Gluten Free aisle at Whole Foods.

That said, I also think there's a place for fettuccini alfredo (with butter, cream, parmesan, and real noodles, full of gluten and eggs), french fries (done in duck fat and loaded with salt, please), honest to goodness ice cream (made with heavy cream, vanilla and eggs) and, of course, chocolate chip cookies.

I rely on the existence of those foods. I count on them as a soft (and delicious) place to fall.

Foods like that don't deserve just any place, either. They shouldn't be hidden in shame in the back corner of your closet (next to that unfortunate Metallica t-shirt you got for Christmas that year), but instead given a place of honor, next to the good bags and your expensive heels. Admittedly, you don't trot that stuff out everyday, but they're still important. Essential, even. As Spongebob noted years ago, eloquently speaking of his beloved Krabby Patty, "It's good for your souououl."

Testify, oh Square One.

And what could be better for your weary soul at the end of a hard day than a warm, gooey, lightly-crispy-on-the-outside-but-soft-on-the-inside chocolate chip cookie? I submit that nothing comes close.

Okay, maybe a smidge of vodka, but you get the idea.

Cookies, chocolate chip cookies most of all, are iconic. They're boo-boo kisses for grown-ups, they're that surprise smile in your lunch, they're band-aids for worn souls the world over.

Quinoa doesn't belong anywhere near such a masterpiece. Any child could tell you this. Its protein boost does nothing but suck the joy from the cookie. Is there such a wealth of joy in the world, such an embarrassment of happiness in our lives, that we can remove it, willy-nilly, from our cookies?

Uh, no.

If you still aren't convinced, close your eyes. Imagine your grandchildren have just come inside, breathless and teary-eyed from a game of Kick the Can gone wrong. You pause the finale of The Walking Dead, Season 26 (hey, a girl can dream) and reach behind you to the snacks on the counter. What do you see? A plate full of squishy protein-packed health wads, or a perfectly baked chocolate cookie dream—those dark dots of melty-ooey goodness peeking through a light brown crust, just waiting to fix those tear-stained faces and make it all better?

I know what I see. I will hold faith with smiles and silliness, with laughter and chocolate mustaches. I will spread love and joy…not protein. Quinoa be damned! I refuse to disappoint my future grandchildren.

Put spinach in my tuna salad, add brussels sprouts to my pasta. Trade whole milk for almond every day of the week. Hell, give me beet chips alongside my veggie burger, but for the love of all that's holy, I beg you, Brother, do not put quinoa in my cookies.


Quinoa Chocolate Chip Cookies: http://www.doctoroz.com/videos/quinoa...

Nanny McState Returns: http://thefoolschair.wordpress.com/?s...

The Wisdom of Spongebob
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmHhL...

Hi all! Spring has officially arrived (I know it doesn't feel like it on the East Coast, but it's on the way), and with it a bright new season full of smiles and silliness. And, of course, Read Across America!

Find a little one you love (or just a little one at heart) and celebrate by unwrapping some purple chocolate and discovering a great new book. It shouldn't surprise you that I have a few suggestions!

For those, plus updates on my latest school visits, great EASTER gift ideas, and what's coming next, check out my Spring newsletter at the link below.

http://us7.campaign-archive1.com/?u=2...

Happy Spring and remember—#SpreadTheSilly!


If Chocolate Were Purple

Fiona Thorn and the Carapacem Spell

In celebration of Halloween I've started a story; just something quick and fun about a ghost who is, unfortunately, named Sue.

Below is what I've written. There's about a page or so, just enough to get you going. It's got a voice, a few good characters and a dilemma. But I want to see where all of you would take Sue.

Your Halloween challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to finish the story. Post your endings (and middles, too) as comments here, or in the Note called A Ghost Named Sue on JenBartonWrites on Facebook, or just email me at [email protected].

The deadline is at the stroke of midnight on Halloween (nice, huh?) and the prize for the winner is something terrific and terribly secret.

Now ladle up something steaming from your cauldron (or just make a cup of tea) and get in the spirit (I know, right?) of things.

Read on, lovelies...then get to work. Sue needs you.



A Ghost Named Sue

Sue was a ghost. He was supposed to be scary. His mother was scary. His father was scary. In fact, Sue came from a very distinguished line of horrifyingly hair-raisingly scary ghosts, goblins and ghouls.

Suchibald Aliscare Mandible Tentacules had been the scariest, and his mother's great, great, great uncle's cousin, twice removed. She'd always admired his work as a first rate fiend—it was rumored that Suchibald once frightened the Man in the Moon so badly it stayed completely dark (only at night, of course) for over a month. His mother was determined that Suchibald's first rate ghosting would never be forgotten. So she'd passed the name to her son.

Sue wondered sometimes, as he was flossing his fangs, why they didn't call him Al or Uchi. But no. He was Sue.

If that wasn't bad enough, it was beginning to look like he wasn't cut out for ghosting at all. No one was afraid of him. And for a ghost, especially a descendent of Suchibald Aliscare Mandible Tentacules, that was a problem.

To start with, his fangs hadn't grown in all the way (Sue secretly wondered if they ever would). And besides that, they never stayed sharp anyway. No matter how much he filed them, mostly they just looked like two dull pieces of upside down candy corn stuck in his mouth. Not very scary.

Halloween, the best day of the year for a ghost, was the worst.

Every year his mom had a party. All her scary fiends and family came, expecting him to be spooky, of course, as soon as they floated through the door. But he wasn't. He was just same old Sue. Last year he'd been so upset he'd sunk to the bottom of the punch bowl and spent the whole night imagining he was his best friend Gus, a seven and three-quarter foot tarantula. Gus scared everyone.

As bad as his mom's parties were, the hauntings on the other side of the borderlands with his friends were even worse. Every Halloween they crossed over, through the big, misted keyhole, into neighborhoods full of human kids, looking for the perfect scare.

Vlad was a natural. The way his head hung, almost all the way off, scared anyone who saw him, even the adults. Screams and wails, shrieks and hollers, every single time. One time a lady fainted, just crumpled like a bag of bones right there on the sidewalk. It made Sue a little jealous.

Sue and his friends weren't scared of Vlad, of course. They knew he hacked his head almost off just as a gag for Halloween. They spent the whole week leading up to the big night listening to him brag about how the saw he used got more and more jagged and rusty each year. Which Sue thought made him kind of a show off. Some guys had all the luck though. Cutting his head almost off every year had given Vlad big, ugly scars across his neck, but all the ghouls at school said it made him look cute, whatever that meant. Anyway, most of the year Vlad's head was on straight like everyone else. Except Ichabod. He never had a head.

Gus was always a star on the other side of the borderlands, too. After all, what's not scary about a seven and three-quarter foot tarantula dropping from the trees? Sometimes he even made Sue jump.

Which was kind of the problem. It was one thing to not be scary, to be cursed as a billowing, adorable apparition (his Aunt Patrixia's words), to be just same old Sue year after year, his candy corn fangs never holding their sharp edge, but to be afraid of things, or startle easily like he did, was too embarrassing.

The truth was he was afraid of the kids on the other side. He'd never told another soul, living or dead. It made him feel ashamed. They looked so terrifying every time he'd been through the keyhole. Real bats and ghouls and vampires weren't scary to him. He knew loads of them. He'd even partnered with a flesh-eating goblin two weeks ago for a project in Fanglish. Boring. All she wanted to do was comb her ear hair.

But when humans stalked the night on Halloween, disguising themselves as witches, warlocks, demons and zombies, it was more than Sue could bear. Even the ghosts were scary for him. Think of that! Two years ago he'd swooped from behind a parked car, going in for a scare, and found himself staring at a giant bloody eyeball, with thin stick-like legs covered in glow-in-the-dark polka dot green tights. He'd screamed, a howling, pitiful sound, and quickly wisped under the car.

His heart, if he had one, would have been racing. His blood, if he had any, would've been pounding in his ears. As it was, his vapor felt like it was on fire. He'd almost turned red. He'd had to stay under the car, hiding from everyone, until he'd relaxed and went white.

Vlad had almost seen, too. Which would've been bad. Vlad was okay, most of the time, but Sue never wanted a guy like that to see him go pink. Only Gus understood. As soon as he'd heard Sue scream, he'd skittered down Primrose Lane, flying on those long hairy legs of his, and sent that big bloody eyeball running for its life.

Before long, Primrose Lane was quiet as could be. As you can imagine.

Gus then lifted the car, a station wagon with wood panels on the side, and saw Sue, still calming his way through a light cotton candy shade of pink, and had stood in front, blocking everyone else's view. Especially Vlad's.

Gus was the best. But he was in the bitter Mountains, visiting his northern relations. And tomorrow was Halloween. Sue didn't know what he would do without him. He looked at his mom, saw her washing out her favorite party punch bowl (the one with the live bat wings for handles) in the big soap-filled cauldron, and wondered if he should just start out in the bottom of it this year.

As September winds down I just wanted to make a quick note and say thank you to everyone who participated in the Sonoma County Book Festival as well as the Orange County Children's Book Festival.

Both were huge successes and I was so grateful to be able to attend and meet so many talented authors (Giselle Stancic, Susan Koch and Jason Monroe I'm looking at you). :)

But beyond that I think I will never tire of the look on a new reader's face as they saunter by my booth and slowly discover something that intrigues them, something that lights their imagination and makes them eager to READ. These are the moments I will take from this festival season.

And, of course, there is the undeniable joy I get whenever someone new, usually a child of 4 or 5, opens a piece of chocolate and realizes that in my world, chocolate really is PURPLE. The look of wonder is priceless and I am so grateful for it.

It is these images that will sustain me, I hope, through the long days ahead in front of the computer...someone just broke the news that Fiona Thorn and the Secret of the Ringing Trees isn't going to write itself. ;)

It started in the parking lot outside of Subway. Emma, my daughter, was eleven or twelve then; old enough to be feeling her independence, but not so grown that I'd become a complete embarrassment. Ahhh, the good old days...

We were on our way home from karate practice (I think) and had stopped to grab something easy for dinner. She'd gotten a little brownie to go with her usual ham and cheese (lettuce and mayo only) and was unwrapping it as I started the car.

I looked over and shook my head. In under five minutes she'd managed to get chocolate all over her face. "You need to get it together," I laughed. "You're getting too old to be wearing your dessert."

"Maybe," she said, completely unconcerned, "but what if chocolate was purple?" She smiled and took another big bite, the gooey brown chocolate sticking to her teeth. "Then think how fabulous I'd look."

"What?" I asked.

She held the half-eaten brownie up and raised her eyebrows. "Chocolate. What if it was purple? It'd be cool. And then this brownie wouldn't look like smashed poo."

Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows.

She was right though, it did look bad. Honestly, nothing about it had been super appetizing even before she'd gotten a hold of it. Of course, being chocolate, it still went down pretty easy. In the unfortunate brownie's defense it had been smushed in plastic wrap, placed in a display case for who knows how long, then mangled by a hungry eleven year old. It's possible it may not have been the world's best example of a brownie.

She wiped her face (you have to love the extra stash of napkins in the glovebox) and we laughed the rest of the way home, thinking of all the delightful ways things would change if chocolate were a brilliant shade of bright purple instead of the dull brown of the recently devoured pasty, brownie-mess.

The whole thing was so silly, so light and freeing, that for days my mind was full of crazy images; fish with curly blonde hair, fields of wind-blown candy canes, crooning lizards. It made me feel like when Emma had been a toddler, before mean girls and cliques, before boys and dances, before iPods and apps. When the world was still ripe for exploration and anything was possible. When having rainbows for lunch actually seemed like an option.

I began to wonder how things would change, not only in the color of food, but in the world, if chocolate were purple. I let my imagination go and asked What If?

In a very short period of time, as if possessed by one of my own silly monsters, I wrote If Chocolate Were Purple. Over the years the text has been tweaked and edited, of course, and I've had the good fortune to see my words brought to life by a wonderful illustrator, but the heart of the matter has stayed the same, and one that every parent can understand—even if the whole world turned upside down, even if roller skates grew on trees and chocolate were purple, I'd still love you.

Writing is always a journey to someplace other, whether the destination is a fantasy world with pointy-eared elves and glittering fairies, or a perspective that exists only in your mind. It's sanctioned escapism, and I am grateful to have it. When it works, when the author has done their job, a bit of magic happens and the reader comes along for the ride. Working on this book was a glorious bit of nostalgia for me, of revisiting a time when pirate ships made of blankets stretched over couches and chairs almost everyday, where swords and dragons were always with us, and hospitals were called Princess Castles.

Thanks, Emma, for all of your delightfully messy faces, for your wild, independent spirit, and just for asking the question. You are my heart.

Last week my daughter and I switched cars for the day. She's sixteen. I'm, well, older than that. It wasn't a big deal; she's been driving my old Jeep, a car which I love, so I was kind of excited to get back behind the wheel of the old girl.

I climbed in, and after wading through the Starbucks detritus, the textbooks, and the extra shoes and clothes, I found the gearshift, backed out of the garage and turned on the stereo. Part of the joy of trading cars with my kid is trading music, too. Think Freaky Friday without having to go back to high school (two thumbs way up on that one). Anyway, I imagine I got the better part of the deal. She probably found my radio tuned to NPR, poor thing.

Lucky for me, Fall Out Boy's Save Rock and Roll was in the CD player. I could gush now; about how the orchestral notes in the beginning of The Phoenix made me perk up and want more, about the ear-catching rhythmic genius of the chorus, "I'm gonna' change you like a remix, then I'll raise you like a phoenix," or even about the classic 80's metal-inspired scream of "I'm on fire" (read: fiiiiiyaaaa!!) in the chorus of track two, My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark, but I won't.

It's undignified, as a mother, to be thinking of strong backbeats and Fall Out Boy lyrics all day, ("We are the jack-o-lanterns in July, setting fire to the sky") and I won't make it worse by going on and on about how they are, like, soo awesome. I never got past the first two songs on the CD, by the way. They were both so mind-blowingly good I couldn't stop playing them, over and over, at ear-splitting volume.

I'm still in the honeymoon phase with these songs. You know how it goes. The obsession burns white hot and you can't wait to hear them again, to blast them at outrageous volume, till the bass is almost too much, screaming along the whole time. You learn the lyrics and you play games, debating which of the two is the better song. You post links on Facebook with stupid status updates like, "Play this. Then play it again. Repeat." You flirt with the dangerous and completely insane idea of a Fall Out Boy tattoo.

Shameful. I told you.

So it was in this head space that I grabbed some headphones this afternoon and went for a walk. I have an upbeat playlist I use for exercise (see how appropriate and motherly I sound here), and before I left I remembered to add the new Fall Out Boy. I should mention, as it becomes relevant later, that This Ain't A Scene, It's An Arms Race was already on my completely appropriate, upbeat, exercise playlist, thanks to my daughter's good taste and musical influence.

I sprayed myself in SPF 500 and took off down the street with my iPod on shuffle. New Fall Out Boy related game! Every time the song changed, I realized, it could be one of my favorite songs! Fate was with me and it didn't take long for the shuffle gods to play both.

I was pumped. I was right there, puttin' on my warpaint and takin' it back one maniac at a time. I was glad his songs knew what I did in the dark, and I was more than ready to light it up, up, up. And through it all I kept it cool. A nod here, casual eye contact there.

Nothin' to see here, people. Just a woman out for a walk.

I kept it totally under control. I want credit for this, because it wasn't easy. Not one time did I dance, hop, or even mouth the words along to those songs. I didn't fist pump or bang my head, and I certainly didn't sing. I was, after all, on a walk, in a very calm neighborhood. No one else could hear the raging, heart-thumping, anthemic music that was in my ears and rioting through my veins. To everyone else it was a quiet day on a quiet street.

Which is why, I suppose, it was such a big deal when I tragically, inevitably, lost myself in the moment, when I forgot there were people behind me, people who may not have understood why the woman walking ahead of them suddenly thrust her fist into the air and shout-sung, (emphasis on shout), in terrible voice, I'm sure, "I'M A LITTLE MAN...I'M ALSO EVIL, ALSO INTO CATS!"

You see, This Ain't A Scene, It's An Arms Race (a quality Fall Out Boy song in its own right) was on the playlist not only because my daughter suggested it, but because of the now infamous lyrical parody by BeChaotic. Since seeing it, I've never been able to hear anything other than "I'm a little man...I'm also evil, also into cats." That's just how the song goes for me now. And so, in my time of weakness, that's what came out. Loudly and with lots of passion.

I could claim delirium; it was very hot and I hadn't had anything to eat all day. But that would be a cop out. The truth is that Fall Out Boy got me, those first two songs from Save Rock and Roll had me so wrapped up in their spell that when This Ain't A Scene, It's An Arms Race came on I was already gone. I wasn't even aware of those two women and their innocent children in the strollers.

Oh well, I suppose now is as good a time as any to start cultivating my "crazy writer" reputation in the neighborhood. And while it might be an embarrassing bit of hyperbole to say that Fall Out Boy actually ruined my life, the truth is that their music apparently causes me to lose it in public and rock out in ways that frighten small children. And that kind of thing can leave a mark--a big, head-bangin', war-painted mark.

When I woke up this morning I was missing something. I hadn't realized it yet, but I was. I'd slept well, had a fresh cup of coffee in my hand, and was happily scrolling through my FB newsfeed. Things were good.

Then I saw a post that changed everything.

I hadn't known how badly I wanted to see Olive Kitteridge on screen until that moment. I clicked the link, my eyes widening as I read that HBO and Playtone are set to begin filming on a miniseries shortly.

http://bangordailynews.com/2013/09/02...

Though Elizabeth Strout's Pulitzer prize winning novel is one of my all time favorites, I hadn't thought of Olive and her endearing, bitterly scathing personality in years. But it's all coming back.

And now, coffee still in hand, I am desperate to see Olive's "Little Burst" acted to perfection by Francis McDormand.

Waiting for this unexpected surprise will be hard, but until then, at least I've got the book.

I'm a forty-something woman, mother of a teenager (it's going better than you'd think), and a writer. I'm fairly boring as a person and spend much of my time alone, in front of my computer, thinking of clever names for characters or how to turn a conversation I overheard in Kohl's into an award-winning story.

On the other hand, I do have two superpowers.

The first, an uncanny ability to recognize people (usually actors) and explain where you've seen them before, is as truly awesome as it is useless. While I'm the person you want beside you when you can't quite place the voice of the masked actor in V for Vendetta (it's Hugo Weaving and I called it within, like, 3 seconds), this strange gift hasn't done much for me so far. If there's a game show offering millions in prize money for my bizarre talent, I haven't found it. If there's a reality show where I could be trapped in a house with others of similar skill and do nothing but drink and get into cat fights, I haven't found it. Maybe some day I'll witness a terrible crime and be the only thing standing between the forces of Evil and ultimate Justice. But seriously, feeling a sense of purpose has major appeal, and if Irving's The Cider House Rules taught me anything (and it did), it's to be of use.

Which brings me to superpower #2. You know how Randy Jackson or Paula Abdul or Keith Urban compliments someone's ability to sing on American Idol by saying, "You could sing the phone book!"?

I'm like that with reading aloud.

Yep. If I read you the phone book, out loud, you'd have to make sure your mama was out of town, because you'd be tempted to slap her. You'd cry yourself to sleep wishing Superman could actually circle the Earth and turn back time, just for a few more hours to listen. And when you realized he couldn't, you'd strap on those weird red wings from your kid's old dragon costume and try it yourself. I'm that good.

Like all unlikely heroes, I wasn't always careful with my power. I was reckless and used it cheaply, in an easy, cavalier fashion. In college I read Stephen King's It in its entirety to my roommate because she was sick and had to be in bed a lot. It took us almost all semester, but we did it. And when my boyfriend (now husband) and I had the same World War I Lit. class I read our assignments aloud to him, killing two birds with one stone.

Reading aloud that much, especially in college, seems like an odd thing to do now that I think about it, but it felt very natural at the time, and so I did it.

Not long after, my daughter benefitted from my skills without ever knowing how lucky she was. Of course all parents read aloud, or they should. But I was good. I could animate Junie B. Jones and Dear Dumb Diary like nobody's business. And don't even get me started on Dr. Seuss. I was born to read that man's words aloud.

And yet, it still felt like a weird parlor trick, like the kid who could pop his thumb in strange ways because he'd been born double jointed, or that guy in college who used his left hand as a dart board because for some unknown reason he had no feeling in it.

And then a few years ago I found myself with enough time in my schedule to do some volunteer work. I became nearly possessed with the thought of reading aloud to old people. Why old people? I just think they're awesome. So I found a local convalescent home and have been reading to the residents ever since.

I won't lie, it's not always great. Sometimes the desperation can be hard.

Over the years I've made, and lost, many friends. It's part of the deal when your audience is mostly geriatric. But I've also discovered how to be of use. Reading aloud may seem like no big deal, like a trivial thing that doesn't really matter. And sometimes it is.

But sometimes it's everything.

Like when it transports you from a sick body, from pains and tremors, from soiled diapers and sensitive, wrinkled skin. When reading aloud can take you from being trapped in an uncomfortable bed to the deep, sultry South, wondering if Tara will burn, wondering if there'll be enough food, laughing as Scarlett hides the wallet in Wade's diaper, thrilling as Rhett storms up the stairs, and with a rough, passionate kiss, finally declares his love...well, then it's really something. That's when it becomes more than the sum of its parts. I've always known I was good at reading out loud, but it took a bunch of old folks to teach me how important it could be.

Read to your kids. Read to your grandkids. Then read to people who can't read for themselves. It couldn't be easier, and I promise you, it's more powerful than you'd think.

Yesterday I sat and read with an old woman I've become close with. Like so many before her, Trudy is dying. Before I left she told me that she wants Mike, the hospital's handyman, to have her television, so I think she knows. As I walked out I ran into one of the nurses coming to check on her.

"Oh good! You're here!" she said, shaking her head. "She keeps asking for you. All she wants is for you to read to her."

I didn't cry until I got home, until later that night when my husband asked how my day went. I'll be there, Trudy. I'll be there every morning until my friend, like the book we've been reading for well over a year, is gone with the wind.

A few weeks ago I got news that after the Supreme Court's ruling on DOMA two dear friends were getting married in Maine.

I was thrilled. As I packed I couldn't help thinking about how special it was, how momentous a time for them and all same sex couples. In fact, I was so into the wedding that I didn't even consider where I'd be going.

The Motherland. The home of the master. Bangor, Maine. Otherwise known as Derry.

When it hit me I immediately geeked out. We sheepishly drove by Stephen King's house (a beautiful home in a quaint neighborhood, complete with spiders and bats on the black iron fence) and had to walk down to the creek at the Barrens. I must admit that even while we were getting the marriage license for my friends, I was hoping SK would have some mundane errand and have to stop by City Hall. I imagined him walking in, exchanging a quiet nod as he passed through the lobby, then through the glass doors to the clerk to pay his parking ticket or buy a permit allowing him to be more awesome. Whatever.

Alas, no.

Short of running into him at the Sea Dog ("Ahh, loved Joyland...looking forward to Dr. Sleep!") or maybe at Fiddleheads, seeing the Standpipe was probably my favorite. It's beautiful, and enormous, with a large black door that hints of hidden dangers.

Maybe that's why I'm having trouble sleeping, or maybe it's because I keep expecting Pennywise to peer out of a sewer. Is it weird that I saw one red balloon floating in the air yesterday, or that the sink at The Riverside Inn (where I'm staying) made a strange blub...blub sound as the water drained?

No, Jen, that's not weird. That's just the sound of...floating. And we all float down here.