October 18, 2011
by Jen
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I haven’t always been a charming and endearing person. It has taken years and years of practicing my social skills to get me where I am today. Trust me, you aren’t as awkward as I am in public without reason.
As a child I was, how you say, interested in the “end result.” Inexplicably, I needed money at 6 years old, and I needed it bad. I thought, “What can I do that won’t interrupt my daily playing schedule, but still bring in the COLD HARD CASH?”
(I blame Nickelodeon for this—I didn’t just say “money” or even “moola.” Money was something to shout about. It was also formed in blocks and possibly frozen.)
This the point in my life where I began making money off of mud pies.
I was a master of my craft. I inspected each pie thoroughly. Too lumpy, too runny, not solid enough from sitting in the sun—Quality was important. Luckily for me, there were plenty of neighborhood kids to boss around.
And I was bossy.
When I had stockpiled enough of the final product, I forced my manservant (my younger sister) to carry the goods, and off we went door to door brilliantly selling what I considered to be a top notch work of art. After skillfully showing off the superb texture of the mud—which had been sitting outside for NO LESS than three days—I moved on to the special features, the leaves, bits of twigs, and for an added cost, the berries.
Some neighbors would graciously decline the need for a mud pie—clearly, they were unable to recognize such an exquisite masterpiece—but others would gently tell me to leave it sitting on the porch and they would hand over the (rightly deserved) TWO quarters for my efforts.
Once I outgrew the mud pies (because seriously, MUD PIES?), I moved on to REAL art.
Drawings, both sketches and colored pictures of Pokemon.
That’s right. At 13 years old, the Pokemon craze hit my household HARD. Charmander, Bulbasaur, Pikachu, Squirtle, THE WHOLE 151 MEMBER GANG was welcome in my art studio. (All those new Pokemon can kiss my ass.) This time, I didn’t need slaves helpers. I did my own drawings and reaped the rewards.
Again, I went door to door (really, parents, I could’ve been kidnapped, or turned into an interior decorator) and sold my precious pieces of SPARKLE.
I look back and wonder, Where has that charming little girl gone? The girl who was so cute with her crooked teeth and flyaway hair that she convinced little old ladies to buy MUD. In VIRGINIA.
All we had was MUD.
I think she’s trapped in a little old lady’s house, probably still staring at cat wallpaper while listening to the Greatest Hits of the 1850’s.
I wanted to add to Anne’s post after going to a book signing yesterday. I’ve been to several book signings over my years and my response to them has ultimately been negative. Why? Because of the same reasons Anne mentions. The authors seem cold, distracted, and some even downright hostile. Do I imagine it is the most fun thing in the world signing your name for 2 hours straight? Goodness, no. Writers tend to be shy and introspective (let’s not go into my awkwardness in public), but I’m not asking you get up and sing and dance. These people are here for you, so please act like you are at least somewhat grateful they’re buying your book. 
