Introductions make me nervous. The pressure of introducing two—or, God forbid—more people causes some sort of mental misfire during which I blank on one or both people’s names. And don’t try to connect it to the wonders of aging; it’s been like this all my life. I forgot my high school boyfriend’s name when I introduced him to my father. One lousy syllable. Vic.
So while I should manage to remember my own name here, you shouldn’t count on much more.
There are really only five things you need to know about me:
- I was named after a Basset Hound. Not a particularly attractive one, either.
- My older sister told me that when I was very young and very foolish I attempted to climb my high chair, pulling it over on top of me, causing my eyeball to pop out. She also told me I was the first Canadian to ever have their eyeball successfully pushed back into place and if I didn’t believe her I should check the medical journals. When I was in university, I checked. My sister lied.
- The little girl in Town House who pretends she’s a dog is based on me and I have the scarred knees to prove it.
- I have been in two bank robberies. Both times as an innocent bystander, not a robber.
- know all the words to “Snoopy vs. The Red Baron.”
Out of pure determination, I wrote the first draft of Town House in three and a half weeks. My first novel had been rejected all around New York and I had this little idea percolating about a lonely man riddled with agoraphobia-inspired panic attacks, a girl who crawls through a hole in the wall, and a shambling mess of a once-glorious town house in Boston. After writing a detailed chapter outline, I sat down at my desk, printed out a sheet of paper that read, “This is the book,” taped it to the wall, and believed it like hell. I did nothing but write for 25 days. When we unexpectedly sold the film rights to Fox before the book sold, I woke at 3 a.m. to a full-blown panic attack of my very own. If I hadn’t been shaking so much, I’d have enjoyed the irony.
Enough about me. You did nothing to deserve a post like this. A grog reader needs variety. And after my Tuesday entries, perhaps a wee glass of scotch or a mild antidepressant.
I’d introduce tomorrow’s grogger, if only I could.