Lindsay Eland - Middle Grade Author

So I just missed National Punctuation Day where everyone…or at least everyone that loves punctuation…celebrates those commas, periods, exclamation points, parentheses, and ellipses. But it isn’t a wonder that I missed this grand yet awkward celebration, seeing as how I myself am not very good at using them.

But of course, they are the backbone of writing…or at least maybe the small pinky toe, because without them we’d never know how a sentence was said, or what the sentence, paragraph or book means for that matter…so yeah, maybe they are the backbone.

And as I try to write this right now with a witty sense of humor, you may think that I do not like these little bits of jewels that sparkle throughout writing, but that is entirely not true.

Actually, me and the comma are quite good friends…perhaps too good of friends most of the time. I often find myself just sprinkling him throughout my sentences like I’m dusting a chocolate eclair with powdered sugar (and I like A LOT of powdered sugar on my eclairs). Little bit here, a few there, a whole lot there…and oh look! That sentence definitely needs a little bit of comma in it’s life.

And I do try, really I do–to use the comma and all of his punctuation friends–correctly. But still, as my fingers flutter, flicker, and fly over the keys, my middle finger on my right hand (which my typing teacher taught me in ninth grade) just automatically finds that comma and puts him in there.

And maybe you’ll look at my writing and think, “Well, a comma doesn’t belong there!”

But really, I just don’t like him to feel left out…everyone belongs right?

Writers are often loners. Not that we aren’t wonderful, amazing, and friendly as well ( )…but we also enjoy being on the outside of things: observing, listening, hiding under tables, our ears pressed against doors.

But no writer, however much of an island he or she may be…is an island.

This past Friday, I attended, courtesy of my wonderful publisher, The Mountains and Plains Independent Booksellers Convention. The hotel off of I-70 was packed wall-to-wall with book buyers, book sellers, and book reps, authors, illustrators and publishers…all there because of one common theme: we all love books.

But these booksellers are the little independent stores that you find tucked away on main street, with the little bell that dings lightly when you walk in.  The ones that aren’t connected with the huge chains, but bookstores that survive on the loyalty of their customers, that read each title that comes through their doors, booksellers that know where each book belongs in the store and which costumers would love it.

And I realized walking down the aisles of books, talking with dear author friends, and then dining with muliptle independent booksellers…how lucky I was to be there in their midst. And how much weight these ants among giants carry on their shoulders and how very loud their voices are!

Yes, books must speak for themselves…that is their job. But these booksellers, who take such pride in their work and who go to such lengths to support local authors and debut authors and books, must not go unapplauded for the care and the effort they place in their task of selling good books!

And so, I say thank you to all of the Indies out there! Thank you for helping me and my book find our way in the wide world!

By looking at me, you’d never suspect that I’m competative. And really, if you’d meet me, I’m sure you’d think the same thing.

I don’t like confrontation or conflict. I like to make people happy, to make them laugh, and smile, and only cry if it’s in a good happy-cry kind of way.

But then again, you’ve never met me on ebay.

doo-doo-doooo (cue setting sun, and tumbleweeds)

On ebay I am fearsome to behold, I assure you, and that doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m very good at winning things on ebay, but it does mean that I will stop at nothing when it comes to winning things on ebay.

Sure, at first as I watch the item for a few days all is pleasant and congenial. I have a firm idea of what I’m willing to spend…or maybe I should say, what I’m willing to tell my husband I spent.

But then my heart pounds as the hours, minutes, seconds tick…tock…tick…tock down. My fingers fly across the keys as I plug in my number and then hit enter. I glory in the sight of that “You Are Currently the Highest Bidder!” that flashes under my name. Now everyone…everyone….knows that I rule this bid! Maybe I even laugh, sometimes cackle, and sadly to say, I have been known to rub my hands together and say, “mmwahahahahah!”

Five minutes.

Three minutes.

One.

I’m winning. I’m in the lead. It’s mine….all mine!

And won’t John be happy that I’ve won this item for so little. That I’ve stayed strong and unmoving as an oak.

And then it happens.

I refresh the page and find out that someone  has snuck into the bidding and sabatoged me (most likely my ebay savvy sister, Suzanne).

My competition.

And she must die.

And that’s when all reason, all kindness, all fear-of-conflict flies out the window.

I will win at any cost.

An oak?

Yeah, right.

So moral of the story? I don’t shop on ebay very much.

But if for some reason you are reading this and you are currently bidding on a lot of 12 lace handkerchiefs…beware.

Yes, we awoke early in the morning yesterday and today to find a thin sheet of fresh fallen snow that resembled my tablecloth after I’ve covered it in flour to roll out our sugar cookie dough on.

The trees were powdered with white on each branch like the tops of Frosted Mini Wheats, and fat flakes fell down one on top of the other turning the whole world into a winter wonderland.

But September, you say? The last day of summer and it snows? That’s just not right.

Maybe not.

Yes, it’s too early for most people, too cold, and since we live at 10,000 feet and have snow on the ground from November to June, you’d think we’d be used to it.

But like a big kid, my heart still skips a beat when I peer out the window at the first sign of snow.

I’m not used to it and I hope above all else…that I never will be.

That when I’m ninety-nine years old, I’ll still smile at the sight of the white flakes falling gently from the sky like lazy pieces of confetti, and that my heart will still skip a beat at the wonder of it.

So I scoop up a handful and bring it to my mouth cause though January snowflakes are delicious, I’m now convinced that September snowflakes are magic.

When I was little, the smell of coffee was disgusting to me and the taste was even worse. It tasted exactly like…well…burning. Like something was burnt. the only thing I liked about coffee was the gurgling sound the machine made when my parents brewed a pot, and the fact that my mom always let me pour the cream into her cup. I loved to watch the dark black liquid turn into a milk chocolaty brown when I stirred it gently with a spoon.

Fast forward to college when I spent almost a year as a barista in a high-end coffee shop, making macchiato’s, lattes, steamers, and cappuccinos for people who knew how much crema should be on the top of a pulled shot of espresso and only lattes with the signature Leaf poured on top would suffice for the customers. Working behind the bar at the coffee shop, I grew to adore the smell of espresso, though really I couldn’t say that I liked the taste of it just yet. Instead, I’d make myself what was called a Mocha Big-Train which was a tiny bit of coffee mixed in with ice and some other concoction to make something that was only one step away from a milkshake.

It actually wasn’t until a few years ago that I started craving an espresso. Still no coffee, mind you, because to this day it still tastes like…burning in my mouth.

Then for Christmas four years ago, my parents came to visit, and amongst the princess costumes, the cars scattered around, and the wrapping paper covering the hardwood floor, my espresso machine was unveiled.

Silver, stainless steel, shiny, and full of deliciousness, I began my mocha making at once.

And now, four years later, I have made a mocha or an iced mocha…Every. Single. Day. Sometimes twice a day. The smell is now one of my most favorite things in the world.

So yeah, I guess I’m getting a little “Folgers in your cup commercial” on you right now, but I don’t think you’ll cry.

Still, mocha’s in the morning are not only part of my routine now, but when I drink them they sometimes remind me of pouring cream into cloudy coffee, working late night shifts at the coffee shop attempting the perfect cup, christmas time, my wonderful parents, the kitchen in my parents house, my kids saying, “are you making yourself a drink now?”, quiet mornings, not-so quiet mornings, fireplaces, sunny days, writing, reading, writing, and then writing some more.

And maybe it’s silly to put sentimentality into a simple espresso drink, okay…it is silly…but still, I guess that’s just me. I like remembering and reflecting, because I know that all those memories are a part of what makes me who I am…be it good or bad or over-sentimental .

Books are amazing things no matter how they are laid out or formatted or…bound. I love the paperbacks and hardbacks, fiction and nonfiction, funny or sad, historical or modern, prose or verse. If it is a story that captures my attention and clings to me so much that it becomes a part of who I am, I could care less whether it’s written on newsprint or if Martha Stewart herself hand-bound it using twigs and pheasant feathers.

And even though this is the complete truth, and I’d hate to be the one that says she judges a book by it’s bound type, but still I’d be lying to you all if I didn’t say that leather hardbound books are something of a not-so-secret pleasure of mine.

I adore them…everything about them. The hard, yet softness of the leather, the golden edged pages, the satin bookmark, the crack of the spine, and most of all…the smell of the pages.

Yes, every year when I visit my parents in Pennsylvania I always stand for a few minutes everyday admiring the two large bookshelves lined with golden embossed spines of some of the most beloved classics in all of literature.

The books make me sigh, I have to admit.

But though I’ve told you why I love them, I guess the other question is the why of the why?

Why do I love the smell and the pages and the bookmark so very much?

I think it’s because they are elegant-looking (and I really like elegant things), they are old-fashioned looking (and I also like old-fashioned things), and for some reason they make me think of cold, rainy evenings sitting in a chair with a soft blanket and a cup of hot chocolate beside me, and, of course, a fire dancing in the hearth (oh yes…I just used the word hearth). And that scene right there is just about perfect for me.

See, I warned you that I was overly-romantic.

But there, now you know why I hope to one day own a whole room full of leather bound books and just sit in there all day long and touch them and smell them and read them while I drink iced mochas and eat chocolate eclairs until I’m nice and plump.

Ahhh, cream cheese. That delicious creamy white substance that comes in a small tub and spreads like silky heaven on whatever it is you fancy putting it on.

Bagel? Of course!

Mixed in with a cheesey salsa? My goodness yes!

Stirred into meatloaf? By all means, because we all know that meatloaf needs as much help as it can!

Ode to cream cheese!

Yet, my relization of cream cheeses’ divinity did not happen overnight but slowly “spreading” over a course of many years.

Conversations such as these:

“Oh my gosh, Jen!” I asked, dipping a bagel crisp into a warmed up dip. “What did you put into this dish, it’s amazing!”

“Blah, blah, blah, and CREAM CHEESE.”

or

“This is the best cake I’ve ever tasted. What’s the recipe?”

“Blah, blah, cream cheese, and blah, blah, blah.”

And if you google cream cheese recipes (and yes, I have done this) you’ll find pages and pages of goodness. From everything to breakfast dishes, appetizers, and sandwiches to desserts, dips and crab rangoon!

So next time you’re at the counter whipping up…something, anything really…open up a little tub of cream cheese and try it out! And if you don’t want to brave that unknown, here is a delicious dip courtesy of Rachael Ray!

Swiss and Bacon Dip

Prep Time:10 min Inactive Prep Time: hr min Cook Time:18 min

Ingredients
8 slices center cut bacon, chopped
8 ounces softened CREAM CHEESE
1/2 cup mayonnaise
2 rounded teaspoons prepared Dijon style mustard
1 1/2 cups shredded Swiss cheese, available on dairy aisle
3 scallions, chopped
1/2 cup smoked almonds, coarsely chopped
Baby carrots and a selection of spiced flat breads, cocktail sized
pumpernickel or rye breads, or sliced whole grain baguettes, for dipping
Directions
Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

Brown bacon in nonstick skillet over medium high heat. Drain crisp bacon
bits on paper towels.

In a mixing bowl, combine cream cheese, mayonnaise, Dijon, Swiss and
scallions with cooked bacon. Transfer to a shallow small casserole or baking
dish and bake until golden and bubbly at edges, 15 to 18 minutes. Top with
chopped smoked almonds. Place dip on a platter and surround warm casserole
with breads and carrots for dipping.

Variation: Swiss and Bacon Dip with Horseradish – Stir in 2 rounded
teaspoons prepared horseradish when combining cheese and bacon.

I thought for the next mini-series of blogs I’d go through each of the twenty-some “things about moi” that I posted on the About Page and give you the why? the how? and the “what the?” behind each of those things that makes me tick.

I assure you it will be chalk full of depth, insight, and…randomness. But that’s all right, right?

Well, I’m going to do it anyway.

So, the first one is (and I quote myself), “I love animals! Me and my family have owned: rabbits, dogs, cats, hamsters, Texas horned toads, salamanders, fish (fresh and saltwater), frogs, a turtle, hermit crabs, a ferrit, boa constrictor, ribbon snake, water dragon, and rats.”

So why do I adore animals so much and why in the world do I adore OWNING animals so much?

Let’s take a look inside my animal-loving, animal-adoring brain, shall we?

First off, I believe I was born with it. From my first memories as a child, I have always loved animals, from the very small to the huge to all the creatures in-between. I was the girl, and still am, who would never killed an ant willingly and cried when I saw kids killing them. I couldn’t help but always think of the family that was wondering where there little “Johnny was.” Yep, on a rainy day, you would find me on the sidewalks picking up every worm I saw and trying to put it back in the grass so it wouldn’t die or get stepped on or become a dissection project for a neighborhood boy. I even wanted to become an animal…but I’ll leave that one for another blog. I cried whenever our puppy got in trouble for peeing on the rug, and swore an oath to my dad that if he “ever shot a deer, I would never ever talk to him again.”

Secondly, I blame my dad. He and his entire family were animal lovers, and I assume this trait goes back for generations. My PopPop–a man who had a temper like a volcano–was the same one who never even considered harming an animal a possibility. Instead, he would trap them in a safe, humane cage, and drive them (sometimes five hours away) out into the woods and let them go. And it was my dad who then taught us from when we were young to enjoy the beauty of God’s creation, including each little bug and butterfly, snake and salamander. A rattlesnake on the road wasn’t something to be afraid of but something to stand in awe of. He taught me and my sisters to respect nature in all it’s forms and to never, ever harm something that cannot speak up or stand up for itself.

Thirdly, well…I blame my dad again. He was the one who indulged our every animal whim and who seemed to love buying and owning animals almost even more than us. While my mom sighed, “Another hamster?” or “Really? A boa constrictor,” we all jumped up and down with excitement as we took our new family member home in it’s little white box. Yes, trips to the pet store for another fish, hamster, snake, or frog were common occurances for me and my sisters…and now much to my husband’s dismay, it is not so unfrequent for me still (bashfully blushing).

Fourthly…I love to take care of things, and especially of those things that need me. Having an animal to feed and pet and care for fulfills something inside me that I can’t explain. And maybe it’s my longing to be needed by something and someone…to know that I’m here for a reason–if for nothing else but for that person or that animal. Or maybe “caring” is a gift that I have kind of like those who have the gift of leadership, compassion, perseverence, etc.

So anyway, that’s a little bit of randomness about why in the world I own a dog and why in the name of all the saints that I now own four–yes four–rats…because ahem, just yesterday I went on my merry way  and bought two new baby rats. And though most people will call that crazy (because everyone knows, including me, that their tails are nothing to look at)…I guess I am crazy.

And I like it.

This is another reason why everything just sounds better with an English accent! Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=he5fpsmH_2g

One of the many things I love about books is there ability to add possibilities and magic to our everyday worlds.

Shadows become adventures, tesseracts are possible, cottages in the woods are mysterious, and walking through wardrobes can lead us into another world altogether.

I like how looking at a wardrobe can remind me of Narnia, how glancing at a golden ring brings to mind Hobbits and Elves, how a simple letter can lead me to platform 9 3/4, and how seeing a little girl wearing ruby red shoes can take my mind on an adventure and bring me back home again.

Books are magic indeed.