The End of the Innocence

For this month’s theme, the WordWrangler gals decided that it would be fun to give our readers a sneak peek into something we’re writing about.  However, since I’ll be writing two blogs this month, I decided that my first blog would be about a book that coulda-woulda-shoulda been, but never was, and all because of an unfortunate and highly embarrassing communication breakdown. 

It all started when I had to get my dog, Bogart, neutered.  At the time, I was writing children’s books, and I was telling my then-publisher that I had to take my dog in that afternoon for the procedure.  My publisher did not have a dog, nor had he ever had one, so the whole idea of having to have one’s family jewels removed was a horrifying prospect to him. 

“That’s terrible,” he groaned.  “Why do you have to do that?” I could visualize him protectively crossing his legs. 

“Because male Bassets are prone to cancer in that…umm…particular area so they need to be neutered to prevent it,” I delicately explained. 

“Well, poor guy.  I wish him the best of luck.”  

And with that, we said good-bye so I could make my appointment at the vet’s. 

Several hours later, I emailed my publisher: 

“Snip, snip, my dog’s been clipped. 

He’ll never be a sire.

But one sure thing that snip will bring

Is a bark three octaves higher.” 

Almost immediately, the phone rang. 

“You’ve got to write a book of limericks!" he exclaimed, excitement oozing through the phone.  

“Well, okay!” I happily agreed.  So, a plan was enthusiastically put into place about getting to work on it immediately and we hung up. 

Now, every writer knows that when someone—most especially a publisher or agent—loves something you’ve written and wants more of it then the adrenaline starts pumping like a sprinter’s heartbeat, and, suddenly, I stepped out of my wholesome, benign world of chatty bunnies and friendly tigers, and wrote line after line of brazenly bawdy limericks that flowed forth as fast as a creek after a heavy snow melt.  Inspiration sent my fingers flying down the keyboard, which, to the innocent onlooker, might have looked like a pianist masterly stroking the keys to bring forth music from the heavens.  Finally, after half a dozen limericks had been completed in just 24 hours, I emailed them to my publisher.  

Fifteen minutes later, my publisher called me.  He was laughing so hard, I couldn’t make out a word he said.  Smugly, I laughed along with him, knowing the exact reason why he couldn’t speak clearly, and I silently congratulated myself for a job well done.  But, finally, his ha-ha-ha-ing slowed enough for me to understand what he was saying. 

“You rebel!” he accused, highly amused.  

“What do you mean?” Suddenly, I started feeling a tad uncomfortable. 

“I meant children’s limericks,” he explained as his cackling began again. 

“Children’s?” I asked, the blood draining from my face then rushing back again as I blushed to the highest level of bright orangey-red.  I was absolutely mortified.  “Oh, I…uh…well, I just assumed…because of the limerick about my dog being a little, you know…, well, I…I just misunderstood,” I weakly finished. 

“You’re a rebel!” he repeated again.  “And if I ever decide to do a book of adult limericks, I’ll know exactly who to turn to.  ‘G’night,” he said, finally putting an end to my misery.  I could feel him smirking through the phone. 

“Night.” I quickly hung up.  I couldn’t get off fast enough. 

Needless to say, I have placed that little misunderstanding near the top, if not in the # 1 position, of most embarrassing moments in my life.  But, I have to say, it was sure fun writing those limericks and, in truth, that unfortunate little episode has probably brought more laughs over the years than the limericks ever would have.  In the end, I guess my absolute humiliation and the end to my innocence of being that benign children’s book writer and lady of class and dignity was worth it.   

So, ladies and gentlemen, here is one of the causes of that fatal hammer-like blow that shattered all vestiges of my lily-white image in the eyes of a most admired publisher, resulting in the re-branding of me as a “rebel”: 

“There once was a man named McBride,

Whose manhood stayed hard when he died.

The lid wouldn’t close on the coffin they chose,

So they buried the man on his side.”

Ah, well, we all have a dark side, don’t we?