The Muse was there, So was everyone Else!

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I’ve been working on my next Rocky Bluff P.D. crime novel (still bordering on cozy since I don’t use bad words or have graphic sex scenes) and I’ve been struggling.

I know how it’s going to end, and some of what it’s going to take to get there, but it wasn’t jelling.
Everyone was going to be away on Saturday (we not only have a grown grandson living with us, but my son, wife, granddaughter and her girlfriend live right next door and they all use my computer to access the Internet) and I thought it would be a perfect day to write.

Started out wonderfully. I wrote about two scenes while getting some great ideas for others.

The phone rang. It was my daughter who lives nearby wanting me to order something for her on the Net. (We’re in a lousy area for Internet access. I’ve got a little satellite dish on my roof from my computer company that brings the Internet in.) She came over and I took care of her order. She’s the mom of the new grandchild and we talked awhile about the baby.

She left and I did some more writing. Got another call from a friend who wanted to tell me all about the cruise he went on with his parents, his mom is 70 plus like me, and his big news was she was the first to go on a zip line through the jungle. (Believe me, that’s something I’ll never do.)

He hung up, back to the computer. Another good friend and loyal fan who wanted to sell me tickets to the annual chamber of commerce banquet wanted to stop by. I had a book she loaned me and one to loan her, so I agreed. She came, we visited.

By that time, I’d given up on the writing.

I’d like to say I’m going to get with it tomorrow, but I probably won’t because I got a new mini laptop with wireless access to take with me on trips and I’m going to take it down to my computer place to have them get it set up with the Internet.

I had a friend email me and tell me she’d gotten up at 4 a.m. to start writing. Maybe I’ll do that–or maybe I won’t. Since I’ve been retired it’s awfully nice to stay in bed until I wake up–which is usually about 6:15.

All my notes for the book are stacked beside my computer–I know the muse will get back to me.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Procrastination, Thy Name is Evelyn

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Let me rephrase that: thy name is the Northern half of Evelyn David.

I’m what is politely known as “between assignments” – or more bluntly, unemployed.

Last week I handed in the manuscript for my latest nonfiction project, The Everything Baby’s First Year Book. It will be published later this year. Loved the topic. There is a sweetness about even the virtual smell of a newborn – and it’s a lot easier to write about colic than to live through it. If anyone, however, doesn’t think I paid my dues, let me introduce exhibits A, B, and C – my sons, with whom I walked hundreds of miles in my living room as I desperately sought to comfort them during the colic era.

But, anyway, I should have, while hip deep in research on baby topics, also been immersed in a dozen other subjects so that I had book proposals for consideration already in the hands of editors. Ideally, there would have been a seamless handoff from one project to the next. Instead, I am breathlessly awaiting the greenlight on some fun book ideas – keep your fingers and toes crossed.

I do have several mystery projects already underway with the Southern half of Evelyn David. One is a short story that has a paranormal element and when it is not scaring the you know what out of me – I’m having the time of my life integrating ghosts and whodunits.

Or at least, I’m having fun thinking about a ghost with a serious cat allergy – but writing it, not so much. Instead, for every three sentences that I manage to eke out, I either do laundry, search for chicken recipes, or most brainless of all, play Spider Solitaire, which is my new online addiction.

I know writers who have removed all computer games from their hard drives; others who refuse to answer e-mail, talk on the phone, or go out to lunch until they’ve turned in their manuscripts. Of course, I also know people who can be offered a brownie and firmly turn it down – a concept that is absolutely foreign to my way of thinking.

But I think what I’m saying is that I lack self-discipline. In my defense, I’ve never missed a deadline and I’ve written 12 books, countless articles, and now, a weekly blog. But I need to find something to jumpstart me back into the fiction writing habit. The Southern half is threatening to send me an e-mail virus that destroys only computer games – and I’m half-tempted to encourage her to do so.

But before I delete Spider Solitaire from my computer – what’s the best score you’ve ever gotten – and are there any tricks to winning?

Shhhh – don’t tell anyone that I asked!

Evelyn David

Excuse My Manners (or Lack Thereof)

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by Susan McBride

I don’t claim to be an expert on etiquette. Everyone in my family has probably caught me talking with my mouth full once too often (although I try not to, really!). My Midwestern mother worked hard to instill a sense of etiquette in me, and I can still quote the infamous ditty about “Mabel.” If you’re unfamiliar, it goes like this: “Mabel, Mabel, if you’re able, get your elbows off the table.” I can’t imagine asking for anyone to pass the pepper without prefacing the request with a “please.” No, I was never sent for lessons in How to Use the Proper Fork like my debutantes in THE DEBS, or even to Little Miss Manners classes like Andy Kendricks, the debutante dropout in my mysteries. But I do know that one’s bread dish should be placed on the left and one’s drink on the right (something I remember by making a “b” and a “d” with the thumbs and fingers of each hand, a trick learned long ago).

I realize that everything I need to know about etiquette I learned in kindergarten, or at least by grade school. The basics my mother taught me way back when still seem to apply pretty well to almost everything I do, like these golden oldies:

**Don’t wipe your nose on your sleeve (er, unless you can’t find a Kleenex and the hem of the tablecloth won’t reach that high).
**Don’t blow your nose in public (particularly if you honk like an elephant).
**Don’t put peas up your nose (hmm, I’m noticing a recurrent “nose” theme).
**Don’t swallow your gum, or it takes seven years to digest (I believe Wrigley’s did a study on this using the Doublemint Twins as guinea pigs, God rest their twisted intestines).
**Always wear clean underwear, because you never know when you may be in an accident (hence, my request for Victoria’s Secret gift cards last Christmas).
**Don’t run with scissors (though it did work for Augustine Burroughs, didn’t it?).
**Never sit with your knees apart (someone should tell Britney Spears about that one).

For the most part, these are excellent rules, and I break them only in extreme cases (say, if I can’t find a Kleenex). As a published author of 10 years who tries to be as well-mannered as possible, I’ve developed my own set of “Road Rules” for promoting books which I’m happy to share. Granted, I’m no Letitia Baldridge or Emily Post. More like Marge Simpson (whose directness I admire). If my pearls of wisdom seem obvious–or odd–well, it was late when I wrote this and my nightly cocktail of chamomile tea and Benadryl had already started to kick in, so cut me some slack.

**Cleanliness is next to Godliness. I don’t know how often the Man Upstairs (or Goddess Upstairs) showers, but I’ll bet it’s everyday, and almost certainly before a book signing. I can’t guarantee that smelling like Irish Spring will draw the buying hordes, but it makes a far better impression than reeking like unwashed gym socks.

*Be polite to fellow airport dwellers during travel delays. I figure it’s okay to talk to these strangers, as the people at your gate have already been prescreened to some extent. If they’re allowed to fly, you know they’re not on the terrorist watch list, and they’re not packing lighters, bottles with more than 3 ounces of fluid, or other weapons of mass destruction in their carry-on bags. And you never know whose conversation will become fodder for your writing some day. A layover in the Columbia, SC, airport years ago allowed me time to chat with an author from Mississippi who happened to be on her town’s debutante selection committee. Without her, I never would have heard the terms “debu-tank” and “debu-trash,” which I promptly stole for my DEBS series about Houston debutantes. See what I mean!

**Never rearrange a bookseller’s display to more prominently showcase your titles, unless you’ve got Nate the Decorator from “Oprah” with you and he’s re-doing the space on Ms. Winfrey’s dime. I know, I know…word on the street is that turning your covers face-out at every opportunity is mandatory. But it’s more polite to approach the bookseller and offer to sign any available stock (upon which “autographed” stickers will promptly be slapped), practically guaranteeing that your books will be turned cover-out or even moved to more expensive real estate, like an end-cap. Think about it: when booksellers visit your home, they aren’t allowed to rearrange your furniture. So fair’s fair.

**Always say “thank you” any time that people have gone out of their way to help you. If you don’t like writing notes on monogrammed stationery then a gracious email will suffice. Like my great aunt Gertrude always said, “A thank you is worth a thousand peas up your nose, so long as your legs are crossed and you’re wearing clean underwear.” That Gertie was a wise woman.

P.S. Thanks again to the fabulous ladies of the Stiletto Gang for inviting me to join their ranks. I look forward to posting the first Friday of the month from now on. And I promise to be on my best behavior or you can tattle to my mother.

Preparing for Love Is Murder – Part 1

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In a few weeks I’ll be attending Love is Murder for the third time. The author, reader, and book conference may not begin until February 6th but I’m already preparing mentally and organizing my “stuff.”

First of all I paid my registration fees and booked the hotel room months ago. Not that I’m that organized, but more that I was afraid if I waited, I’d back out of going. Believe me attending a conference in Chicago in the dead of winter takes real determination. That decision is best made in the fall when the weather is nice and you can talk yourself into the possibility that Chicago might, just might, have an unusually early spring.

Last month I made my decision on whether to fly or drive. I’m driving. Yes, flying is quicker – by a day – but more stressful. I flew to Chicago the first time I went to the conference. The conference was wonderful but the travel to and from was a nightmare.

The Tulsa airport is about 90 minutes from my home during normal weather. The worst winter weather in Oklahoma typically happens in late January and early February. The weather guys were predicting an incoming storm the night before I was to fly out. So to play it safe, I drove to my parents’ home (about 30 minutes from the airport) and spent the night there – just to be sure I could get to my early morning flight on time. The first sign of trouble was when my Dad knocked on the guest room door wanting to know where my spare car keys were. Huh? Good soul that he is, he had gotten up earlier than me, fetched my keys from my purse, started my car and scraped about 3 inches of ice off my windshield. He’d had the car defroster going full blast and was standing outside the car chipping ice, when the automatic door locks kicked in. My spare set of keys were at my home along with all my knives, weapons, extra makeup and the hundred and one other things I’d dumped from my purse to facilitate my chances of clearing airport security without a pat-down.

I didn’t have time to fetch the keys and make my flight. AAA was called and my Dad drove me and all my bags (I’d luckily taken all of them inside the night before) in his car to the airport. The roads were bad – snow on top of a thick layer of ice. As we pulled in at the curbside drop off, we got a cell phone call. My brother had driven his car into the ditch on his way to work. AAA got a second call, my Dad headed home to deal with that crisis, and I lugged my two bags, laptop, and large purse into the terminal.

For the next thirty minutes I made my way through the security lines, in my sock feet, coat over my arm, laptop out of the bag, blackberry and purse in a tray, and tried to center my thoughts on how much fun it was going to be to hold my first book for the first time.

A couple of hours later I was at O’Hare airport, both hands full pulling two rolling suitcases, my laptop bag over one shoulder and a large purse over the other. The taxis were a floor below the baggage claim area. The only way to get from the baggage claim to the taxi area was an escalator.

Have you ever stepped onto an escalator without being able to hold onto the railing? I was standing at the top, trying to find the courage to make that first step, wondering what the odds were that I was about to kill myself, when an airport worker literally grabbed one suitcase from me and yelled, “Follow me.” She went down the escalator without a backwards glance. I had no choice but to follow – she had the bag with all my promo stuff!

Next Thursday – less about the travel and more about the Conference as I countdown to February 6.

Love is Murder Con
February 6-8, 2009
Westin Chicago North Shore
601 N. Milwaukee Avenue
Wheeling, IL 60090

Evelyn David

Someone to Watch Over You

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I sat, mesmerized, last Thursday as the saga of Flight 1549 from New York to Charlotte, unfolded on the television. A few things struck me as I, and the newscasters, got new information:

1. All 155 people and 5 crew members survived, despite having been subjected to the dreaded “water landing” which you hear a lot about in the pre-flight instructions from the flight attendant yet you think you will never partake in.

2. That the plane was taken down by a Canadian goose. Up here in the New York area, we curse Canadian geese for what they do to our parks and patches of grass every spring and summer (suffice it to say it is not pretty and you never get used to it). Little did we know that just one Canadian goose could take down an Airbus.

3. The skill, calm, and heroism of the pilot, Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger. Is this guy a stud or what? He knows the plane is going to go down, he’s flying over New York City, yet he manages—despite everything—to land the plane safely in the Hudson River. One passenger called it the “softest landing” he had ever experienced. I’m sure he was exaggerating, but seriously, people. If the pilot had gone any further, he would have crashed into the George Washington Bridge or worse, gone down in the ocean. Nobody would have survived either scenario. The fact that he was able to bring a plane with an 111-foot wing span down in a river that at its widest is only a mile across (and less than that where they landed) can only be called a miracle.

The most amazing thing to me about Captain Sullenberger is that he patrolled the aisles of the plane twice to make sure everyone was off. If that guy isn’t a hero, I don’t know who is. I’d like to think that I wouldn’t head straight for the emergency doors once we were down, but if 42 degree water was starting to flood in, I’m thinking that that’s where you’d find me.

I heard a pilot who had gone through a similar situation talking about Captain Sullenberger and how this situation could have ended much differently had he not been so calm, experienced, and adept at flying the plane. This pilot, Denny Finch, said that he is now a motivational speaker and when speaking, asks the audience three questions, to which they can only raise their hand to one: 1) “Do you believe in luck?” 2) “Do you believe in fate?” and 3) “Do you believe in God or a higher power?” I thought that this was extremely interesting and wondered how the passengers aboard the flight might respond. At this point, and after watching the developments—the “miracle on the Hudson” as Governor Paterson has taken to calling it—unfold. I believe in all three and I also believe in the marvelous skills of Captain Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger.

It’s been a tough several months in America and I, for one, was feeling a bit depressed at the billion dollar bailouts, the rising unemployment percentages, the falling Dow Jones. But mostly, I was feeling depressed for my fellow, less fortunate Americans, who are suffering. Watching the passengers get off that plane safely, the Circle Line passengers throwing them life preservers and the police boats circling and getting them to safety, made me feel good once my panic subsided and I realized that we were not experiencing another 9/11. Sully was watching out for his passengers. I hope someone is watching out for the rest of us.

Maggie Barbieri

Friday Night Lights

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Hubby and I are thrilled that Friday Night Lights is back on the air–on Friday nights, of course.

Neither of us are really football fans, but we love that TV series. We didn’t watch it when it first came on the air, but were introduced through Netflix and watched all of the first three seasons. Best way to watch a TV series by the way.

Probably the reason we’ve become such big fans is going to Friday night football games when our grandson who lived with us was playing football. He was a the quarterback sometimes and half back others. Unfortunately, the team itself wasn’t great and seldom won a game–but we sat bundled up in the stands cheering them on for every home game. (Seniors got free passes to get in which was also great.)

We knew half the cheerleading squad (several had been grandson’s girlfriend at one time or another), and many of the other spectators stopped by to visit. We also saw a lot of the student body parading by us on their way back and forth to the refreshment stand or just to be seen.

We live in the foothills and grandson either rode the bus to school and back or was picked up by a friend. During football practice, there was a sports bus that would bring kids home afterwards. Sometimes grandson would miss that bus and we’d have to drive to town to pick him up. Usually he’d go sit in the fast food place across from the high school to wait since it took us about 20 minutes to make the trip.

When I watch Friday Night Lights it reminds me of those years we had that grandson living with us. We knew so many boys who remind us of the kids we see in that show. I guess it reminds us of a fun time in our life.

Later on, our granddaughter who lives next door, played soccer all four years of high school. We hauled our chairs to the soccer field and watched those games too. So far there isn’t a TV show about a soccer coach or team.

Of course I have favorite mystery shows I enjoy though I must admit Medium and Ghost Whisperer are up there among my favorites. By the time I’ve spent most of the day in front of the computer, I admit it, by evening I’m ready for some mindless and entertaining TV viewing.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Preserve, Protect and Defend

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Tomorrow, at noon, Barack Obama will take the oath of office. He will swear, on the Lincoln Bible, to “faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.” While it’s not part of the official oath, undoubtedly President Obama will add, following the tradition of George Washington, “so help me God.”

I feel blessed to be witness to this moment in history. It is ironic that at a time when our country is at war on two fronts, when our economy is in dire straits, when the world is facing a global climate crisis – that I find myself more optimistic than I’ve been in a long time. I’m not crazy – or at least not more than usual. But whether you are a Democrat or Republican, a supporter of Hillary Clinton, John McCain, or Ron Paul – there is a sense that change is in the air. Even for those who disagree strongly with the new administration’s policies, there does seem to be a belief that we all must all work together because otherwise we are all doomed to failure. There is a quiet feeling that even while each of us worries about our own individual financial situation, that together “yes we can.” There is a sense of pride that young and old, rich and poor, White, Black, Latino, Native American, Asian-American – and people of every race, creed, and religion were energized in this election to take part, to be part of the solution, not just part of the problem.

I’m old enough and realistic enough to know that this honeymoon can’t last forever. That the differences that have been smoothed over or even ignored as we collectively struggle through these tough times, will undoubtedly resurface again. And perhaps that’s how it should be. But right now we need to ignore our differences while we concentrate on the problems we share.

So tomorrow, I’ll be glued to my television. I’ll hold my breath as President Obama and Vice-President Biden take their oaths of office. I might even shed a tear or two. Then I’ll grin as President and Mrs. Obama, perhaps even Malia and Sascha, walk proudly down Pennsylvania Avenue to the reviewing stands. You won’t see me in the crowds in DC, but I will be there, along with many of you, in spirit.

God Bless America.

Evelyn David

Keeping Faith

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I once watched a wonderful British mini-series, full of galloping horses, lush landscapes, and inevitably, class wars. Poor orphan girl comes to the home of her rich, foul-humored uncle, and must decide if she loves her sensitive boy cousin, his swashbuckling wastrel brother, or the stable hand who is poor but sincere. Leaving aside the issue of whether marrying your first cousin is a good idea, I, of course, was rooting for the poor stable hand. To my delight, after much bosom heaving and weeping, she ends up with the guy with no money – which is okay because she has enough for them both.

I promptly went out and read the books on which this mini-series was based – and they were absolutely wonderful. A few years later I was delighted to discover a sequel to this saga. But to my horror, the author had decided that class will out. She broke up the marriage of rich girl, poor boy, so that the society b**ch could marry within her own class – her newly-reformed rich cousin. Ugh.

As defined in the dictionary, a sequel is “a literary work, film, etc. complete in itself but continuing a story begun in an earlier work.” So while I’m the first to agree that an author has the right to do whatever she wants, for me, this particular writer betrayed the basic premise of the first books. We had a deal: true love trumps fancy schmancy class distinctions. She broke faith with her readers (or at least this one). It’s as if Margaret Mitchell wrote a sequel to Gone with the Wind and had Scarlett subdivide Tara into a housing development of McMansions. Or Thomas Harris penned a sequel where Hannibal Lecter became a vegetarian.

I love reading mystery series. It’s like meeting up with old friends. I want to know what has happened since the last time we were together. While I want a complete story that can stand on its own, I want to recognize the characters I’ve grown to love. I have no problem with personal growth in the characters, but they have to retain the essence of who they are. I promise when you read Murder Takes the Cake (due in May 2009), that the delightful Mac Sullivan, Rachel Brenner, and Whiskey are all back in prime form.

What’s the best – and the worst – sequel you’ve ever read (or saw if it was a movie)?

Evelyn David

Ouch!

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I saw the movie Gran Torino in the theatre last Sunday. The last movie I saw before that in a theatre was the recent X-Files movie. Both were good movies, but I almost walked out on both before they even got past the opening credits.

Due to a lack of time I rarely see movies when they first come out – instead settling for the convenience and economy of dvds and television. But sometimes, I just want to get lost in a dark theatre and totally focus on the movie, instead of the one hundred and one things competing for my attention at home. So a few times a year, I shell out the seven dollars for my ticket, the same amount again for a soda and popcorn, and find a “center row, half-way back” theatre seat and settle in for a couple of hours of escapism.

Maybe I’m just getting “old, old, old” (a saying I’ve picked up from my co-author), but during the last two movies, the theatre experience has been less than enjoyable. I’ve begun to have real problems with the “sound,” starting with the previews of coming attractions.

The sound is too loud.

Much too loud.

Painfully loud.

Get out of my seat, find a theatre employee, and complain loud.

Why so loud? Is it a lack of care? An equipment issue? Do the theatre employees have too many other things to do? Too many screens to monitor at the same time? Is the sound level of the previews louder than the movie track? What’s changed?

I know years ago there was someone in the film booth, running the projector and making sure that the film and sound were running smoothly. I assume that with the digital age, everything is now computerized. If so, then it seems strange that sound levels couldn’t be maintained at a reasonable decibel. Trust me, I’m not complaining about just an annoyingly loud problem. I’m trying to describe a level that would be a violation if it occurred as a result of quarry blasting; a level that is an actual physical assault on your hearing; stomach churning, knife-through-your-head loud.

Last Sunday there were many long minutes, at least ten or fifteen, before the sound was lowered. I’m guessing there must be a set number of complaints a theatre owner must get before he acts. On Sunday, head throbbing, trapped in my “center row, half-way back” seat, I offered up a silent prayer for the senior citizens who can always be counted on to make the trek from their seats to the ticket booth demanding relief or a refund.

This past week I heard an award-winning sound engineer discuss how movie fans miss a lot by not having a sound system for their expensive high-definition televisions. He asserted that the speakers that come installed on televisions are inadequate and can’t possibly give you that in-theatre experience.

I agree.

But maybe that’s not always such a bad thing.

I love movies.

But I like hearing too.

Evelyn David

p.s. – Despite everything Gran Torino was a good movie.

The Marvels of Modern Dentistry

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I was one of those fortunate children who didn’t get too many cavities. I ate as much candy as the next sugar-obsessed cretin growing up in 1970s America, but every time I went to the dentist, I got a clean bill of health. (Unlike one of my siblings, who had every tooth filled by the time he was ten; the dentist told my mother that he had a “strong gag reflex” which apparently, was extremely distasteful to the dentist. It went into said sibling’s dental “permanent record” and has followed him from dentist to dentist, even though he outgrew this in oh, about 1982.) I suffered through two fillings and that was it. Nothing else.

Until recently. I had a toothache—as well as a host of other disgusting problems with what I found out was tooth #3 that I’ll spare you the details of—and decided that with my medical history, it wasn’t a wise idea to fool around with that. What if I got an infection, it traveled to my brain and killed me? (Don’t laugh…these are the things that I think of when I wake up in the middle of the night.) Certain death from infection—and the fact that half the tooth fell out into the sink while I was brushing one morning—propelled me to see my regular dentist, Dr. G., who took an x-ray and came back into the room holding the x-ray with a grim expression on his face, despite the fact that he was smiling. He always smiles; that’s why I love Dr. G.

“Don’t say it,” I said, knowing that a two-word diagnosis starting with “root” and ending with “canal” was coming. If only that had been the end of it.

“Don’t say what?” Dr. G. asked, smiling.

“Root canal,” I whispered.

He stopped smiling. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. “Well, you do need a root canal. And a little gum surgery.” He handed me a tissue as I began to cry. “I can recommend a dentist for both procedures.” He wrote out a card with the name of the root canal guy. And as for the gum surgery, he said, “We have a few options. Dr. C, our first choice, will put you to sleep…”“Stop!” I said. “We have a winner!” And as you know if you read my pre-holiday blog, Dr. C. is now known around these parts as the “gum surgery whisperer.” Root canal wasn’t as bad as I expected either. Although I would prefer not to have another one, it wasn’t the torture that I thought it would be. Dr. W. and his assistant, Susan, were lovely. But I hope I never see them again, something that I told them upon leaving the office.

I went back to see Dr. G., my regular dentist, yesterday to get fitted for my crown (and not the tiara kind). I told him that I was amazed at how far dentistry had come since I had gotten my last filling in 1977. (This while he held an impression in my mouth with his finger…I asked him why an electronic arm hadn’t been developed so that he didn’t have to stand there for two minutes holding the impression and he explained it to me. Suffice it to say that the electronic arm wouldn’t be as good as his finger.) He explained that most people are pathologically afraid of the dentist, but these days, there’s really no need to be. Did you know that they even have stuff to numb your gums before they shoot you full of Novocaine? (It’s way better than the stuff they used in 1977, but in my opinion, still not great. I think that we should all be given general anesthetic before we get any kind of shots or needles inserted anywhere in our bodies, but maybe that’s just me.) Or that you can drink a little teaspoon of liquid and go to sleep for your gum surgery, waking up in the car on the Taconic State Parkway and asking your husband how you got there? Or that you can watch “The View” while the endodontist drills away at your tooth and removes your tooth’s roots? I remember the days when they gave you a bullet to bite on before they pulled your wisdom teeth. Things have certainly changed.

Go to the dentist, people. I know there are many of you out there putting it off. And yes, I used to be one of them. Had I gone when tooth #3 initially started to give me trouble, I probably would have only needed a replacement filling. But I let it go and I’m a little lighter in the pocketbook and have undergone procedures that I could have only imagined. I am here to tell you that the host of tortures that we endured as children are long in the past.

But the sound of a drill boring into your enamel still sounds–and smells–the same.

Maggie