HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: When I first saw the title of this essay by Trisha Blanchet I was absolutely shocked. I thought ohhhh my goodness, what?
I know Trisha, I thought, I know she writes the fantastic and imaginative Neath Trilogy--about a teenager who discovers the secret (and terrifying and fantastical) world that exists underneath Boston. (It's really cool, and completely imaginative, and trust me, you will never walk through the streets of Boston's North End the same way again.)
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Plus, I knew Trisha is the founder of Operation Delta Dog, an absolutely life-changing organization that matches rescue dogs with veterans. Isn't that brilliant?
I paused, perplexed. Trisha has a co-author?
We'll let her explain.
My Coauthor is Slacking on the Job
(Time to rewrite the story of this long-term partnership gone wrong)
By Trisha Blanchet
“My goodness, thank you all so much for this incredible honor. I’m truly humbled and proud to receive this award from the literary community that I admire so much. I’m speechless. Well, I would be speechless if I hadn’t already prepared this speech, ha, ha!
Apologies for the note cards, here… Lots to remember! And so many people to thank. I’d like to start with my family, of course, and all my fellow writers. And let’s not forget my wonderful agent and editors. But most of all, I’d like to dedicate this award to the one who made it all possible. The fuel to my fire. The springboard to my success:
My stomach.
Dear, dear Stomach. As coauthors go, you’ve always been one of the best. All those words just don’t materialize out of nowhere, after all—they require a little help. Help like Quiche Lorraine, roast beef sandwiches, and Nachos El Grande. Gummy bears by the pound. Ravioli and meatballs. Hot coffee in the morning, and hot toddies at night. Whatever it takes.
Now, I know things have been a little tricky between us lately, which I guess shouldn’t be surprising. Fifty-plus years of collaboration don’t come without a few bumps. But I want you to know that I see you, I appreciate you, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get our partnership back on track.
If you remember, we got off to a great start. Well, mostly great. Our childhood collab had its challenges, what with all the boxed mac-and-cheese, birthday cake, and McDonald’s “orange drink” immediately followed by two-hour sessions on the trampoline. You didn’t love that. But occasional projectile vomiting aside, we did manage to produce some phenomenal work. Case in point: Our seminal Detective Ladybug Playground Mysteries, published on yellow construction paper with the help of a borrowed stapler.
Our college years saw much the same give-and-take. Just switch out the colors: Instead of “orange drink” and yellow paper, there were a lot of red Solo cups and two-liter bottles of Purple Passion. That was also the period of my unfortunate flirtation with songwriting and feminist books-in-verse, but you bore it all with good will.
Our relationship stayed mostly predictable into the early-adult years. If I’m honest, I just didn’t think about you all that much. (Nothing personal… I’m not close with most of my organs.)
Then came those pregnancies in our thirties. That brought out a whole new side of you, didn’t it? Suddenly you were all “Give me raw meat!” and “Stay the hell off that glider chair!” I ignored your demands at my peril. But when you weren’t being bossy, you helped me write all those fun “Mommy Confidential” columns for the newspaper.
Our forties rolled by in a gastrointestinal blur, mostly because I was more worried about packing other people’s lunch boxes than my own. Kidding—I didn’t have any lunch boxes. I probably didn’t have any lunch. For a decade. Who remembers? Still, we kept at it, writing manuscripts that turned out to be half decent. Then, better than descent. Then, actually published by an actual publisher.
Then. Came. The fifties.
The half-century mark. And there you were, out of the shadows at last. All those years, you’d been ignored. “Well, no more, missy,” you told me. The message was loud and clear: I’d had my day. This was your show, now. I call that show, “WAIT, WHAT CAN’T I EAT NOW?” It’s streaming, on all channels, around the clock.
The trouble started at my local ice-cream stand. I began telling anyone who would listen that the mint chip was bad. Spoiled, maybe? Then another flavor, with the same result. I switched brands and locations, only to find that this shop, too, was trying to kill me. It was an ice-cream conspiracy.
It took a full year and countless more poisonings (milk, cream cheese, ranch dressing, mozzarella) for light to dawn on this foggy head. The culprit was lactose. Lactose? I didn’t even know what the heck that was. But you knew, didn’t you, Stomach? And you’d decided: No more.
With one fell swoop, you’d taken away most of my favorite foods. Okay, fine. I can deal with that. Just another one of middle age’s indignities. But you couldn’t stop there, could you? Nooooo. Now, suddenly, I can’t eat sugar substitutes. Or apples. You’re not crazy about caffeine anymore, either, or any kind of alcohol. And I guess I can forget about eating or drinking anything at all after 9pm.
Basically, you want me to live like a monk. While I’m at it, I might as well invest in a few monk’s robes, too, because despite not being able to eat anything good in my fifties, I also somehow manage to gain 15 pounds per week. Per day? Whatever it is, it defies all biological principles. Meanwhile, I can’t seem to find the “Mid-Life, Lactose-Intolerant, Stubborn Body Fat” section of the clothing store. So a flowy friar’s frock it is.
Sorry. I digress. And I seem to have lost my place in the notecards, here…
I guess what I’m trying to say is: This writing thing, this creativity thing, has always been a partnership. Didn’t we have fun back in the days when nausea was the exclusive province of seasickness and people guzzled “orange drink” without any idea of what it actually contained? When a full, happy belly was the perfect fuel for an active imagination? I know I took you for granted. But that happens in all long-term relationships, right? I swear, I can change if you can.
Let’s start here, tonight, at this beautiful awards ceremony. I think we’ve earned a glass of champagne, don’t you? Maybe a passed canape or two? If I promise to limit my intake, can you promise to limit our bathroom breaks to just, I don’t know…one or two an hour?
When they told us to take a bite out of life, dear Stomach, I think they might have meant it literally. So let’s do it. Just you, me, this incredible award, all these wonderful people, and a handful of Lactaid pills. Unlike us, friend, the night is young. And full of delicious possibilities.”
HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: I am holding my stomach–with laughter! SO hilarious! How about you, Reds and Readers? Is your stomach your co-author--or co-reader? Mine is very partial to lattes and almonds. And Crunchmasters crackers. Cheese sticks. And tohse little yellow tomatoes. It is no longer so fond of green peppers, and cannot even think about red onions. (This is rarely a problem, except with pizza.)
(PS. ANd the winner of Adele Parks’ FIRST WIFE'S SHADOW from yesterday is Alicia Haney! Email me at hank@hankphillippiryan.com with your address!
T.M. Blanchet is the author of The Neath Trilogy: Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).
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About THE NEATH TRILOGY
Ollie is trying. He really is.
He's trying to lose weight in the biscotti-and-bolognese wonderland of Boston's North End.
He's trying to recover from his mother's recent death.
Most of all, he's trying to battle the loneliness that comes with being 19, living in a shoebox, and working a dead-end job. No girlfriend, no parents, no friends.
Well, he does have one friend. Nell.
But she's gone missing.
At first, Ollie pretends that he hadn't noticed Nell's bruises and skittish behavior. Then, finally, he faces the facts: Nell is gone, and probably in danger. And he might be the only one who can help.
What he doesn't know--couldn't know--is that his journey to find her will take him far below the streets of the city into a dangerous, underground world: a place where magic spills like blood, humans are not quite human, and notions of justice and revenge are as murky as the cavern's brackish waters. And this time, trying just won't be enough.
Our forties rolled by in a gastrointestinal blur, mostly because I was more worried about packing other people’s lunch boxes than my own. Kidding—I didn’t have any lunch boxes. I probably didn’t have any lunch. For a decade. Who remembers? Still, we kept at it, writing manuscripts that turned out to be half decent. Then, better than descent. Then, actually published by an actual publisher.
Then. Came. The fifties.
The half-century mark. And there you were, out of the shadows at last. All those years, you’d been ignored. “Well, no more, missy,” you told me. The message was loud and clear: I’d had my day. This was your show, now. I call that show, “WAIT, WHAT CAN’T I EAT NOW?” It’s streaming, on all channels, around the clock.
The trouble started at my local ice-cream stand. I began telling anyone who would listen that the mint chip was bad. Spoiled, maybe? Then another flavor, with the same result. I switched brands and locations, only to find that this shop, too, was trying to kill me. It was an ice-cream conspiracy.
It took a full year and countless more poisonings (milk, cream cheese, ranch dressing, mozzarella) for light to dawn on this foggy head. The culprit was lactose. Lactose? I didn’t even know what the heck that was. But you knew, didn’t you, Stomach? And you’d decided: No more.
With one fell swoop, you’d taken away most of my favorite foods. Okay, fine. I can deal with that. Just another one of middle age’s indignities. But you couldn’t stop there, could you? Nooooo. Now, suddenly, I can’t eat sugar substitutes. Or apples. You’re not crazy about caffeine anymore, either, or any kind of alcohol. And I guess I can forget about eating or drinking anything at all after 9pm.
Basically, you want me to live like a monk. While I’m at it, I might as well invest in a few monk’s robes, too, because despite not being able to eat anything good in my fifties, I also somehow manage to gain 15 pounds per week. Per day? Whatever it is, it defies all biological principles. Meanwhile, I can’t seem to find the “Mid-Life, Lactose-Intolerant, Stubborn Body Fat” section of the clothing store. So a flowy friar’s frock it is.
Sorry. I digress. And I seem to have lost my place in the notecards, here…
I guess what I’m trying to say is: This writing thing, this creativity thing, has always been a partnership. Didn’t we have fun back in the days when nausea was the exclusive province of seasickness and people guzzled “orange drink” without any idea of what it actually contained? When a full, happy belly was the perfect fuel for an active imagination? I know I took you for granted. But that happens in all long-term relationships, right? I swear, I can change if you can.
Let’s start here, tonight, at this beautiful awards ceremony. I think we’ve earned a glass of champagne, don’t you? Maybe a passed canape or two? If I promise to limit my intake, can you promise to limit our bathroom breaks to just, I don’t know…one or two an hour?
When they told us to take a bite out of life, dear Stomach, I think they might have meant it literally. So let’s do it. Just you, me, this incredible award, all these wonderful people, and a handful of Lactaid pills. Unlike us, friend, the night is young. And full of delicious possibilities.”
HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: I am holding my stomach–with laughter! SO hilarious! How about you, Reds and Readers? Is your stomach your co-author--or co-reader? Mine is very partial to lattes and almonds. And Crunchmasters crackers. Cheese sticks. And tohse little yellow tomatoes. It is no longer so fond of green peppers, and cannot even think about red onions. (This is rarely a problem, except with pizza.)
(PS. ANd the winner of Adele Parks’ FIRST WIFE'S SHADOW from yesterday is Alicia Haney! Email me at hank@hankphillippiryan.com with your address!
T.M. Blanchet is the author of The Neath Trilogy: Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).
.png)
About THE NEATH TRILOGY
Ollie is trying. He really is.
He's trying to lose weight in the biscotti-and-bolognese wonderland of Boston's North End.
He's trying to recover from his mother's recent death.
Most of all, he's trying to battle the loneliness that comes with being 19, living in a shoebox, and working a dead-end job. No girlfriend, no parents, no friends.
Well, he does have one friend. Nell.
But she's gone missing.
At first, Ollie pretends that he hadn't noticed Nell's bruises and skittish behavior. Then, finally, he faces the facts: Nell is gone, and probably in danger. And he might be the only one who can help.
What he doesn't know--couldn't know--is that his journey to find her will take him far below the streets of the city into a dangerous, underground world: a place where magic spills like blood, humans are not quite human, and notions of justice and revenge are as murky as the cavern's brackish waters. And this time, trying just won't be enough.
