I once went to a concert with a friend and was stopped for a bag check. The bouncer withdrew item after item and looked at me. Twigs, crayons, embroidery thread, cooking oil, food coloring, Alka Seltzer, baking soda, vinegar, raisins, plus a few empty pop bottles. I shrugged. It was my life.
I started to tell him, “I’m an author. I wrote this book called Pop Bottle Science for kids.... Did you know you can do really cool science experiments with stuff you have around the house and make amazing things like lava lamps and...” but I stopped when he pulled out the baggie with slime and a handful of little plastic dinosaurs. He held it in his meaty hand and looked at it, and then at me, his eyebrows raised.
“What’s this?” he asked.
I looked at my friend, who seemed rather horrified. “What do you have in that bag?”
“Slime,” I said. “You can make it with glue and borax.”
“You made this?” the bouncer asked.
“Well, yeah, so I’m an author...”
“Cool! Can I keep it?” the bouncer asked. He began squishing it in his hands and making dialogue for the dinosaurs with a high-pitched voice: “Oh nooooo! I’m slimed!” He looked at me, beaming.
“You can keep it,” I said. “I can even tell you how to make it. I have a book....”
He smiled. He gave me back my purse (and I use the term lightly—it is rather large for a purse, but it works) and placed the bag of slimy dinosaurs in his coat pocket. “My nephews will love it! Thanks. Go on in. In fact, let me order you a drink. And where can I buy your book?”
“Being the geeky science writer sure has its perks,” I said smugly to my friend.
“Well, yeah, with a bag of tricks like that,” she agreed. “Who can compete with lava lamps and slimy dinosaurs?”
I’ve made a living writing books for parents and kids, sharing the joys of making everything from pop-bottle rockets to garden-hose tubas—all while slipping in the wonders of science. I am comfortable in the world of chemical reactions that blow up balloons and experiments that result in explosions. But my new book, a memoir, is a little different.
I was challenged by a dear friend not to dissect another frog or explain the physics of armpit farts but to examine my own life experiences and share them. I took the challenge and chartered a course into my own vulnerability.
It was a rocky road. I didn’t see myself as a memoirist. I wasn’t at all sure why anyone would be remotely interested in what I had to say about my life. My comfort zone was humor and activity writing. Every time I started to write anything, the scientist in me buffered all the genuine feelings I was too afraid to actually dive into. And then it clicked. Why lose the passion I have for science? Why not use it as a focusing outlook? Why not embrace it and see where it takes me?
So I did. I ignited explosions as I wrote, but this time they were the interior kind, as I relived the heart-bursting experiences of almost losing my husband to sepsis, getting “that” question about where babies come from, trying to be eco even when faced with an onslaught of raccoons and rats, processing the agony of watching my mother disappear into Alzheimer’s, and having to explain to my boys why their grandmother doesn’t remember them. This exploration of mine had reactions and eruptions of a different sort. They were raw, joyful, heart-breaking, and filled to the brim with revelation. Thanks to my friend’s challenge, what I ended up with was a love letter to my family informed by my passion for science.
As I start this particular book launch, my trepidation has not ended. I realize my trusty old bag won’t be the same either. I may not be carrying around the tin foil and dry ice of years and books past, but I will be carrying my heart and offering it to an audience that I hope is as kind and curious as that bouncer.
Lynn Brunelle is a bestselling author and Emmy Award–winning writer for Bill Nye the Science Guy. Her new book, Mama Gone Geek: Calling on My Inner Science Nerd to Help Navigate the Ups and Downs of Parenthood, was released by Roost Books in October.
