About the author:

Jennifer lives in a cell.  It is well-furnished and plenty comfortable.  Some people call it her bedroom.  But don’t be fooled!  As well as a bed, it contains a water cooler, refrigerator and microwave.  The bathroom is only five steps away.  Chains and bars there are not!  The evidence reveals the truth: Jennifer is a voluntary prisoner.

A tentative head peeks around the door.  “Jennifer?”

“Not now, Tegan.”  Jennifer’s eyes are fixed on the computer screen and her fingers are glued to the keyboard.  “I am in the zone.”

“Oh.”  Tegan closes the door quietly behind her.  She turns and bumps into her big sister Angela.

“I have to talk to Jennifer,” says Angela.

“Not now,” Tegan whispers significantly.  “Jennifer is in the zone.”
“Her and her zone,” Angela huffs.  “I need her to read me Elfquest.”

“You can’t go in there,” says Tegan.  “You don’t know what you’ll be walking into.”

Wise words indeed, for Jennifer is rarely herself when she is in the zone.  Who she is at these times is a question no non-fiction can answer.

Who she is outside the zone is a matter of opinion.

If there’s one thing we know for certain, it is that Jennifer has a big head.  She tries, while in the presence of others, to deflate it down to presentable size.  (She keeps numerous pins on hand for the task.)  Many would not believe this of her, as she hides her sinful pride so very, very well.

“Yeah,” she says to the politely inquisitive crowd.  “I’m re-writing the Animorph ending and I think people might kind of, sort of, maybe like it…a little.”

But when alone: “Man, I rock!  I rock so hard!  I’m gonna rock the world!”

These are her mental problems.  The physical ones are equally disturbing.

Jennifer has developed an apple problem.

“I forgot to eat breakfast!” she wails when questioned.  “Lunch ceased to exist!  Supper meant nothing to me!  I’ve been eating these apples all day.  We bought a big bulk bag.  I’ve eaten them all. And I need more!!!”

“Jennifer,” Her sister Angela leads the intervention.  “These apples are getting out of control.  You need to cut back.  Eat this melted cheese; it will save your soul.”

“I can’t!  I can’t!”  Jennifer wrings her hands and looks wildly about.  “I need to dance!  Play the Hoja CDs, loud, all over the house!  My inspiration is dying!”

“Because you need food,” says Angela, sternly.

“No!  I need music!”

It is concluded that Jennifer also has a Hoja problem.  It is her belief that this particular music has the power to drop inspiration on her head, provided she dances to it in an energetic and very inexpert manner.

She does so now.  In just a few songs: “I’ve got it!  I’ve got it!” and back to the laptop she goes.

Next come a few peaceful days in which the zone weaves in and out of Jennifer like a steadily sewing thread.  She is able to alternate between reality and fantasy on a more-or-less scheduled basis.

But while working at Arby’s that day, a strange laugh bursts from her for no apparent reason.

“It’s my head,” she explains.  “It was funny.  I don’t remember why.  You had to be there.”

And at home that night, in the middle of a perfectly sane conversation, while engaged in the dull and un-inspirational task of chopping carrots, Jennifer cries “I have a brilliant idea!” and runs from the room.  Consequently, she never finished telling us about—

Hello, this is the illustrator.  Jennifer has abandoned all life and reason and has locked herself in her room for two days now.  We’re not really sure what she’s eating.  We think she may have gnawed off her own arm.