I finally stumbled on the reason why I am having trouble breaking into the writing market. It's not my irreverent written voice or my barely-passing knowledge of grammar, the staggering odds against me, or even my apparent lack of talent – I'm just a bad liar.

Fiction writers, in essence, lie for money. Neil Gaiman wrote about this fact and I praise his honesty (if not for the fact that he was clearly lying about it, by definition). I know that while I love reading, writing and dreaming fiction, I am a terrible liar and so I am doomed to fail. Grumble readers will note that nearly all my past articles are true. Oddly, wholly and tragically true. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried – hence, the problem.

My husband claims I am disgustingly "lawful good" and teases me about it mercilessly. (If you don't recognize that term, you have no business reading a geek-fest like this.) For example, if we are hiking in the woods which abuts a private property and there is a sign in the middle of absolutely nowhere proclaiming "No Trespassers," I will not go there. No matter if it is an abandoned, dilapidated shack with small sycamores growing out of it riddled with beer bottles and 1950s used car parts clearly being reclaimed by the local vegetation; I shall not put so much as a toe over the property line. I will not cross the double-yellow line on a completely empty road at midnight. I won't even cut across a lawn. It's just not right. Why do it? My husband rolls his eyes and will poke me repeatedly.

That's the crux of my problem. I want to spin yarns and tell tales and set light to my fanciful nature by gathering together a couple of bright ideas, blow on the spark of my creativity (and most likely set fire to my hair – check the staff picture!) and create something whimsical and marvelous or, at least, publishable. Unfortunately, I have a biographer's conscience with a spec-fic soul. Lawful good with chaotic evil tendencies do not mix.

A simple solution is to write non-fiction. Unfortunately, as is true here, my non-fiction smells suspiciously like fiction. I joked that the commercial by our armed forces that states, "If there was a book written about your life, would anybody want to read it?" to which I would answer: "Yes, but they'd put it in science fiction." Case in point: my own mother doubted my veracity until she'd witnessed one of my more recent episodes. Here it is:

My son was born with a suspected infection. The absolutely longest week of non-hilarity ensued while my husband and I spent the 24/7 hours by his bassinet-side, worrying about the possible cultures, new tests, blood draws, sites of spread, hospital regulations and our own slipping sanity and total lack of sleep. All of this angst set against whether or not the hospital had a room. Apparently, after 72 hours, we'd be discharged; however, our son would have to stay. I was assured that we could visit every day. I looked at these people, convinced that they were speaking English but unable to make any sense out of what they were saying. Leave? Leave my tired, sick, nursing infant with a shunt in his body behind in a hospital in another state...!? My husband and I simply looked at each member of the hospital they sent over and said, "We're staying."

And we did.

This compromise meant one of us could be allowed in the nursery at a time (or, more often, the darkened room next to the nursery) seated in a bare metal chair, beside the incubation cart – or all of us were wandering the halls of the maternity ward, pushing his wheeled plastic crib around and trailing a gurney piled with our week's worth of belongings. We were the Hospital Homeless. We slept in alcoves and in waiting rooms, in recently-abandoned birthing rooms and the ICU Family Visitor's Lounge. We squeezed into any nook or cranny they would let us while at least my husband or I were with him every single moment of a twenty-four hour day – from flushing shunts to blood draws to sleeping or washing – our boy was always with Mom or Dad, and the hospital staff grudgingly admitted they admired our dedication... almost as much as the chocolate truffles or doggy-bag dinners Hubby showered upon them at random intervals.

Seven days of shunts, IVs, medication, guilt, tears and sleeplessness later, we were allowed to leave (after a brief respite granted by an evacuation due to a bathroom fire on the first floor – another story entirely). Hubby and I were so relieved/exhausted/thrilled, we didn't even care that we were hopping into our car in freezing February nearing midnight to drive home to see our daughter and our mothers (who had kindly stayed for the week to care for her while we cared for our Baby Boy).

We packed everything into the car. Hooray! We're going home! We said our goodbyes, complete with cartoon history of our adventure for the nursing staff. Hooray! Baby Boy is okay! We drove away from the hospital, and all buildings associated, and crossed the state line. Hooray! We finally get to sleep in our own bed!

And that's when we lost control of the car.

Hubby was driving when there was a sort of noise (not a "bang" or a "click" or a "thunk," but it definitely caught our attention!) – he sat up straight at the wheel. I asked what was wrong. He said the car had just lost power. We were speeding down the highway at 70 mph in winter at night, sans engine. (The night before he had recently seen a reality TV special about how many cars get creamed on the side of a highway; he decided not to mention it. Smart man.) Bottom line: not a good scene.

Miraculously, he managed to ease the car off the road and we slid to a stop. We looked at the baby snuggled in his infant car seat. Then looked at each other. Then we burst out laughing. (What else could we do?) We flipped out our cell phones and called the police, the mothers and AAA – not in that order – and managed to get our son home, complete with police escort, in our second vehicle with the alternate car seat base.

Waiting in the car with my mom and my newborn baby as the police helped my husband get everything settled with the tow, my mother turned to me and said:

"I always thought your Grumble articles had a little bit of artistic license, but now I know they are all true."

Yes, they're all true, but no one believes me. And I'm a terrible liar.

I'm doomed.