Sometimes I wish editors required an extraneous fact sheet. Writers would have to include any random information encountered in their research, just for shits and giggles.
I just turned in a bread recipe (after twelve rounds of testing), and it makes me so sad that telling the editor my animal stories would be inappropriate. She’ll never know that my cat hopped onto the floured board and splashed little white pawprints all over the counter like a kid with fingerpaints on his feet when I wasn’t looking. The art director will never see how many times my dog licked the side of the loaf while I was taking its picture at hip height, where the best light was. (Anyone who says animals don’t know when they’re doing something wrong is lying.) No, four million people don’t need to make the mental connection between whole grain bread and Bromley’s tongue, but it was definitely part of the process.
I did get to turn in a photo of Bromley recently, though, because she was part of the story. She’s on the contributors’ page of Seattle Metropolitan‘s August issue, wearing a t-shirt, for chrissake. Now here’s a misunderstanding: whoever looks at this page might think I dress my dog up on a regular basis. It happened once. That one time. I promise.