I want to tell you a secret about my new book, We Are Not Eaten By Yaks.

It's autobiographical. It's about me.

I've never actually been thrown out of an airplane or battled an angry Yeti, but I thought of the idea while I was on a flight between Rangoon and Mumbai on the other side of the world, having my own accidental adventures. In Rangoon, the capital of Burma, thousands of red-robed monks were battling with hardened government soldiers, and I literally walked into the middle of it. There were peaceful protests and prayers and then there was chaos and violence. Within days, the government had sealed off the country, shut down the internet and scrambled all foreign television stations. No CNN. No Cartoon Network.

And I really missed it.

Even as things were going insane in the world around me, TV somehow made me feel safer. Even though I was having the adventure of a lifetime, all I wanted was to be curled up on the couch at home watching TV. I left Burma to go to India, where the festival of Ganesha was underway and millions of people were celebrating by lighting fireworks and throwing pink paint all over eac other. It was on that flight in Asia that I first imagined Oliver and Celia Navel, who are doomed to have a life of adventure, when all they want is peace and quiet. They aren't just some kids I made up. They're me. They're my friends and family. Not exactly, of course. I've thrown in a good chunk of daydreaming. And my sister isn't nearly as bossy as Celia.

Or so she tells me...