The Backstory

SCBWI New York and Trivia Tuesday

2012-01-31T07:32:00.013-05:00

This past weekend was the "Lucky 13th" Annual SCBWI New York Winter Conference, so my questions for Trivia Tuesday, all have to do with Kidlit! And just for the fun of it, I will remove my "No Googling"rule today. Tomorrow I'll post the answers, with links!

1. Who is the awesome author/SCBWI Team Blogger/cupcake aficionado on the right?

2. Identify the author of the upcoming, One For the Murphys.

3. Name the Texas Sweetheart on the left

(there was a hidden clue in there!).

4. Name the illustrator/painter in this amazing retro photo:

And finally, not really a trivia question, but more of a polling question...This last photo is of a gentleman who sets up shop around the corner from my daughter's apartment. Who thinks we should get him to do, at the very least, a break-out session at the next conference?

And last, but not least, the answers to last week's trivia questions:

1. What was the name of Erica Kane's high school sweetheart on All My Children? Phil Brent.

2. Name the host of Hollywood Squares. Peter Marshall

3. How many choices were behind the wall on The Dating Game? 3

4. What was the name of the Brady Bunch's dog? Tiger

5. Who were the only two members of the Partridge Family who actually sang? Shirley Jones (Mom Partridge) and David Cassidy. The rest were pretty much Milli Vanilli.

Bonus: On what day was Jennifer Tompkins born? Sunday

Airplane Compliments: I'll Take 'Em Where I Can Get 'Em

2012-01-24T07:13:00.003-05:00

"Wow!" said BadBreathBusinessManNextToMeOnAirplane. "I've never seen anyone do a crossword that fast in my life! We haven't even taken off and you're almost finished!"

I nodded, trying to convey an expression of both humble thanks and uppity wisdom, quickly trying to cover up any part of the page that might say "People Magazine" on it.

That's right. I can finish the People Crossword puzzle in about seven minutes or less --even if there's an unknown rapper as the double-big-money word. (Five minutes, if the d-b-m is an aging soap star, game show host, or cheesy singer from the seventies or eighties.)

My brother, Tim, has this skill, too. We got it from our mother, a charter subscriber to People. She would punish us mercilessly if we did the crossword before her--extra tongue lashings if we did it in pen AND got the word wrong.

Anyway ... I digress. This is Trivia Tuesday, and my questions today have double (possibly, triple) value to you, the answerer. Not only will you have the possible satisfaction of getting these correct, you may also be able to use these in a future People crossword --or even a USA Today crossword.

Remember the NO-GOOGLING rule.

1. What was the name of Erica Kane's high school sweetheart on All My Children?

2. Name the host of Hollywood Squares.

3. How many choices were behind the wall on The Dating Game?

4. What was the name of the Brady Bunch's dog?

5. Who were the only two members of the Partridge Family who actually sang?

Bonus: On what day was Jennifer Tompkins born?

Medal Monday

2012-01-23T14:09:00.002-05:00

My friend, illustrator and storyteller extraordinaire, Mary Jo Scott, had no idea at the time, but she was handing me a National Book Award winner, and a Newbery Honor book. I'll read anything MJ recommends, so when she showed me INSIDE OUT AND BACK AGAIN by Thanhha Lai last summer, I went home and devoured it in one sitting.

The story and the writing are beautiful and poignant, but Thanhha Lai went so much further with her story. She pulled off what only the best of storytellers are able to do and made me (a middle-class, American-raised, mostly caucasian girl) identify with her main character, a Vietnamese refugee.

Maybe "identify" isn't really the best choice of words. The author made me remember my friend from high school, also a Vietnamese refugee. People treated her as if she was stupid and as if she didn't exist, because of her broken English and her second-hand clothing. But she ended up in my Physics class as my lab partner. I was working my tail off, trying to figure out the lab, and I so ignorantly discounted everything my lab partner was trying to contribute. She must have been getting frustrated, because I couldn't understand what she was trying to say. But she remained patient and polite.

It turned out that I was going about things completely wrong. Thank goodness I finally let her help me, because she truly saved us from failing the lab assignment. I can vividly remember our eyes meeting during that moment of realization! We couldn't stop laughing and we became friends after that. I still have the doll she gave me from Vietnam.

Oh, and it turned out she had lived in a French-speaking country briefly, after she fled Vietnam. So she was translating everything from Vietnamese --into French --and then into English.

Thanhha Lai: Congratulations on your well-deserved awards. And thank you for reminding us to read the beautifully written pages, and not just glance quickly at the cover.

Fiction Friday and ... Bewitched Trivia Revealed!

2012-01-20T07:45:00.003-05:00

First, the answers!

1. Where did Darrin and Samantha Stevens live? (1 point each for city and state; 5 bonus points for actual street address!)

Darrin and Samantha lived at 1164 Morning Glory Circle, in Westport, Connecticut.

2. What was Darrin Stevens' job?

Darrin (both Darrin #1 and Darrin #2!) worked in advertising. (By the way, did Darrin #2 really think that Samantha wouldn't notice that he and #1 had done a switcheroo on her?)

3. Name Darrin's place of employment. (Bonus point for city and state!)

Darrin worked in Manhattan for McMann and Tate.

4. What Hollywood Squares comedian played one of Samantha's relatives?

Paul Lynde played Samantha's Uncle Arthur.

5. What was forbidden in the Stevens household?

Witchcraft/magic, of all things (!), was forbidden in the Stevens household.

The best thing about putting these trivia questions out there, is that I often end up getting more facts to tuck away in those corners of my brain that should actually be housing more important things. Anyway--got a great add-on to this week's questions from my friend, School Psychologist Extraordinaire, Kristina. Kristina is from none other than the real Westport, CT, and actually lived by the actor who played Darrin's mother on the show. How cool is that? The closest I ever got to a Stevens was through the screen of my TV in my living room in Auburn, Washington.

Now, for you writers out there, on to the Fiction Friday part ...

Over the years, I've often gotten so devoted to my favorite TV characters, that I have wished, like Kristina, that I could go over to their house and hang out and play with their dogs--really get to know them.

It needs to be the same with my characters. I'm at the point in my WIP where I need to get to know them better. I need to sit down with them like they are my best friends (or my worst enemies!). If I sat down and watched TV with them, what would they laugh at? What would make them cry? What books would be on their bookshelves? What kind of snacks would they go get from the kitchen? Who would they pick for president? Board games or video games? Kickball or Dungeons and Dragons?

If I get to know my characters well enough, their stories will tell themselves.

Trivia Tuesday!

2012-01-17T14:07:00.003-05:00

I had so much fun with last week's questions, I decided to crank out a few more!

A little something for everyone today ... I've decided to do a Bewitched theme this time. It doesn't matter if you caught it first run during prime time, or if you tuned in to Nick at Nite.

But remember ... keep those googling thumbs free! And for those of you hard-core googlers with voice recognition: we will be having none of that. You must search the recesses of your technology-atrophied minds!

1. Where did Darrin and Samantha Stevens live? (1 point each for city and state; 5 bonus points for actual street address!)

2. What was Darrin Stevens' job?

3. Name Darrin's place of employment. (Bonus point for city and state!)

4. What Hollywood Squares comedian played one of Samantha's relatives?

5. What was forbidden in the Stevens household?

Stop by tomorrow for the answers!

Both of us. The same.

2012-01-15T14:00:00.006-05:00

We were twins. I knew she had noticed it, too, because she hugged her knees and smiled at me from across the floor.

Both of us. The same. White knee socks with red argyle diamonds. I loved those socks. My mom had bought them for my first day of kindergarten, and it was my first time wearing them.

Her name was Verna, and we knew we were best friends right from that first day at Pioneer Elementary. We sat next to each other any chance we could, and we scooted our rugs together at rest time. I remember she smelled like a combination of my backyard and our laundry basket. When we put our arms side by side, we smiled at how much tanner she was than me.

I was a walker, and an entire group of neighbor kids would make our way home together after morning kindergarten, people peeling off the group, one by one, on the way home. But on that first day of school my mom and my brother, Tim, came with the car to pick me up.

"That's my best friend!" I was so excited to spot Verna, walking all by herself, sticking close to the curb like her mother must have taught her.

She was walking in the opposite direction from my path home, and my mom pulled the station wagon over to offer her a ride.

Tim and I slid over to give her room and I can vividly remember her sitting forward on her seat, telling my mom how to get to her house.

My mom must have been surprised at how far Verna would have had to walk. Her house was all the way under the highway, and when we pulled up to let her out, I could see why her mom couldn't come to pick her up. Her car was in the middle of the front yard and it didn't have all of the wheels on it.

I was so excited to wear those socks again, and I couldn't wait for my mom to wash them. Verna wore hers again right away the very next day. And the next one after that. Finally, mine were ready to wear again, but this time I remember that Verna's looked dirtier than mine. I told my mom this when I got home, and she said that Verna's mom probably didn't have a washing machine. Not everyone on the reservation had running water.

I remember wanting my mom to wash those socks for her in our machine. But something kept me from offering. Even in kindergarten, Verna had a quiet pride about her.

We used to trade sweaters sometimes on the playground. Hers was thicker, and it had better cushioning when we wrapped them around the bottom rungs of the money bars, each throwing one diamond-socked leg over, and hooking our arms in place to twirl.

I wish I still had those argyle socks -- and a friend like Verna.

My Secret Confession

2012-01-12T15:02:00.006-05:00

I have a secret confession to make. I love Batman. I always have.

I'm not talking about a secret crush on Adam West or Val Kilmer, or even my old E.R. heartthrob, George Clooney.

I'm talking about the comics and the TV show with the caped crusader, the Batmobile, Gotham City, and of course ... the Bat Cave. Oh how I longed to be a fly on the wall of Wayne Manor.

The show started on this day in 1966, and TV has never been the same for me. Never since have my brother, Tim, and I gone to the lengths we went to for any other TV show. We risked life, limb and reputation for our love of that show.

Even though Batman was my favorite, my brother and I were equal opportunity superheroes, and we also gave Superman and Batgirl some air time in the back yard and in the vacant lot next door.

I think I still have shoulder scars from the safety pins that held my cape. My mother was constantly missing her best towels and scarves. There are probably still bits of gravel in my knees from jumping off the backyard fence and the picnic table with my cape.

I'm pretty sure that Super 8 footage still exists of some of my brother's flying leaps. We used to beg my dad to run the projector backwards, and there's nothing like a dive from the top of the swing set in slo-mo.

I loved the power and freedom that I felt when I got a good sprint going and my cape snapped in the wind behind me. And I'd still take Batman's utility belt over my cell phone any day.

Now I need to go do some yoga stretches or something. I've got to stop jumping into my Honda like it's the Batmobile. But I'll be back tomorrow. Same bat time. Same bat channel.

Answers for Trivia Tuesday!

2012-01-11T16:16:00.003-05:00

I have to say that the answers people gave to the Trivia Questions were probably better than the actual answers--definitely more entertaining! Thank you for playing! I am already hard at work coming up with next week's questions.

Here are the answers:

1. When is David Cassidy's birthday?

April 12

2. Name two possible desserts in a Swanson's TV dinner from the sixties and/or seventies.

Brownie, apple crisp, apple cake cobbler, and I think there was one with cherry cobbler--yum!

3. What was the first of the Nancy Drew books?

THE SECRET OF THE OLD CLOCK

4. From where did Kurt Cobain hail?

Aberdeen, Washington (Same as my dad!)

5. (Bonus): What was the first line of ARE YOU THERE GOD? IT'S ME, MARGARET.?

"Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret."

My Secret Talent

2012-01-10T09:20:00.004-05:00

It's true. I have a secret talent. It runs in my family, and it's ... a flair for useless trivia.

I can't remember fifty percent of my shopping list, nor do I remember my kids' names on a consistent basis. But I can remember exactly what was in a Swanson's fried chicken TV dinner, circa 1969.

I've had this ever since I could remember. I could be tearing my hair out, trying to remember an algebraic formula, while quite easily pulling David Cassidy's birthday out of the card catalog of my mind.

It's not a particularly useful trait to have ... unless I happen to get a hankering to overthrow Alex Trebek.

So in honor of my useless talent, I am making this Trivia Tuesday. There are no prizes, other than the distinct satisfaction or discovery that you may also have this admirable hidden talent.

Here goes ... oh wait--no using The Google or other such cheater pants methods. Your answers have to be pulled out of the deep twists and turns of your own brain. You can put your answers in the comment section--but no reading the answers of others before you reply!

1. When is David Cassidy's birthday? (You didn't think I was going to leave that one out, did you?)

2. Name two possible desserts in a Swanson's TV dinner from the sixties and/or seventies.

3. What was the first of the Nancy Drew books?

4. From where did Kurt Cobain hail?

5. (Bonus): What was the first line of ARE YOU THERE GOD? IT'S ME, MARGARET.?

And: Get your mouse off the Google button, Cheater McCheatsley. (You know who you are!) I'll post the answers tomorrow.

I Didn't Really See That ... Did I??

2012-01-08T17:04:00.007-05:00

I didn't really see that ... did I??

It was around 10:30 this morning, and Daughter #2 and I were on our way to church. We were on the freeway when a car came up next to us in the left lane. He was staying right with us, side by side, and he almost seemed too close--as if he was in my personal space. I don't know why, but that's always a little unnerving to me, like when someone steps up too close to you in the grocery store check-out line.

Then I caught something else out of the corner of my eye--a brown bottle that he kept tipping up to his mouth. Was that a beer that he was drinking for breakfast?

Daughter #2 leaned forward to look around me and nodded her head emphatically. "Yep, it looks like it." She whipped out her ever-present cell phone. "Want me to call 9-1-1?"

I've always taught my first graders and my own kids not to tattle. I don't want to hear about it unless someone's bleeding or in danger, I always say.

I also like to give someone the benefit of the doubt. "Maybe it's just a soda that looks like beer," I said.

Daughter #2 nodded, but skeptically this time. "Like a root beer."

"Uh oh." I hung back and let him get ahead of me. "Is he weaving?"

Daughter #2, ever the voice of reason, followed the car with her eyes as it went slowly side to side, from the shoulder and back to the center line. "Looks like it."

As soon as she tapped in the numbers on her phone, I felt a sense of relief.

"Making that call could have saved someone's life, I told her."

Sure, maybe we got a perfectly innocent Sunday morning root beer drinker pulled over, and at the very most, cost him ten minutes of his day. But I was at peace with my tattling.

Where Was She Going?

2012-01-06T07:43:00.000-05:00

New Year's Day was packed at the soup kitchen. Not one table was empty. Every time I looked up from the tray of Sloppy Joes in the steam table, the line seemed to get longer. It was cold outside, and a couple of my friends were giving out winter gloves.

I barely had time to pause, and I had to remind myself to make eye contact. My friend, Phyllis, a Dominican Sister, once told me something that is so important relating to human worth and dignity. Many people out on their own, homeless or transient, haven't heard their own name in a long time. I didn't have time to use names or to even stop the line to chat, but I could definitely exchange greetings and make eye contact.

I had stepped back to let someone refill my Sloppy Joes when I saw them. A mother and a father and a little boy of about two. They were dragging over the high chair and the little boy's smile was as wide as his face. He was thrilled to be there. I ran to fill his sippy cup with some milk, wondering how long it had been since he'd had some. Milk is expensive.

One of the people who helps run the soup kitchen was watching from off to the side of the room. Watching with an accusing eye, to make sure I wasn't giving them something extra. Which made me want to give them all the more. We're not supposed to give out any containers, in case someone wants to take something "to go". But it's not my fault if I happen to drop a sheet of foil as I'm passing a table. I can sort of understand the supervisor's jadedness. He's been burned by the desperate few who are looking to take advantage to get ahead. But today I wasn't playing by his rules. Our church had purchased, prepared and served the food, and if I wanted to give out ten Sloppy Joes per customer, I was going to do it.

There is almost always someone out of the crowd who makes me stop short. This time it was a young woman. It looked as if she had arrived alone, and she stood about a half a step back from the silverware and green plastic trays at the beginning of the line. It wasn't so easy to make eye contact with her, because her eyes were veiled with the hazy cloud of her addiction. My husband asked her how many Sloppy Joes she wanted and she took so long to answer, he had to ask again. Her hair was dirty and her hands were shaking as she took her plate.

I couldn't stop thinking about her. Did she have anyone who cared where she slept, and how had her life gotten to where it was?

I looked for her later, but couldn't spot her in the crowded, noisy room. She was still on my mind as I cleaned up and rounded up my family, driving home in my warm car.

Why Are You So Scared??

2011-11-28T06:46:00.000-05:00

Many thanks to Penny, who made me experience waves of heavy guilt for neglecting The Backstory for so long. Actually, Penny, I have a good excuse ... I was writing millions of words for my latest WorkInProgress. I have been doing my own version of NaNoWriMo, I like to call: WriteAsMuchAsYouPossiblyCanAndAttemptToStayOffOfFacebookAndTwitter.

Getting the work done can be daunting for a lot of reasons. But I have decided that the biggest reason has got to be fear. Not the DougCleggDeanKoontzStephenKing-imposed kind of fear. I'm talking about the scaredy-pants kind that is much more terrifying, and comes in a variety of shape-shifting forms.

Writer fears tend to multiply because you have time to sit back on your WriterCouch and let those anxieties swirl about and fester. These can develop into bonafide nightmares.

You have to refuse to let these paralyze your writer selves. I will address some of the most common ones.

One of my favorites is Fear

of Becoming the Crazy Cat Lady. That's a very real fear; I know this from personal experience, because I have been called that by various family members. Writing means you are left alone for hours at a time with no human conversation. But this can actually work in your favor. My cat is awesome. He lets me read my WIP out loud to him and he doesn't check his text messages. Sometimes he even sticks around for the whole chapter.

Another common one is fear of never finishing your manuscript, or worse ... only being able to finish it in TwitterSpeak, which basically amounts to pages of disjointed paragraphs of 140 characters or less. Show up to your WriterCouch. Punch the time clock. It'll get done.

Yet another one that is so unbearable to many writers and would-be writers that it is often uttered no louder than a faint whisper: FearThatSomeoneWillStealMyIdea. Sadly, there are those who find plagiarism to be an acceptable form of behavior/sport. But unless there is some really cool X-Files Mind Feed thing going on, and unless you are actually tweeting your 140 character paragraphs, nobody is going to steal your story. And nobody can ever steal your Voice. It's your writer fingerprint. It's impossible. And as far as I know, Milli Vanilli is long gone, or in some abandoned cave somewhere being forced to listen to a continuous loop of one-hit wonders.

So ... put down that People Magazine crossword, open up that laptop, and punch that time card. Write that book. You. Can. Do. It.

What is your biggest writer fear? Put it in the comment section, and I will round up some of my FabulousWriterFriends to help you chase them away.

I Dare You

2011-09-30T07:06:00.000-04:00

My mom and dad taught my brothers and me to love and value books. They read to us, even after we could read by ourselves. We talked about books. We quoted great lines from books. We went to the library once a week.

Oh no, you're probably thinking. They probably ate wheat germ and lived twenty miles down a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.

Um ... no. We ate Hamburger Helper and ate Kool-aid popsicles, lived in suburbia, and watched plenty of TV, including some heavy doses of All My Children. We could tell you about the latest Pop Tart flavor, what was happening to Erica Kane, and who Marcia Brady's latest crush was.

But we also read. And the best part of it all, was we were allowed to choose our own books. If my brother, Tom, wanted to delve into a little history and memorize all of the presidents in order (at around age six), my parents didn't judge. If Tim wanted to check out six books on football, my mom helped him carry them to the car. And when I wanted to read a book by an author whose work was being challenged, my mom helped me find the book. Some places weren't allowing Judy Blume on their shelves. But my mom made sure to get her books in my hands.

We learned to hear what others had to say. We learned to listen, before we spoke.

It is Banned Books Week. Many of the books that have been challenged over the years are from people who haven't even taken the time to read the book in its entirety. They often take a word or a phrase out of context and decide that nobody else should read the book.

I can't think of anything more terrifying than if book banners ruled the world. What if we'd never been able to see Alice fall down the rabbit hole? What if we'd never been able to Go Ask Alice? What if Alice Walker had never been able to tell us Celie's story?

Go read a little Judy Blume. Go listen to Allen Ginsberg howl. Go read about Scout and Atticus and Boo Radley. Go get a little Annie on your mind.

I dare you.

Mad Men Me, Please

2011-08-30T07:26:00.000-04:00

Why did you let me wear that? I can remember asking my mom that question several years after the purple eyeshadow fiasco of my seventh grade year.

She gave a nonchalant laugh. It was in style.

But not the way I applied it. I didn't wear any other makeup, besides Bonnie Bell Dr. Pepper Lipsmacker, so there was nothing to offset that thick stripe of chalky purple.

The eyeshadow,

itself looked like a large, wind-up purple crayon, and I passed it around to share with my friends in front of my locker. I can vividly remember having made one too many applications of the purple mess, and feeling my eyelid actually stick and catch for a second on the skin under my eyebrow.

I had many sad fashion mishaps, where my kindly mother just looked the other way.

A couple of them ended up in class pictures ... like the one-piece floral romper, paired with unfortunate bangs, and finished off with scuffed up orthopedic-strength saddle shoes. But in my own defense, I hated those saddle shoes with a passion. I got my sting-ray going full speed

down sixteenth street and used the toes for brakes, hoping and praying that my mom would buy me new ones. But she'd just hum a jaunty little tune and apply a couple more coats of beige shoe polish. Those things could withstand a nuclear war.

Two years later, I moved up to the suede version of my saddle shoes, and my fashion

forward mom made me the mini dress which had the potential for awesomeness, but ... the hair ... Marcia Brady gone very wrong. And then I had to go and accentuate the ensemble with the thick orange yarn ribbons and the brown stop sign glasses.

Ten years later, you would have thought I would have learned. Or at least

gleaned some of my mother's fashion sense. But I'm pretty sure some synthetic animal

died for this sweater. And

no matter what anyone tells you ...

a mullet is never the right answer for a new

hairdo.

How could someone who dresses like this:

have a mother who dressed all amazing and Mad Men like this?

Sadly, I'm starting to worry that I take more after the Joad side of the family.

Thanks, Great-Grandma. You could write like there was no tomorrow, but I'm concerned about the accessories.

Book Nerd Anxiety

2011-08-25T07:05:00.000-04:00

You may have played the game before. It has several variations on the theme: What's the worst thing you've ever eaten? What's the scariest thing you've ever seen? What's your most embarrassing outfit from high school?

Writers love to play this game. It can get really creative and cut-throat, so much more than your average game of Scrabble or Mystery Date.

The last time I played that game was with a group of writers at a conference. Someone asked, If you could only have one book of fiction to read, what would it be?

This created a stressful anxiety cloud over the group. Nobody wanted to be the one to answer first, and the game just fizzled out. I'm pretty sure it was because that question created Book Nerd Anxiety. It's not difficult to raise the anxiety level of a book nerd. All you have to do is to make them recall how they felt when they'd finished all of their library books on Monday and their mom wasn't due to take them back to the library until Wednesday. Noooo!!! My heart is racing just thinking about it. I couldn't re-read one of my Nancy Drews. It just wasn't done! Once I already knew the secret of the old clock or I'd discovered the clue of the tapping heels, it was past news. There is nothing that has lost its magic more than an already-read pile of library books!

I was at Defcon 12 with my book nerd anxiety this week. I was in the Azores on vacation with my family. My husband's parents are from there; it's a group of island off the coast of Portugal and everyone speaks Portuguese. All I can say is yes and no, and a mangled version of thank you. You may see where I'm headed with this ... all the books are in Portuguese.

And I had read all of the books that I had brought. In case you haven't yet grasped the gravity of the situation, I'll say it another way. I. WAS. ALL. OUT. OF. BOOKS.

There was rumored to be a little cafe/coffee shop on the Air Force base on the island, and my husband wanted to go check it out. The thing is, we almost didn't stay, because there was a little boy using a dead cockroach as a soccer ball. I almost didn't discover the magazine rack on the back wall. The magazines were worse than the doctor's office variety, the most recent being from 2010. Just when I was going to resign myself to reading seventy-five different ways to make a chicken casserole, I saw it. It was a bookshelf. A bookshelf full of paperbacks. I could have imagined it, but I was pretty sure there was one of those misty, glowing lights surrounding it.

Before we left the Air Force base, I made my husband go back to that coffee shop. I was on a mission. I had one of the paperbacks that I had brought with me on the trip; the one I had finished reading that morning. I put it in a prominent location on the bookshelf and left. The whole way to the airport, I imagined someone discovering it. Someone who had run out of books to read. It made me nerdily happy.

In Which We Have a Family Vacation in the Logan Airport and I Try to Get Arrested

2011-08-16T11:36:00.000-04:00

I think I'm starting to hallucinate. I've had about two and a half hours of sleep. I thought I was going to a little island, in the middle of the Atlantic, off the coast of Portugal. Sounds amazing, right?

But the closest I've gotten is some angry people speaking Portuguese in the middle of Logan Airport.

Our plane is supposedly broken, so a ten o'clock in the evening departure ( last night), turned into a 3:00 a.m. departure, which turned into a 10:00 a.m. departure...which turned into me still here at the airport longing for my Tempur-pedic and making u

p things to do in Terminal E.

I could eavesdrop for ideas for my novel, but that would require my husband to translate for me, and he is, quite frankly, undependable. Portuguese was his first language, and he should have no trouble translating conversations fro

m the homeland, but my husband has been known to tell a few stories, himself.

Which brings me to my new favorite game I like to call, "Will They Arrest Me If? There's still time to join the game--so come on down to Terminal E. Here's what you've missed so far...

My daughter is trying to round up an elderly Portuguese man in a hat to flash mob with her, and she is now planking around the terminal. She'll either get arrested, or end up on You Tube.

I've moved all my stuff to the luggage belt at the check-in counter. They won't give me my luggage back (it's still on the broken plane), so I've made myself comfortable--comfortable enough to take a nap, if they turn off the don't-watch-anyone-else's bags warning and the canned music.

As soon as they open the Duty-Free shop, I'm going to figure out how many perfume and lotion samples I need to apply, before the family of twelve feels the need to vacate their pri

me bench location next to me.

Face it, spend a little sleep-deprived time in the airport and the world is your oyster. It's lunch time on day two and I think I'll go a little crazy and live a little. I'm going to have one of those eight pound Toblerone bars from the Duty-Free. It might cost me a couple hundred, but it'll be worth it.

The One-Up and the P Word

2011-08-04T07:48:00.000-04:00

So I'll admit it...I've been known to eavesdrop. But it's okay--I'm a professional. It's part of the job description. Writers have to write authentic, believable dialogue, right? Yesterday, at the soccer field, was a perfect opportunity. At first I thought there was a fight breaking out. But I soon realized it was merely a "one-up". Here is how it went:

Five-year-old #1: "He's Mr. Big Ears!"

Five-year-old #2: "He's Mr. Big Ears Poopy!"

Five-year-old #1 (Determined not to lose): "He's Mr. Big Ears Poopy Head!"

Five-year-old #2 was unable to respond, because he was laughing uncontrollably when the P word came out. He was also looking nervously, and a little frantically over his shoulder for his mom.

There are definite rules and specific game strategies for the one-up. You have less than a second to respond--any delay in action and you forfeit to the other player(s).

If the one-up is of the insult variety, the player has to make sure they drum up the worst word possible, while staying in the safe realm of the Webster's dictionary (the one that sits on the big podium in the library--no online pseduo-dictionary words allowed.) Also, if a parent is within earshot, said word must be strong enough to only get you in the minimum amount of trouble--say, a knock-it-off look from yours, or someone else's parent. (The five-year-olds at the soccer field were definitely riding the line on that one. The P word is not one to be used lightly.)

If the one-up is of the I'm-cooler-than-you variety, player has to make sure they toss out something sort of believable, but not too over the top. If you're not sure what I'm talking about here, just listen in on a conversation between a few of the dads at the soccer field. I'm not talking about the nice, mild-mannered Dads shouting out, "Good job!" from the sidelines. The ones I'm referring to are easy to find. They're standing so close to the sidelines, no one can see past them. They are multi-tasking--carrying on their one-up while barking out "coaching" tips from the sidelines, and offering up friendly advice to the refs. You'll also be able to spot them by clothing. They may have come to the field right from work, but they managed to do a quick change into their soccer shorts from high school, so as to appear more professional in their one-upping and sideline coaching. Unfortunately, they are sometimes still wearing their work socks and shoes.

In case you are still foggy about this kind of one-up, I'll provide an example. We'll use a high school aged girls' soccer game as the setting:

Dad #1 (He toes the sideline and pushes his shorts down a little, because his post-post high school waistline is pressing at the waning elastic. ): "My daughter's looking pretty good out there. She's only a freshman, but as soon as the coach

learns her last name, she'll be off the end of that bench and starting."

Dad #2 (Quick nod, which is the equivalent of the oh, yeah?): I don't think you were here yet, but did you see my daughter at the warm-up? She was really moving that ball. I saw the coach looking at me when she was sprinting up the field. He probably heard about my game back in '87.

Unfortunately, Dad #1 lost by forfeit. He was unable to go on, because Five-year-old #1 chucked a Nerf ball from behind and he was doubled over with a hamstring injury.

Five-year-old #2 clinched the competition when he pointed at Dad #1 saying, "He's Mr. Big Mouth Poopy."

Blood, Frogs, and the Wicked Witch of the West

2011-06-19T10:11:00.000-04:00

It was dark out there. There were shadows shaped like the wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz--in fact, I was dead sure I saw her riding her bike in the air past my window. Who could sleep with all that going on outside?

But he was patient and reassuring and even though I clung to him like I was being sucked under the pull of a rushing river, my dad took me outside. "See?" He pointed at our little tree in the front yard--the one that had transformed into the gnarled tree in the Wizard of Oz. "It's just our tree. It's the same as in the daytime." He pointed out everything in the yard and waited for me to stop shaking.

He killed the wasps that had stung my brother and me in the backyard of our new house, going in like a superhero to get rid of the nest. My brothers and I watched from behind the safety of the sliding glass door.

A lot of the other dads in the neighborhood worked at Boeing, with nothing very interesting to share, and they mowed their lawns in embarrassing outfits. My dad changed the oil in the car in his old Air Force pants and a pair of his old wingtip dress shoes. But he brought home amazing things from work--like the frog from his biology lab at the high school. Nobody else in the neighborhood got to dissect a frog or type their blood on the kitchen table.

He laughed when I practiced forging his distinctive signature.

He'd listen to entire plots from the Nancy Drew book I was reading and make funny comments. Even now, he'll listen to entire chapters of a book I'm working on, over the phone, from 3,000 miles away.

He got me a coveted spot on a soccer team, taught me the rules, and acted like I was good, even though everybody knew I sucked.

He taught me to appreciate what you have, to treat people with kindness, to share with others that don't have what you do,

and to never forget your sense of humor.

He taught me the importance of the written word, whether you are reading it, or writing it, yourself.

I love you, Dad! Happy Father's Day!

Sneaky Kicks, NPR and the Sharp Scissors

2011-06-18T08:20:00.000-04:00

There's nothing like a fight between siblings. My legs were skinny and poky and spindly when I was nine. Perfect weapons. My brother, Tim, was eight, and I'd wait to strike. I'd wait until he was watching TV--preferably a commercial, because that's when he was most engaged. Then I'd move in for the kick. It was a basic karate front kick, and it was delivered sharp and fast. Even though it seemed as if there was some planning involved, I never quite thought it all the way through. Because then it played out like a grade B horror flick. I'd run for the bathroom and lock the door. Really dumb, because you didn't have to be MacGyver to pick the lock in our bathroom. And there was no alternate escape route.

Sometimes I think our parents would wait to intervene, probably knowing I deserved what I got. But eventually they would step in. Our older brother, Tom, would scoff at us and tell us we were stupid-- or give Tim fighting tips.

Then there would be a cool down period and we'd be friends again.

It was worth it to be nice to my brother, because he was so much fun to play with. He's the type of person who can invent and create and imagine right on the spot. We made up an entire TV variety show in our backyard once, complete with opening theme song.

One thing that I know Tim and Tom and I shared, without a doubt, was the love of art, including music and writing, because our parents always provided musical instruments, sketch pads, special markers, and writing paper. They let us use the sharp scissors.

So now as twentysomething adults (okay

, twentysomething plus a little), the fighting has gone by the wayside, and we all still play music and draw and write. Hear from Tim today in his NPR interview at KUOW in Seattle!

You can listen here: http://kuow.org/program.php?id=23724

And in honor of Father's Day, you can hear him read a very funny essay from his blog, Reflections of a Shallow Pond, on another NPR station, KPLU, where he publicly lambastes me for all of those nasty surprise kicks when I was nine--just kidding--he probably should, but he doesn't:

http://kplu.org/post/navigating-tweendom-dads-tale

Band-aids, Throw-up, and Ghost Stories: Who Doesn't Live for a Little Good Conversation?

2011-06-13T06:03:00.000-04:00

Her eyes got wide and she leaned forward so I could feel her breath on my arm. "It's a true story, Mrs. Leal! It's really true!"

We were reading good old HENRY AND MUDGE, and Henry, the boy in the story, was scared. We could see him cowering in a corner of the room. Why, you might ask? Because Henry's mother loves to tell ghost stories on Halloween, and Henry's mother thinks he loves them, too...so she tells him a headless horseman-type story.

As my reader reads aloud the story-within-a-story, she nods, emphatically. "It DID happen, Mrs. Leal. That guy without a head? It happened in the nineties. You weren't born, yet. But my grandma was." Then she sat back in her chair, a satisfied smile on her face. She had just shared a valuable piece of information with me.

I also had a self-satisfied smile on my face, because I realized I was a much better story teller than I thought I was. All those times when they asked me how old I was? I responded, "23," of course. (...depending on the day; sometimes I am 28.) So she was off a little on her math...double digits don't come into the first grade curriculum until late spring.

As I'm writing my end-of-the-year report cards, I always do it with a little sadness, because I realize they are moving on. I think about the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding: "Why you want to leave me?"

So I thought I would relay a few quotes that show what truly awesome little beings first graders are...

They are generous...well, most of the time...it usually means they don't want whatever it is anymore:

"Mrs. Leal? I have a cookie, and I only ate a little bit of it. I could give you half."

They are brutally honest:

"Mrs. Leal? Usually, when I swing this high, I get throw-up in my mouth."

And my favorite from last week:

A girl is proudly holding up the tooth she just lost and a boy next to her says, "Is that old?" She shakes her head and says, "It's yellow, because I didn't brush it last year. I got an electric toothbrush. I'm going to brush it tonight."

They often get sidetracked:

"Mrs. Leal? I wish I lived here. Each classroom would be someone's house, and I would watch the (security) cameras all day. (Pause) Who watches the cameras at night? A robot?"

They are incredibly intuitive:

(A boy was commenting on a fight that had just broken out next to him.) "They just need to be by themselves. They need a vacation from each other."

They are terrible liars (most of them):

"I didn't mean to pee on the wall." (Truly, I did not made this up.) "I just had to go real bad."

First grade is not for the squeamish. There is blood, Band-aids, throw-up, and the occasional missed urinal. But it is worth every minute of it.

Say What You Want

2011-04-05T06:47:00.000-04:00

I've decided that when I get old, I'm going to say whatever I want. I haven't decided exactly when that will be yet -- if it will be a magic age or a particular date... maybe I'll just be at the grocery store one day and my filter will suddenly be gone.

I'll make loud comments about the contents of the shopper's cart behind me. Should you really be buying all of that full fat ice cream? I'll say. And when I see that person's kids running all over the place and climbing on the candy racks, I'll make a public critique of their parenting skills.

Those will be the days. I can't wait.

There's something incredibly freeing about not caring what anyone thinks. Everyone should be like my first graders. They're never worried about the public opinion. They know they're awesome, and they often make grand announcements for all to hear.

One of the girls in my class came back to the reading table. She pulled her chair out, sat down with style and said, "I'm speaking English today. I like English." (I feel the need to point out that English is her first and only language...)

Later on in reading groups, we were reading a story about animals. One of the boys stopped reading and tapped the page with a baby lion. "Baby lions," he said, as if he was making a mental note. "I've gotta get me one of these..."

One of my first grade girls is the third of three sisters who have all been in my class, and they have all had great things to say. As I was passing her desk, I heard her tell her neighbor, "We're not doing math today. It's too distracting." I've decided to use that handy statement whenever I can at home...I'm not making dinner tonight. It's too distracting. I'm not vacuuming anymore. It's too distracting...

One of my all time favorite first grade quotes was from last year. A boy said, "Mrs. Leal, I'm really tired today. I got up at 5:08 a.m.!" Really? I said. That's awfully early. He looked at me like I was missing brain cells and said, "Wizards have to get up early." I passed the same boy a few days ago when he was talking to one of his classmates. He was saying, "I can walk through walls."

The thing is, that kid has so much self confidence, I don't think I would have been surprised to see him do it.

So go ahead. Let your inside voice come out. It'll feel great.

Can't we all just play nice?

2011-01-25T08:18:00.000-05:00

I don't usually get too political in my blog posts. Sarcastic? Maybe. But I usually leave the politics to those who are so in the know and passionate about the issues, that they can't help but make their voices known.

Today, however, I just had to say something. President Obama is giving his State of the Union tonight. Nothing unusual. But tonight they're making the Lefties and the Righties sit together...horror upon horrors!

I'm thinking about all of the kids over the years who would have rather sat by their friends in my class, but who were MATURE enough as FIRST GRADERS to sit with someone who was not their closest friend and to--again horror upon horrors--get along quite nicely!

No, they might not like the way the other guy always hoards the cool wheel accessories for the Legos. And they might be disgusted with the way the other girl always picks her nose and wipes it under her desk. But they get along anyway.

Okay, I'm done.

Wait...one more thing...how many of them do you think will show up with notes from their mommies tonight, so they can sit where they want?

Betty Crocker is Politely Making Me Nervous

2011-01-18T09:31:00.000-05:00

I inherited my grandma's old Betty Crocker New Picture Cook Book circa 1961.

I love this cook book, because it doesn't make me take out the lard or the sugar or any of the white flour in any of my recipes. Go ahead, it

seems to tell me. Deep fat fry away. And while you're at it, double the portions. You need to put some meat on your bones. (Right now I'm picturing Jillian Michaels, outside my door, ready to whack me over the head with some kettle bells and take a torch to my fabulous book.)

I just realized that in the years that I've had this great collection of recipes, I have grossly neglected the section on page 5, "Kitchen Know Hows: Hints for the Homemaker". All of this time, I could have been starting my day off in a calm and organized manner, as outlined in the section, "Refresh your spirits":

"...Every morning before breakfast, comb hair, apply makeup and a dash of cologne. Does wonders for your morale and your family's, too!"

As I look down at the espresso and and mocha-stained dribble on my bathrobe and my Christmas-themed footies, I realize I could have been looking like this:

When sadly, I have been looking more like:

or this:

I am perking up a bit, because as I read on, I realize there's still time. Betty tells me to "have a hobby. Garden, paint pictures, look through magazines for home planning ideas, read a good book or attend club meetings. Be interested--and you'll be interesting!" But I'm also feeling the anxiety creeping up, because I'm not so sure Betty would approve of what goes on at my book club meetings.

Betty then says, "if you have a spare moment, sit down, close your eyes and just relax." Betty. Really? How can I possibly sit down, when you just told me in the previous section to

"plan ahead". You just told me to "make several cakes, pies, cookies, main dishes or sandwiches at a time and freeze some for future use."

Luckily, I can hear my grandma's voice drowning out Betty. My grandma just hit Betty over the head with one of Jillian's kettle bells. Betty's now knocked out cold next to her deep freeze and my grandma's telling me to put my bathrobe on and get back to my writing. I had always wondered why the spine

was torn off of that cookbook...

When All Else Fails, Write About Star Wars

2011-01-08T17:01:00.000-05:00

I might have to start taking writing tips from my first graders. They have no anxiety at all about the writing process. They're not worried about bad reviews, and their stomachs don't get tied up in gassy knots when they have a plot problem.

First graders merely put their little bottoms in their chairs (or hovering in the vicinity) and apply the pencil to the paper. They're not afraid to take chances with their writing and go beyond their comfort zones, because, quite frankly, as long as Mom or Dad has remembered to drop the good fruit snacks into the lunch bag, nothing ever gets that uncomfortable.

If a six-year-old wants to kill off a main character (or laser them to smithereens), he or she just makes it happen. They never have any trouble with story endings, either. When they decide it's time to end the story, they just have everyone go home.

There's no worry there that they'll repeat the plot of another author, either. In fact, if it's good enough to happen to Sponge Bob, it's good enough to happen to their main character.

First graders also have figured out that no character is ever totally bad, or completely good. There's a very blurry line between the heroic status/behavior of Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader.

I'm going to start the new year off right, and look to my small students for writing advice. I'm going to relax, eat snacks, hover my butt in the vicinity of my chair, and let the words flow. Because if all else fails, I can write literally pages about my Jedi friends.

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Karen Haney over at Bookin' With "BINGO" has just posted a review and GIVEAWAY of A FINDERS-KEEPERS PLACE. Click HERE to enter! Thanks, Karen!

Isn't that just a story waiting to happen?

2010-11-15T06:22:00.000-05:00

Even if you weren't a writer, wouldn't this picture make you want to grab the nearest writing utensil and get down a story? Once again, I was venturing where I really wasn't invited...but there wasn't anyone there to invite me onto the property...or was there??

Luckily, I have a good friend, Doug, who happens to be a horror writer, and who gladly agrees to stop for pictures such as these. It was going to be a quick photo, so he stayed in the car. I realized later, he was just using the time to drum up material to scare me. I got back in the car and he said, "It was just like Rear Window. I think I saw someone looking out of that top window at you..." He said it calmly and matter-of-factly,

which reminded me of one of the reasons he's such a good writer. It was a little tidbit...just enough to get the hair on your arms standing up.

I would like to show a full picture of the house, but then you might see the sign that was un-inviting me onto the property...

When I looked at the picture on my camera later, I realized it was straight out of my friend's newly re-released novel, NEVERLAND. I was right in the middle of reading it, and it was as if part of the setting had popped right out of the book at us.

Here's another picture just begging for me to tell its story.

I love anything that is unlikely, like something inside that should be outside, or vice versa. I am also completely inspired by anything that is broken down and decrepit. It makes me wonder what went on there, who lived there, and what their story was.

Doug and I are going to be talking about story, etc. on Wednesday, November 17 at 7:00 at the Groton Public Library in Groton, Connecticut. If you are in the area, we'd love to have you stop by. We are both going to have some fun give-aways, so I hope to see you there!

Ahead of Her Time

2010-11-13T17:08:00.000-05:00

She couldn't carry a tune, but she sang out loudly and proudly. Her singing voice may have been off-key, but I could listen to her talk forever. I can still hear the rhythm of her voice as she recited a poem for me.

My grandma always had all the time in the world for me, and she answered every one of my annoying kid questions, happily and patiently. She was an object of fascination. She would take her false teeth out on command, and she'd hold them out and up close so my brothers and I could get a good look.

I remember waiting for her train to come in. I would stand next to the platform with my mom and my brothers, straining to hear a hint of her arrival. Her arthritis was bad, and the train conductor would have to help her down the clanging metal steps. I can still picture her black t-strap shoes as they appeared on the bottom step.

The pain from her arthritis must have been excruciating at times, but she always smiled through it. It took her several tries to get up from her chair. I would stand next to her, and rock back and forth, encouraging her to make it to a full standing position. Then we'd both cheer when she was upright.

She was born without the fingers on her left hand, but she wore no prosthesis. She used to say she could do anything except pound a nail. I loved how that hand felt in mine. It was just the right size to fit in my little-girl hand.

She was strong when most people would have given up. She taught in a one-room schoolhouse in the late 1920s, early 1930s, and sometimes she would need to stay overnight to keep the coals going through the cold North Dakota winters. Two of her babies died before they reached the age of five, and I can't imagine what that must have been like for her--waiting to bury them until the ground thawed.

My grandpa died when they still had young children at home, but she kept moving forward, raising and protecting her family. She was a hard worker through tough times, and once chased an intruder off her property with a rifle. She took in boarders to help make ends meet, but she was always willing to share what she had. Sometimes the sheriff would deputize her during the holidays so she could take an occupant of the small town jail home for a nice dinner.

The Lutheran church she attended let the men go up first for communion. Grandma went up with the men, and ignored the whispered comments and stares. She had to get to her restaurant job at the Percolator, and she had no time to waste. She had a family to feed.

My grandma was ahead of her time, and I'm sure she was looked down on back then, for some of the decisions she made as a woman. What an example of strength and patience and compassion she set for me and for my brothers. I'd give anything to be waiting to hear the clang of those black, t-strap shoes on that train platform again.

We Were All a Long Way From Home

2010-11-11T07:23:00.000-05:00

Moving 3,000 miles away from Seattle was unsettling, to say the least--scary, even. I quit my teaching job and we packed up the Honda, with as much as we could fit around my ten year old daughter and my five-week-old baby girl. The rest of our possessions were busy getting lost and broken in the moving van.

When we got to Connecticut, I found the grocery store and the gas station, but had yet to find the freeway. Two days later, my husband climbed down the hatch of USS San Juan and left the pier.

It was about a million degrees in our tiny rental house and I desperately needed to find an air conditioner. But where was the downtown area? My neighbor was out in her yard. Downtown? She just laughed like I'd told a really good joke. I could try to locate our fan, but I was positive it was busy getting broken in the moving van somewhere between Seattle and Connecticut.

My husband had arrived before me and probably at least knew how to find the freeway, so maybe I could call him. Wait...no underwater phone. I wouldn't be able to see him or talk to him for five months.

Then the phone did ring and it was someone named Meghan. Her husband, she said, was underwater with my husband, and did I need anything? She didn't even wait for me to answer. She came over with pizza and Lee-Hannah, another wife. They were the first to baby-sit my new baby, and the first to help when three months later, our husbands were still underwater and my oldest daughter needed emergency surgery.

Please don't forget to thank a Veteran today. But I've also got to include all those Navy wives and Navy husbands out there!

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Thank you so much for those who entered my A FINDERS-KEEPERS PLACE contest! Winners, your prizes are on their way...

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My TeensReadToo Blog appearance mentioned in a previous post has been postponed until December 4. Please don't forget to stop by!

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Last, but definitely not least, I have to mention former Air Force man, Lionel Haywood. My dad survived a heart attack last week and is looking better than ever. I love you, Dad!

TeensReadToo Book Club

2010-10-20T06:46:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow, I'll be over at the TeensReadToo Book Club Blog, so ... click here to hear more about A FINDERS-KEEPERS PLACE, my event-filled suburban childhood, and how I was obsessed with Judy Blume. (Okay, I'm still obsessed with her, but that's neither here, nor there.) There are also more prizes to win!

If you haven't already entered my contest, please follow my blog and watch the video below for more details.

A Finders-Keepers Place Contest!!

2010-10-11T10:57:00.000-04:00

It is ONE day until the release of A FINDERS-KEEPERS PLACE! The Backstory has a little FREE STUFF to give away...so....find out a little more below:

There's a Monster Under The Couch/Bed/Deck/Anything With a Clearance

2010-10-07T16:17:00.000-04:00

I'm walking down the hall at school and I hear a toilet flush...immediately followed by a first grader who is (how shall I say it politely?) not all the way zipped and put back together.

We have automatic toilets in our new school (you know; like the ones at the airport--where you're not entirely done with everything and the bottom all of a sudden whooshes and literally drops out from beneath you). That's scary enough for me, but it can be just plain terrifying for a six-year-old. (The automatic sinks are a different story--HOURS could go by and there would still be fun to be had with the automatic sinks in the first grade bathrooms.)

I was afraid of PLENTY when I was six. In fact, without even trying, I came up with a pretty good list:

1) sea kelp: It really doesn't need much explanation. Especially the sea kelp from the Pacific Ocean--it has sea monster tentacles written all over it.

2) the dark: duh. My dad tried taking me outside during the night to show me all of the items in the yard. "See," he said. "It's the same maple tree that's there in the daytime." I wasn't buying any of that. Everyone knows the Wizard of Oz tree comes out at night. The poky sharp parts don't reveal themselves in the daytime. Again: duh.

3) And speaking of the Wizard of Oz...no, I'm not going to say the flying monkeys--they were nothing compared to the witch flying through the air on the bicycle (you can hear the music playing in your head when I just mention her, can't you?). My parents had to hang a special sheet on my window, because my frilly white curtains didn't hide her flying by.

4) Outhouses when we were camping--it's in the monster-under-my-bed category. Best to go in the woods. Setting foot in one of those places is just asking for something to reach up for you.

5) Clowns--really, why would anyone think they would make children happy? These creatures are something the horror screenwriters claim as their own, and rightly so. If you need anymore convincing of these terror-inducing entities, just talk to my brother. He'll talk you right out of having one at your next party.

6) The monsters/snakes/(fill in the blank) under my bed. I had really well-developed leg muscles for six. And I'm pretty sure I was close to an Olympic qualifying time in the triple jump. I could take a leap from back by my bedroom door and never even skim the lower part of my mattress when I was getting in bed at night.

As I look out my window, I can see it'll be dark soon...all I can say is, I'm PLENTY happy that someone threw water on the mean lady with the flying bicycle...

Cool Things I Wish I Could Do (Part 1)

2010-08-27T08:09:00.000-04:00

Whether people are willing to admit it or not, everyone has a desire to be cool. My teenager spends entire days convincing me of how uncool I am. So I felt the need to devise the following "I would be really cool if I could do this" list. Please feel free to add to it in the comment section.

1) Surf--not body surf or boogie board, but the stand-up-jump-the-waves Hawaii Five-O kind.

2) Write a fantasy novel--the way out there, super secret language, larger than life, world building kind.

3) Play the guitar so well, that when they played my songs on the radio, Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton would think they were listening to themselves on a good day. (Yes, Tim, I know Jimi's six feet under, but my game, my rules.)

4) Sing so well, that people will turn around at church, not because I'm slightly off key, but because they think Aretha's in the house.

5) Have the Saturday Night Live crew call me up and beg me to join their writing team.

6) Pole Vault just shy of an Olympic qualifying height. Frankly, I just don't want to put in the training time, and I'm not willing to forgo the Hostess products.

7) Have Harper Lee call me up and ask to be pen pals,

or show up in my kitchen and eat a toasted cheese sandwich with me,

or (also quite acceptable) invite me over for a leisurely game of dominoes.

8) Sit around watching TV and eating Cheetos with Steve Martin and Ellen DeGeneres.

9) Have Oprah and Gail show up in my driveway to pick me up for Girls Night Out.

10) Sing Hey Jude with Paul McCartney

Stay tuned for Part 2!

It's a Parallel Universe

2010-08-13T08:51:00.000-04:00

Who doesn't love a nice long plane trip in cozily intimate quarters with strangers intent on exhibiting all of their nasty habits? I do admit to enjoying a loud talker or two on a plane or train, and I have been happily entertained by subway performers. It's all grist for the mill. Right?

Saturday, I returned from a day-long plane trip from California, and I realized how much those passengers on the airplane mirrored the behavior of my first grade class.

First of all, there's the lining up thing. We're all going to the same place. The front of the plane is going to get there at the same time as the back of the airplane, so why do we have to push and shove each other with our giant, should-have-been-checked carry-on? Next time someone pushes me while they're frantically trying to get ahead, I'm going to get out out my teacher voice and say, "We keep our hands and feet to ourselves."

The following directions thing is almost identical on the plane and in first grade. As soon as the flight attendant starts giving the emergency directions, the passengers start talking. Next time, I might have to speak up with my teacher voice and say, "can anyone repeat what she just said?".

Then there's the snack thing. My first graders live for snack time. Have you ever seen the frantic eyes of the airplane crowd when the flight attendant is going down the aisle with the cracker box? People are practically standing on their seats, thinking he will run out or (gasp) skip them. And when he does arrive at their row, they desperately forget their first grade manners and grab as many as they possible can, as if they'll never eat again. (Okay, I'll give them that one. Who knows if you will get to eat at all on the airplane?)

And, of course, there's the bathroom thing...Just like in first grade, as soon as one person gets up to go, everyone gets the idea in their head.

And then, we have the Diva. If she's going to complain, why not just fly first class or a private jet?

My final observation has more to do with the staff room at school which, as I've pointed out before, people will eat a two month old tuna casserole brought from the back of someone's refrigerator and placed up for grabs on the staff room table. On the first leg of my flight, the plane already had passengers on it from a previous stop. The flight attendant held up a half a sandwich left by someone. A man (with absolutely no shame on his face) raised his hand and placed dibs on it. True story. I couldn't bring myself to turn around and actually watch him take a bite.

Maybe when I retire from teaching, I can start offering training at the gate.

Top Ten Foods(?) I Probably Shouldn't Admit that I Like/Love

2010-07-08T07:50:00.000-04:00

I am kind of hijacking REFLECTION OF A SHALLOW POND's blog--okay, STEALING HIS IDEA--It's okay; I can do that--I'm a professional, aka, his sister. I have a long, practiced history of stealing/harming him and generally bossing him around. My brother, Tim, definitely rivals David Letterman in his Top Ten list skills. He has issued a challenge on his Facebook page for his blog readers to come up with their own top ten lists. My list was actually inspired by another of his blog entries--the competitive eating one from a couple days ago. So my list will be:

The Top Ten Foods(?) I Probably Shouldn't Admit that I Like/Love:

10) Hostess Ding-Dongs

9) Hostess Ho-Hos

8) Hostess Twinkies--okay, pretty much ANY Hostess product. Someone put a box of Shrek Twinkies in the staff room at work--the cream filling was GREEN, so I couldn't bring myself to publicly/casually take one--way too many witnesses at lunch time. I think I even pointed at them and said, "Ew, gross," for all to hear; sadly, when I secretly went back to get one later, they were all gone. (It's a well-known fact that you can leave back-of-the-refrigerator food in a teacher's room in the morning, and it will be consumed by 2:00 p.m.)

7) Funions--not sure if I spelled that right--it rhymes with bunions, which is pretty disgusting, in itself.

6) Hamburger Helper--ESPECIALLY the cheeseburger macaroni kind.

5) The fake cheese that they put on cheese fries and those 15 dollar nachos that you can buy at ball games--on occasion, I have considered paying double for extra fake cheese. It would be worth the thirty dollars of cheesy wonderfulness.

4) Street cart meat in New York--gyros, etc.--a few days ago, I saw a vendor flipping the "meat" on his grill, his cigarette dangling over his spatula, and I quickly put that in the things-I'll-pretend-I-never-saw category. (As my friend, Brian, always says, "Denial--it ain't just a river in Egypt...")

3) Swanson's fried chicken TV dinners. I do, however tend to skip over the mixed peas and carrots, unless enough cherry cobbler goo has flowed over into that compartment to sufficiently mask the carroty taste.

2) Pixie stix--but only if you pour the whole thing on your tongue at once--otherwise, it's just not the same effect.

1) A hot fudge sundae, with no ice cream--think about it--it's the ultimate in chocolatey delight.

**I reserve the right to change the order of preference, depending on hour and availability. Substitutions are allowed, but not recommended.

So...let's see more top tens. You can post them on my brother's blog, or, since I've got seventeen months more life experience than him...you can post them right here in my comment section.

Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto

2010-07-07T10:52:00.000-04:00

If that title doesn't grab you, you will be completely hooked by the first page of Eric Luper's newest novel, just released by Balzer + Bray/HarperCollins.

Rachel Cohn, the bestselling author of NICK AND NORAH'S INFINITE PLAYLIST, think so, too. She says, "Delightful, funny, and true, Seth and his manifesto will win your heart."

Eric's story tugged at my heart strings and brought back memories of my own teen years that made me want to laugh and cry at the same time. I rooted for his main character, Seth, from the moment he was getting dumped by his girlfriend at Applebees. That was only the beginning of life's complications for Seth. He had me wanting to run right out and find him a new girlfriend. The story, told from a delightfully fresh boy's perspective, had me shirking my own writing obligations so I could follow Seth through to the end.

I knew people would want to know more about the man behind the book, so Eric Luper has so graciously agreed to answer a few questions on The Backstory...

ANN: You have recently delved into rules for writing fiction on your blog. What is your favorite writing rule to break?

ERIC: I break them all when they need to be broken. I look at writing rules less as laws and more as suggestions to nudge you in the right direction. I think it's important to know the rules, though, so you can make an informed decision when it comes time to break them.

ANN: If you could collaborate on a novel with anyone, dead or living, who would it be?

ERIC: Hands down Kurt Vonnegut. That guy was funny and smart and wrote awesome books. Need I explain this?

ANN: You have had some interesting and unusual jobs in your non-writing life. If you could go back to one of those jobs for just one week, which one would it be and why?

ERIC: Interesting question. I would love to go back and work at the Raptor's Trust, a facility in northern New Jersey that rescued and rehabilitated birds of prey. Those birds were so awesome...except for the turkey vultures that would throw up this disgusting, stinky, vomit-slime.

ANN: I know I'll never get you to admit to the Clark Kent thing, but I do know you are a chiropractor in all of that free time that you have. Tell us a little about your work as a Red Cross Disaster Relief volunteer and what led up to it.

ERIC: After the attacks of 9/11, I felt a compelling need to get to New York City and do what I could. There wasn't a huge call for children's writers down there, but I could help out in my capacity as a chiropractor. So, I called the Red Cross, got my credentials, and went to the Red Cross Respite Center at St. John's University. I treated rescue workers as long as I could, morning, noon, and night. Closed my office here and everything. It was a moving experience, but I was doing nothing compared to those rescue workers. Those guys were awe-inspiring.

ANN: I absolutely loved SETH BAUMGARTNER'S LOVE MANIFESTO. If Seth were to appear on Oprah, what would his top break-up advice be?

ERIC: What...? Huh...? What was the question? I was paying attention to that first part of your question. Oh, break-up advice... Okay... If Seth was on Oprah, he'd likely tell people not to listen to clichés. Things like, "there are other fish in the sea", and "She was never the one for you" do no good. It's okay to be sad.

ANN: Is there a medical thriller in your future?

ERIC: Never. I like to write about things I'm learning about as I write. That way, I can put what is fascinating to me about the subject in my story, assuming it will be fascinating to others. If I were to write a medical thriller, I would include things so esoteric that they would be boring to laypeople. Does that make sense?

ANN: I know the St. Anne Institute is near and dear to your heart. (I am convinced that you don't sleep--wait... are you a ---???) Sorry. I got distracted... can you tell us a little about your latest project involving piles of books?

ERIC: Recently, I was asked to sit on the advisory board for St. Anne Institute, a not-for-profit residential/therapeutic school for at-risk teen girls. Of course, the first thing I wanted to see was the library and I was saddened to see that recent budget cuts led to a very small and very dated teen library. There were huge gaps in the selection, particularly urban fiction, fantasy and sci-fi... and that was exactly what the girls of St. Anne want to read! This was not acceptable to me, so I reached out to author-friends, editors and agents and within weeks, I had boxes of books on my doorstep read for St. Anne's. But's it's not nearly enough.

You can check the news story out at:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o2F7LLqyOLQ

And if you are interested in donating a book, feel free to contact me via my website (www.ericluper.com) or to phone in a donation call The Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza (www.bhny.com), an independent book store here in Albany. They have a wish list from the girls and are offering a discount on books. Their number is (518) 489-4761.

Flaming Piccolo Petes

2010-07-03T10:29:00.000-04:00

We woke up in the morning of July 4, looking for things to do, biding our time until it got dark. We'd be eyeing the box of Sparklers well before noon. What my brother, Tim, and I usually resorted to in the daylight hours was caps--those rolls of paper strips meant for a cap gun, but way more fun to pound out on the curb. We'd sit in front of the house, the caps stretched out on the curb between us. Then we'd search out a perfectly-shaped rock and pound on the little bumps of gun powder, hoping for a bang, or at least a small spark, usually smashing a finger or two in the process.

This quite often brought our older brother, Tom, out. He'd scoff at us, not even bothering to hide his disgust with our small-time explosives. He'd inevitably coerce us into giving up our entire supply so he could rig up something loud and dangerous.

I remember that feeling when they were gone. The acrid smell of gun powder was in the air and all we were left with was a mess in the gutter.

Sometimes we'd hop on our Stingrays and ride up to Piggly Wiggly where our mom was working in the PTA fireworks stand and beg for some money to buy more. Usually, if we were annoying enough, she'd send us home with a couple of smoke bombs or something small and we'd hop back on our banana seats and ride home.

Then after what seemed like an eternity after sunset, we'd gather on opposite curbs of sixteenth street with all the neighbors. The dads clustered in the middle of the road with the boxes of Red Devil fireworks emptied and lined up in order of spectacular danger. The small fountains were usually first. The bargains boxes were full of these, and when they lost their luster for the crowd, a couple of the dads would start grouping them together for more special effects.

And of course there was the Piccolo Pete. It was usually saved for last, because our big brother would pinch it with pliers to give it more whistle and bang.

But my absolute favorites were the sparklers. My mom would hold the burning punk to continuously light our sparklers. I still like to trace my name in the night air. Luckily, I had a short name and could sky write the whole thing before the sparkler burned my hand. My brother would try to get me to write other things, like the inevitable f-dash-dash-t word. There was nothing like a little fart in smoking sparkles to get the festivities going.

It was a little sad on the morning of July 5, as we went outside, pushing up our kickstands and gripping our high handlebars down the driveway. We pedaled past the last night's detritus, knowing we had to wait an entire year for it all to happen again.

But there were always unpounded caps to be found. And if we did a thorough search of Tom's bedroom, we might be back in business...

A safe and sparkling Fourth to everyone.

How can they leave me?

2010-06-11T07:29:00.000-04:00

I used to say that I would teach any grade except first grade. My mom taught first grade for years, and I saw how hard she worked. She'd be up late every night and up before dawn, preparing, planning, getting ready to do it all over again the next day.

Eleven years ago, my youngest was in preschool and I was working part time in the resource room. My principal came to me. "There's a full-time opening," she said, "and I think you should interview for it."

Thoughts of my old fifth grade class traveled through my head and I started to get excited. "What grade is it?" I asked.

"First grade." She smiled, encouragingly.

It is the hardest grade I've ever taught. But I wouldn't take back my decision for anything. Where else can you see someone go from reading bits and pieces of words to reading a chapter book, and progress from writing just a handful of words to a two page story in just nine months time?

I love that sudden grasp of story that some of them get when the letters and words start to make sense. A few of them may have been struggling in the fall, trying desperately to crack the code. I love it when it finally starts to fall into place for them and they start to devour the books in the classroom.

It's almost the last day of school, and as usual, I'm not ready to let all of them go just yet. We've got more stories to write and many more books to read first.

(By the way, if you are reading this and your name rhymes with "Mack", I'm not letting another teacher have you. We'll just keep bringing in bigger desks...I was hoping we could collaborate on a monster book one of these days...)

Bus Stop Mortification

2010-05-07T06:38:00.000-04:00

"Where's Dad?" My almost-fifteen-year-old shifts nervously from foot to foot as she puts on her 350 pound backpack for school.

"He's running," I say, unsure why this news is causing her so much stress. He's the one out pounding the streets at dawn.

She glances at her phone and her face looks even more distressed. "It's 6:25, so you know, he'll be running by the bus stop!"

"No, he won't," I say, unconvincingly.

She bites her lip and heads out the door.

Not five minutes later, my husband bursts through the front door in his Lance Armstrong shorts. "I went by the bus stop," he says.

"Oh, no..." I say.

He casually grabs some water. "There were two boys there, so I said, 'Good morning, Everyone.'" (Just trying to be polite, I'm sure). "And to you, too, Holly."

At first, I think he might be just kidding, but then he says, "The boys answered, but Holly said nothing."

Oh, I'm sure she'll be more chatty next time....if there is a next time. Holly's probably on her ever-present cell phone right now, making arrangements with one of Tony Soprano's friends for a mysterious hamstring injury...

Favorite first grade quote of the week: We were making handprints above our poems for Mother's Day. One of the kids pauses and looks very intently at his. He points at the middle of his hand and says, "I recognize that--that's my romance line."

Peace, Love, Books...and Hudson! (Part I) and a Grammy-Award-Winning Video directed by Eric Luper

2010-05-04T06:28:00.000-04:00

I didn't want to leave. I was in a place where everyone treasured books. As far as the eye could see were people who lived, breathed and wrote books! Over 5,000 people attended the 2nd Annual Hudson Children's Book Festival, an event so well-run, people are already using the word, "legendary" when they talk about it.

Here I am with my Henry Holt sister, Jeannine Atkins. I was exhausted at the end of our festival day, but I couldn't put down her beautiful book, BORROWED NAMES. As soon as I opened it up, I was drawn into the incredible lives of Laura Ingalls Wilder, Madam C.J. Walker, and Marie Curie. Jeannine has profiled their lives and their relationships with their daughters with stunning clarity in the form of poems. One of the things that make these poems so unusual, is they are not just about the history-making moments of the lives of these women and their daughters; they are about the regular moments that made them who they were.

(In case that wasn't enough to draw you in, I'll give you a few of Jeannine's own words in the voice of Rose Wilder..."She turns to sort through what might be saved. A wilderness of cracked china, ashes, days when safety was as common as a roof. She folds her black wedding dress and tells Rose, You did nothing wrong. But then she whispers, We won't speak

of this fire again."

I couldn't quite catch my breath after reading that part. I told Jeannine I was adding another star to her already-starred review!

It was great to spend some time with the amazing Susannah Richards! She knows absolutely everything there is to know about

books and the people who write them; I could talk to her all day long!

Someone I wish I could have spent more time with

was my dear friend, Rose Kent, author of KIMCHI AND CALIMARI. I got to see the Advance Reader's Copy of her new book, ROCKY ROAD. (I tried to slip it into my bag, but I'm pretty sure she was on to me!)

Later in the afternoon, I got to do a panel with the fabulous Jo

Knowles

(LESSONS FROM A DEAD GIRL and JUMPING OFF SWINGS) and the wonderful Eric Luper (BIG SLICK and BUG BOY). I love the title of Eric's new book due out next month: SETH BAUMGARTNER'S LOVE MANIFESTO!

But the best part was when Eric noticed a piano in the room...so of course he decided we should do a music video...

Stay tuned for Part II and more Hudson...

SCBWI Seattle

2010-04-18T19:44:00.000-04:00

I always miss it before I'm even gone. Driving across the 520 bridge, passing the University of Washington...Mt. Rainier off in the distance...I totally took that all for granted when I lived there.

So it was pretty fantastic to combine my favorite place with my favorite kind of people--my family and my writer friends. Speaking of fabulous writer friends, here I am with Jolie Stekly and Sara Easterly.

And what great planning on the part of Laurie Thompson and those amazing SCBWI Western Washington people. Besides having an incredible conference, they

planted a cupcake place right across the street!

There's my partner-in-cupcake crime, Jolie Stekly (www.cuppajolie.blogspot.com)!

And I finally got my hands on a copy of my pal, Suzanne Young's, THE NAUGHTY LIST. They were all sold out at the SCBWI New York conference.

The person in

front of me in the bookstore line got the LAST copy! I told Suzanne I was going to have to get all Cabbage Patch Doll/Tickle-Me-Elmo ugly if it happened again. I had on my running shoes and I was prepared to use my Karate skills...

I always have a great time seeing Jay Asher. His amazing book, THIRTEEN REASONS WHY has now been on the New York Times list for 58 weeks!

It was so great to see Holly Cupola again. I

can't wait to get my hands on her new book, TELL ME A SECRET. It is arriving very soon!

And I always learn something new from Mitali P erkins . I have now gotten the opportunity to hear her speak on both coasts and I am so impressed with her generosity when it comes to the kidlit community!

I wish I could have spent more time with Joni Sensel, Jaime Temarik and Kim Baker! The last time I saw Jaime and Kim, we were fending off frostbite, searching for the perfect cupcake on a very frigid New York night! More support for the belief that true happiness is only a good book and a cupcake away...

Go Ahead and MadMen Yourself

2010-04-05T07:01:00.000-04:00

So I've got a million things to do this morning, but my friend, Shelagh, had to go and give me the link to MadMen myself...

http://www.amctv.com/originals/madmen/madmenyourself/

Okay...definitely worth it. You get to pick your hair and all your accessories and whatnot. It reminded me of when my friend had this really great Barbie fashion designer stencil set...but you had to set up the stencils very carefully, because any false move to the left or right, and Barbie's design would become Project Runway gone very wrong...

I'm looking at the clock right now, because I think there still may be time to go do my makeup like my MadMen self. I opted out of the cigarette accessory, for obvious reasons-- Barbie's stencil set never had the cigarette or martini option. When I watch the show and think back to that time, I'm always amazed at how everyone thought they had to smoke--like they would be social pariahs if they didn't during that era. They had such great clothes in the fifties and sixties. Didn't they ever think about how bad they would smell, along with their impeccably styled hair?

And I would love to have that hair. It took forever to make that perfect up-do every morning, I'm sure. My mom was always up with the latest fashions, but she was the mother of three and very busy. I'm sure she didn't have the time to properly do her MadMen era hairdo justice. Being the fashion-forward time-saving mom that she was, she solved that problem. She had a wiglet. Not a wig. A wiglet. It was pretty amazing. I used to take it out of the cupboard under the bathroom sink and bobby pin it to my hair. It looked a bit like a swatch of frosted chinchilla hair, but it was very cool. There's many a bad-hair day that I wish I had a wiglet of my own.

In my next life, I will wear hose and heels everyday and have a job in the steno pool...but then again, maybe not...

Books and Chocolate Naturally Go Together

2010-03-21T20:41:00.001-04:00

I'm competitive. It's in my nature-I can't help it.

I am currently doing a fitness challenge at work, so I am going for broke--spinning, kickboxing, running--I am into this competition. I am even wearing a pedometer to record every possible step. I'm also working very hard on Book 3. And in order to keep my creativity flowing and my energy up, I needed to get some essential supplies...

...chocolate, of course!

The Love of Jazz, Cowboy Songs, and Great Stories

2010-03-18T15:47:00.000-04:00

I come from a long line of artists and musicians and teachers. My grandparents had a vaudeville act in the 1920s--"Haywood's Hawaiian Players". My mother was a teacher and a beautiful painter. My dad played the saxophone and has the best jazz collection of anyone I know. He also has a really good singing voice, but he won't do any solos unless he's belting out one of his cowboy songs. As a teenager, I lived in fear that he would do that around one of my friends, but now I actually look forward to it. My brother, Tom, plays guitar and bass, and my brother, Tim plays brass, a little bit of percussion, and is a talented graphic designer. All I'm going to say is, it's a good thing I can put a sentence together, because I can clear a room pretty quickly with my singing voice.

My family treasures books and good stories, but I am the first in the family to be a writer. When ALSO KNOWN AS HARPER became a reality, my brother and sister-in-law had a party at their house in Seattle. Before I got on the plane, my cousin called.

"I have something for you," my cousin, Lynn said. "I think it belongs to you."

Lynn is a special kind of relative. The kind who you love not just because you have a family obligation, but the kind you would choose for a friend, even if you didn't share a DNA pool. And the fact that we are separated by about 3,000 miles means I just don't get to see her very often. So I couldn't wait to see what she was talking about.

She arrived at my brother's with a thick brown box, the size that would fit a tall stack of manuscript pages. It was tied up with a thick white string, kind of like those wonderful bakery boxes in the Bronx, and Lynn sat down with me to watch me take the lid off. But what was inside was even better than a pastry from Arthur Avenue. It was our great-grandmother's stories. She had been a writer! My family is not quiet by any means, and I was pretty sure I would have heard about this before. My father had known his grandmother, but had not known that she was a writer.

The stories are in all of the drafting stages, from the notes she'd scribbled on the back of scraps of paper ( just like I do!), all the way through her handwritten drafts on old newsprint tablets, and to the final draft that she'd typed.

One page of notes is written on the back of an old milk receipt from the dairy farm that she owned. It was dated November, 1933, which meant she was already a grandmother at that point. Did she wait for her kids to grow up to start writing? And when in her busy day as a dairy farmer, did she find time to get out her pen and paper? And since nobody knew she was a writer, did she write in secret? Her stories are full of action and adventure and great dialogue. I picture her standing at the counter in the kitchen, dreaming about places seemingly out of the reach of her farm, and scribbling as fast as she could.

I wish I could sit with her and talk about writing. Had she ever sent a story off to a publisher? Did she dream of seeing her work on the shelves of a library? Would she love the same books that I love? Would she think Dorothy Parker and Flannery O'Connor were brilliant and ahead of their time? Was my great-grandmother ahead of her time?

But my biggest question was this: would she have ever imagined that her great-granddaughter would be reading and cherishing her stories almost 80 years later?

"I wish she could tell her about my book," I said to my critique group.

"Oh, she knows," they said. "She knows."

Writerly Togetherness

2010-02-18T13:59:00.000-05:00

I am always saying, out loud and in print, what a solitary life it can be as a writer. No doubt, Hemingway's bare bones existence in A Moveable Feast would have been considerably changed had he had social networking.

Would he have still gone to that cafe? Or would he have just consumed mass quantities of wine and oysters in the comfort of his own icy apartment while seated in front of his Facebook screen?

And would Gertrude Stein still have invited him over to 27 rue de Fleurus, or would she have been too busy Tweeting or blogging to talk about books with the likes of him?

He wouldn't have been nearly as lonely had he been in the Class of 2k9... I gave my take on writerly togetherness over at our new blog this morning.

Also, look for another video blog from Jame Richards and me in the next week or so. The critique group is showing up at my house this weekend. I love that they will travel miles for good dessert and stories! Jame and I might be able to convince a few guests to join the vlog. And Jame, if you are reading this, I just had this great thought...now that we have had Andrew Gutterson on The Backstory, teaching us how to beat box...maybe we could get a few of our writing peeps to give it a shot!! Oh...maybe I shouldn't have said anything...now they'll be prepared with lame excuses...

And speaking of Jame, I absolutely love the hilarious "Francisisms" that she posts on the sidebar of her blog. In the true spirit of Francis, I need to share some recent quotes from a couple of my first graders:

I am grabbing a pencil from my desk, and as usual, someone follows me...(by the way, I don't know why the school office furniture people bother to provide a chair to go with a first grade teacher's desk. It's just a place that I put my purse...)

Anyway, I'm grabbing the pencil and I hear, Mrs. Leal? I have a paper cut. Can I have a Band-aid?

Sure, I say.

Then he sighs with relief and says, Good! 'Cause I can see my bone sticking out.

Then, same week, but different kid:

Mrs. Leal? Can I tell something to the class?

Is it your sharing day? I ask.

She shakes her head. No, but it's really important.

Okay, go ahead, I say.

She stands at the front of the room: I have something to tell you guys. My dog is getting tutored tomorrow. Does everyone know what that means?

I hold my breath and get ready for damage control, but then thank God for the kid that always calls out. He says, Isn't that like getting a shot?

She nods her head importantly, Yep. It's like getting a shot.

I'm certainly glad I don't need to be tutored right now, because I hate shots.

Writer Peer Pressure

2010-02-15T15:39:00.000-05:00

It had been not quite six months since SCBWI (Society of Children's Books Writers and Illustrators) Los Angeles, and I was having serious withdrawals...I couldn't wait to get to New York and see my Seattle friends.

I am originally from the Seattle area, so when I see the Seattle SCBWIers, I feel

like I'm back in the old neighborhood. My purple stingray with the high handlebars and the banana seat may be gone, but the people are just as awesome. You've got to love people who will go on a cupcake quest with you late at night in Greenwich Village when it is about thirty below zero!

We may have looked lost, but we were just huddled in the subway to get warm! On the left is the talented Jaime Temairik, aka, Cocoa Stomp and my 2k9 sister, Sydney Salter's husband, Mike. (Does that make him my 2k9 brother-in-law??)

On the right with me are my East Coast pal, Penny Piva, aka, sweetbrownpoison, and Sydney.

We finally found the elusive cupcake place and even though we were all suffering from hypothermia, it was definitely worth it!

And there I am with the wonderful,

Jolie Stekly, aka, cuppa jolie. It was the third anniversary of our friendship which spans over three thousand miles! Ours is kind of a twilight zone friendship where we led practically parallel lives for years, until three years ago when we finally collided at the writer's intensive at SCBWI New York!

On the right is me with the amazing Kim Baker. Kim doesn't know it yet, but I might be sneaking into her Seattle conference in April...I have a family event a few days later, so really, how could I not go? It's a weird kind of writer peer pressure...you know you want to go...everybody's going...the next thing I know, I'm looking for plane tickets and filling out the conference form...

Looking pensive on the subway is my vlog partner, Jame Richards.

Both Ja(i)mes are amazing, and I can see as it

would be easy to confuse the two...

Jame Richards writes historical fiction and vlogs with me...

Here is her book...

Jaime Temairik has never vlogged at my house,

but I have her wonderful art on the wall in my house. It makes me happy every time I walk by it.

You can buy it on Etzy.com and you can

see her latest creations on her

blog, CocoaStomp. Come on, go there;

you know you want to...

When my parents tried to teach me about avoiding peer pressure, I'm sure they had no idea how persuasive writer friends can be. One second you are safely in your toasty warm hotel room, and the next second you are forming a posse on the subway in subzero temperatures. I've always said the writer's life was solitary, but not when you are at SCBWI...

Facebook Rules and More SCBWI New York

2010-02-11T07:22:00.000-05:00

I am pulling out some of my mad first grade teacher skills and asking the question, can you identify the owner of the boot? Which author/illustrator/artist belongs to each boot? And no, Penny, it's not the same as the Sesame Street question, "which of these things doesn't go with the others"...

Well? Put your wild and not so wild guesses in the comment section.

If you would like a few hints, click on this for a video edition of The Backstory. (If you missed Part I, you can go to the blog post before this and click on "video blog"...)

Vlogging with Jame Richards at SCBWI New York

2010-02-10T18:24:00.000-05:00

My two critique groups collided...in a good way...at SCBWI (The Society of Chidren's Book Writers and Illustrators) New York last weekend!

I got into town a little early for a book signing with some of my Class of 2k9 siblings, along with Ellen Hopkins, at Books of Wonder...

Seated are Sydney Salter (MY BIG NOSE AND OTHER NATURAL DISASTERS, JUNGLE CROSSING) me (ALSO KNOWN AS HARPER), Albert Borris (CRASH INTO ME), and Fran Cannon Slayton (WHEN THE WHISTLE BLOWS).

Standing in picture on right are me, Albert Borris, Lisa Greenwald (MY LIFE IN PINK AND GREEN), Fran Cannon Slayton, J.T. Dutton (FREAKED, STRANDED), Ellen Hopkins (CRANK, BURNED, GLASS, IDENTICAL and TRICKS), and SYDNEY SALTER.

The next afternoon, I had a little down time, so Jame Richards (THREE RIVERS RISING) and I decided to make another video blog. I was worried that Jame might still be mad, because in our last vlog, I may have insinuated that Nancy Drew was historical fiction. Since Jame writes historical fiction, she might have taken that a little personally...you be the judge...does she look a little miffed? ...or is she just concentrating on the beat boxing lessons we were taking? It all goes to show you that anything can happen if you find yourself with five minutes of down time at SCBWI New York...

The Love-Hate Relationship of the Critique Group

2010-01-14T07:19:00.000-05:00

"I'm done."

Those are the two words that my elementary students love to say when they're writing. But as the year goes on, and the more they get to know me, they learn to very quickly avert their eyes when those words come out of their mouths. Because I will invariably give them my Tony Soprano eyelock (that I learned from my critique group--and at teacher school, of course) and send them back to their seat to keep writing.

As writers, we love to think we're done. But it's all just pretending, isn't it? Because we are rarely ever done! And that's where my amazing critique group comes in. I call them "the indefatigables". The are relentless and they don't allow much to slip by. In fact, after our group meets, it's not unusual to get a call from one of them saying, "You know, I was thinking about your chapter, and I really think you should go back and take a look at..."

Here's the tricky thing about critique groups, though: they have to be an almost perfect blend of personalities and writing backgrounds. Critique group chemistry can be completely thrown off by so many things, negativity being at the top of the list.

I am incredibly lucky to have been with the same group of four for over seven years. We live all the way from a New York City suburb to the Connecticut/Rhode Island border--we are scattered, but we meet diligently, once a month, in the middle.

We decided early on that we weren't getting anywhere if we were just gushing over each other's work. We are critical with a positive tone, with an emphasis on the critical part. It's the only way we can make anything better. I find that I also have to really listen to what they are saying. It is human nature to get defensive when someone is criticizing you, and a writer's words are about as personal as it gets. But you will not be there to explain things when your readers are opening your book. The words on the page must be clear and able to stand alone without you there to explain what you meant to say.

It's definitely a delicate balance. Sometimes, unexplainably, the chemistry of the group is just not there. I've tried to figure out why our group works and I can't pinpoint any one thing. It's got to be a blend of respect, friendship, and honesty. A friend of mine described a group she was in several years ago that had to disband, because one person made it too caustic; her remarks were mostly negative, and she was unable (or unwilling!) to hear anything but positive comments about her own work.

Another reason that I think our group works is because we have such a nice blend of backgrounds: one person writes middle-grade and young adult and has a heavy literature background; she has an incredibly fine eye for detail. One writes M.G. and Y.A. and is a high school English teacher; she has a fantastic talent for solving plot problems. Another is an artist and a poet and always knows how to find the perfect word or phrase.

Now, stop reading this and go write. Because you know you're not done...

The Response

2010-01-02T14:09:00.000-05:00

For those of you who viewed my vlog post from yesterday (where I challenged/threatened my brother to do a vlog response), he has responded within the 48 hour time allotment. Sadly, he responded by phone, claiming not to have a camera. Hmmmmm.....I thought to myself, there's something wrong with this picture.

We were both raised by the KingOfTheSuper8Movie. Our childhood holidays and birthdays are heavily documented on shaky, silent film. We watched those things over and over again, begging our dad to run them backwards in certain places so we could watch Tim fly backwards onto the picnic table in our backyard in his Superman cape/towel-pinned-to-his-favorite-striped-shirt. And who didn't enjoy a repeat performance of the neighbor kids at Tim's birthday table, the wooden spoonfuls of orange and vanilla swirl ice cream coming back out of their mouths, forming a perfectly full, untouched Dixie cup?

So, no Tim, the viewers will probably not buy your no-camera excuse. And yes, you are right, I might have lied about that Bobby Sherman record being yours. (Because as you did indeed point out, had that record, or the Osmond Brothers record, actually been yours, you would never have let me escape with it. Some sort of alarm would have sounded.)

Tim has kind of agreed to appear with me on The Backstory, but since he lives three thousand miles away, I am going to have to bring in some sort of proxy. (Please leave any ideas in the comments below...) I was thinking along the lines of a tabloid personality, but I can't quite come up with the right person...

Talking about the old Super 8 movies has gotten me a bit nostalgic. I loved that sad/happy feeling I got when Dad fired up the old projector and miraculously there was Grandma's old living room come to life on our wall, complete with lace doilies on the overstuffed armchair and the velour couch where we used to hide the carrot sticks she tried to make us eat. Then around the corner came Grandma, herself, carrying a bowl of homemade Chex Mix and looking better than ever in her big clip-on pearl earrings and matching necklace. I could almost smell her old silver percolator in the kitchen. What I wouldn't give to sit down at that holiday table again!

Forget digital; where can I get myself a good old Super 8?

Tim's Challenge

2010-01-01T18:59:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year to everyone! In this post, The Backstory and Reflections of a Shallow Pond collide. Stay tuned for the fallout...

In the true spirit of the legendary Vlog Brothers, John and Hank Green, I am offering a little challenge. To view the details, please click on the link below...

TIM'S CHALLENGE

A Video Edition of The Backstory

2009-12-30T17:42:00.001-05:00

Welcome to the first video edition of The Backstory. Jame Richards, the author of THREE RIVERS RISING (Knopf, April 2010) made a surprise visit to to my living room and You Tube studio...

We discussed a lot of things, including Nancy Drew as historical fiction (discuss amongst yourselves...) and most importantly, Jame's first book review!

So get out your remotes and enjoy...

THE Interview With Jame Richards

Jingle Bells, Batman Smells...

2009-12-22T06:42:00.000-05:00

It's the holidays. People are on their best behavior...and their worst behavior. Remember the "Tickle Me Elmo" craze a while back? People were selling their children to get a Tickle Me Elmo--only to then find there was no one left to give him to! And of course, I can't leave out the Cabbage Patch doll holiday shopping bloodbath...ruthless housewives joined street gangs in order to get one of those little dolls under the Christmas tree.

I need to remember to look at my first graders whenever I feel my heart rate start to go up. They definitely keep it all real for me. Anything is possible...and expected with first graders. A few days ago, one of them asked me, "Aren't you going to put up a tree?"

Another great thing is that the holidays are often blurred. One of the girls occasionally brings Halloween back and wears her long, plush cat tail pinned to the back of her shirt. It doesn't create mumbles, or even a stare when she sweeps in with that thing on. Last week we sat down to do our morning meeting and someone casually throws out, "I like your tail."

"Thanks," she responds, with a glamorous toss of the hair. That girl will never have a heart attack.

Show and Tell time remains my favorite activity of the day, and usually consists of long Sears Wishbook lists around this time of year. But one of the girls has a lot of something else on her mind. She leans on the tall stool at the front of the room and gazes out into the crowd, ruefully. "My mom has this new baby," she says. "I keep trying to pet him, and all he does is cry on me."

I hear murmurs of sympathy from the crowd.

"I was helping my mom, and he sprayed pee all over me."

Great. She has mentioned the trifecta. Any brief mention of the trifecta (poop, pee, or underwear) can send your first graders into a frenzy that may last into the next day.

"What's your new baby look like?" I ask, desperately trying to redirect.

She looks up at the ceiling, contemplating. "He's got short hair." She retreats to her seat.

"I've got a new Christmas song," one of the boys says. "I'm going to teach it to the class." Then he stands up, and belts out, Jingle Bells! Batman Smells! Robin laid an egg."

"We need to get going with our work," I say. Then I have to remind myself not to be a Scrooge.

I move on to the business of the day. The high school music department is coming over to give us a holiday concert, so I need to give the standard audience behavior lecture.

My first graders are toward the front of the auditorium, so I'm thinking they will be very interested in the up-close view of all of the instruments. It turns out, their favorite part is the conductor. I'm sure he has no idea that about 30 kids are trying to copy his every move behind him.

One little boy is completely still for the entire half hour. He seems startled when they stop playing. I line everyone up to leave and he looks up at me. "I loved that so much, it turned my mind inside out," he says.

I want to be that kid when I grow up.

Happy Holidays, Everyone!

An Interview with 2k10 Author, Jame Richards!

2009-12-13T08:12:00.000-05:00

Today, I have the distinct pleasure of interviewing the author of the soon-to-be-released, THREE RIVERS RISING (Knopf, April, 2010). Jame Richards is a talented writer whose lyrical language speaks to me, and I know you will be dying to hear what she has to say. She writes about serious subjects in her historical fiction, but I'm pretty sure she has a secret second career as a stand-up comic...

You write in such lyrical verse. Have you always written in this form/genre?

I’ve been writing this way for about five years. Poetry came naturally to me, but my poems were considered too long. I had ideas for big stories that demanded novel-length page counts, so…novels in verse might be an obvious solution, but it still took me a long time to figure it out.

Tell me a little about the historical background for Three Rivers Rising.

In the late 1800s railroads were connecting disparate regions of the U.S. and demand for steel was high. Newly moneyed Pittsburgh steel tycoons took their families to vacation in the Allegheny Mountains. A number of them bought shares in a summer resort called the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club, which consisted of a clubhouse, stables, some private cottages and a reservoir held back by an earthen dam.

In the valley below, the city of Johnstown was home to Cambria Iron Works. Mills, stores, hotels, churches, homes, schools: Johnstown was an up-and-coming seat of industry. On the downside, Johnstown was built on lowlands surrounded by rivers and flooding was an expected part of every spring.

Back up in the mountains, over-logging had increased the danger of flash floods, and the design of the dam had been compromised over the years, leaving no way to compensate for sudden increases of water. An unusually rainy spring in 1889 caused the flawed dam to fail, releasing millions of tons of water into the valley, creating an avalanche of debris, and scouring the land down to bare rock in many cases. Deaths total approximately 2,200.

How do you go about your research for your historical fiction?

A story like this, one that surrounds a heavily-documented historical event, has a lot of the research built in: books, documentaries, easy to find. When the story takes place in an arbitrary time frame, it’s trickier. I like to read first-person accounts whenever possible, especially letters. Newspapers are good, too. You can get the flavor of a time period. I keep a dictionary tab open on my computer to look up the dates words came into use. I also like to read census reports…see who was at the Alms House or the Orphan Asylum, good for cranking up the old backstory machine.

Have you always been a writer?

No. I can’t say it was always my intention to be a writer, but I did always make up stories. When my friends and I played house or school or Electro-Woman and Dyna-Girl, it was always up to me to narrate the action and feed everybody their lines! How did I not know I was going to be a writer—everybody else did.

Who are your inspirations?

Patricia Reilly Giff, Karen Hesse, Jane Austen, Edith Wharton, Judy Blume, Louise Erdrich, Jacqueline Woodson.

What were your favorite books as a child? As an adult?

I have a deep and enduring love for my long lost copy of Judy Blume’s Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself. It was the paperback with the girl sitting at the mirror, placing a hibiscus into her corona of braids. I “loaned” it to somebody. If you’re reading this, and you have my copy of Sally, please return it! Or face the consequences…dunh, dunh, duhhhh.

Other favorites, as you might expect: The Secret Garden, Anne of Green Gables, Little Women, The House Without a Christmas Tree, and Mandy. Also, my school librarian forbade me from taking out Flicka, Ricka and Dicka even one more time, or the somber-brown hardcover Marnie.

My favorite books now are Nory Ryan’s Song and Maggie’s Door, Out of the Dust and Aleutian Sparrow, The House of Mirth and Ethan Frome.

I also love a little sumpin called Also Known as Harper, ever heard of it?

You have two young daughters. What are five books that you hope they will read?

Mine, for starters! (Actually my older daughter already read it. And gave it a positive review in her school newspaper, thank goodness!) And they’ve already listened to Judy Blume reading Sally, and they loved it as much as I hoped they would. It has become the gold standard for audio books in our house.

1. Anne of Green Gables, the series even, such a big part of my childhood reading those with my mom and sisters.

2. The Little House series—I think about the pioneers everyday and I want my children to know me that way.

3. Almost as often, I think about Anne Frank (Diary of a Young Girl) and I hope they’ll read her words and care deeply.

4. Patricia Reilly Giff’s historical novels which mirror the experiences of our own Irish ancestor (Nory Ryan’s Song and Maggie’s Door), my grandmother growing up in the tenements (A House of Tailors and Water Street), all the way down to my mother (Lily’s Crossing and Willow Run) as a child of World War II. (I know I’m cheating by counting a body of work as one entry on the list!)

5. Along the same line, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. My grandmother said after reading it, “That’s exactly how it was!” My daughters didn’t get to meet my grandmother, but they can meet Francie Nolan.

Can you talk about your work-in-progress?

My next manuscript is about one of the many young Irish women who came to the U.S. in the wave of immigration to work as domestics, known as Bridgets. There’s talk of fairies and visions, witches vs. wise women, and tea leaves and typhoid.

Jame has never been one for BSP (BlatantSelfPromotion), so I need to tell everyone that this book was the 2008 winner of the PEN New England Children's Book Caucus Susan P. Bloom Discovery Award...

If you want to hear more from/about Jame, please visit her blog at http://www.jamerichards.blogspot.com or her website at http://www.jamerichards.com

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

2009-12-07T06:36:00.000-05:00

After my November post about train riders, I feel as if I would be remiss if I didn't mention my recent plane trip...

Here's the thing: I am a teacher. An elementary teacher. I have been an elementary teacher for a long time and I know I have that "teacher look" about me. This causes various mothers to sit their children near me. It happens almost every time; I can count on it. (The other distinct possibility is SuperSmellyGuy, but that one needs its own blog post). Meanwhile, my husband is comfortably settled across the aisle, his headphones on, with a quiet, polite, low-maintenance business-type guy next to him.

I need to first point out that I truly love kids. I love talking to them. But the ones that sit by me on airplanes are in a different category. You have seen these kids. They are the ones shimmying up the displays and climbing into the refrigerated dessert cases at the grocery store.

The great thing about a train ride is that you can get up and walk around. And moving to the next car is a possibility. On the plane: not so much. You are pretty much strapped in for the duration.

I'm all excited about my impending vacation. I'm going to meet my brother and his family at the HappiestPlaceOnEarth, so I try really hard to put myself in that happy place as the mother near me, helps her children set up their personal DVD players.

The little boy looks like he's about eight, but the movie he's watching is most certainly rated R--or worse. It's some extremely violent and bloody story with an abundance of Humvees. The little girl is about three, and she doesn't have or doesn't like her headphones, so her movie is playing some musical cartoon very loudly. The mother has obviously gone to her happy place, because it doesn't seem to occur to her that the other passengers might prefer a little quiet jazz, instead.

Then the little boy starts questioning his mother (loudly, of course) about what the flight attendant had meant when she was talking about the oxygen masks coming down. His mom replies (casually, but loudly), "She meant if something happens to the plane and the cabin pressure changes or something." (I see a man nearby clutch his arm rest and pop what could only be a Valium). Definitely not a helpful plane comment as the captain has just pointed out the impending turbulence.

At one point, the mom gets up to go to the bathroom and the boy starts slamming his hand on his DVD player. (I'm thinking to myself, the studies about letting kids watch violent movies and video games are definitely true.) Then he picks it up and gives it a good shaking. Finally, Mom comes back and starts screaming at the kid. "You better not be hitting that again! I'm not buying you another one!"

He was! I wanted to jump up and say. So was the little one! Take them away and turn them off!

But when the captain finally says to turn off all electronic devices, I find myself wishing those DVD players were still up and running, because the mom begins a constant babbling conversation with the kids. She points out the window and starts naming things. "I see houses," she says. Her voice sounds exactly like the kid from the Sixth Sense. "I see dead people," I expect her to say next. (I'm sure the eight-year-old has seen the movie, seeing as it was rated R.)

The four-year-old looked up at me as we deplaned as if to say, "Take me with you. Please. Get me away from these people."

But I looked back at her and smiled, as if to say, "Sorry, Honey. You're on your own. I'm off to the HappiestPlaceOnEarth on the BusiestWeekendOfTheSeason where I'm sure there will be a minimum of loud mothers with annoying children...

Bad Cyber Behavior

2009-11-23T06:50:00.000-05:00

Kids behave badly right out in the open. It's the impulsivity thing. By the time they've had a chance to think about it, the crime has already been committed. The crayon has already been broken, the chair has already been kicked. Adults will do the same thing, of course, but what I've noticed is that politeness is often tossed aside when they think they are anonymous.

I was recently reading a newspaper or magazine blog where someone made a horrendous comment about the writer of the article. Sure, they'd signed it, because on that particular blog, it is required for commenting. But the commenter had used what I like to call their Internet nickname, their cyber CB handle, GarbageMouth43. (The names may have been changed to further protect their anonymity.) Why do people think they can completely forgo any social graces when they are hovering over their computer keys eating fried Twinkies and sipping their YooHoo?

I know these are the same people who have thrown down that candy wrapper or that soda can that you see in the street--the very same person who emptied their car ashtray in the parking lot of the grocery store. In my utopian world, a magical police spotlight will automatically flash a high beam on them as they toss their dirty paper towel on the bathroom floor. Who doesn't get satisfaction when they pass the person who cut them off on the freeway as the offender is pulled over at the next exit?

Maybe I'll just forget about politeness, too. Maybe I'll aspire to be one of those old people with their filter system removed. I'll make loud judgmental comments at the grocery store about other shoppers' children and the items they have in their cart. There's something freeing and anonymous about that, isn't there?

Did I pay extra for that advice I got on the train?

2009-11-16T07:10:00.000-05:00

It's prime commuter time on the train into Penn Station, so there is a certain set of rules, both spoken and unspoken.

I'd have to say, at the very top of that list would be the No-IPod-loud-enough-to-seep-out-of-your-headphones rule. But even higher on chart is the it-goes-without-saying-no-loud-cell-phone-talking rule.

One thing that I've noticed is that the cell phone rule violators usually fall into one of two categories. They are not having one of of your run of the mill casual conversations with a friend or coworker. They are either:

(1) having a heated/tearful/pleading conversation with a spouse/partner/significant other

or: (2) giving unsolicited/wise/arrogant advice.

The woman committing a category 2 prime-time commuting train transgression was about three seats ahead of me, but projecting very well at all angles. And she was giving funeral etiquette tips and advice. You gotta love that.

It went like this:

"People who go to the cemetery just assume they're going to the house after." (Hmm...I think to myself. Better write this down, lest I forget...)

Then she elaborates, of course:

"Not everybody goes to the cemetery. I'm just sayin'--it's tradition." (So what advice was she giving anyway? That the advice recipient should take a cell phone to the graveside service to give the caterer a last minute head count?)

Then she goes on to give the person tips of the Hallmark nature:

"The best thing is, I say as little as possible."

Now at this point, I'm practically falling out of my seat to get these magical words of condolence. What will they be?

Sadly, I never hear. We go into a tunnel and her phone service must have been cut off. I'm left with the realization that I'll never have the proper words of condolence filed away. And if I don't have those perfect words to utter to the bereaved, how will I show my face at the cemetery? Because I now know, if I don't go to the cemetery, I can't automatically assume that I will go back to the house after...

We All Need a Little Help From Our Friends

2009-11-13T07:25:00.000-05:00

Who doesn't need a little help from their friends? Those of us who know Susan VanHecke as a music journalist and the co-author of ROCK 'N' ROLL SOLDIER wouldn't be surprised to see her pen a story about the Beatles. In AN APPLE PIE FOR DINNER (Marshall Cavendish, 2009), Van Hecke journeys across genres to the English countryside.

True, it is the English countryside, but the Fab Four are nowhere in sight. What VanHecke does have is a delightful cast of characters. Based on the English folktale, "The Apple Dumpling", VanHecke makes the story her own, using the universal themes of friendship and working together to take care of the needs of others. As Granny Smith sets out to make an apple pie with nothing but a basket of plums, she makes trades along the way to ultimately get what she needs and a whole lot more.

The illustrations by Carol Baicker-McKee are whimsical and unusual. Done in 3-D, the mixed media bas-reliefs make a perfect compliment to VanHecke's visual setting. I found myself wishing I could be a fly on the wall of the art studio to watch that world come to life.

As an elementary teacher, I've found that stressing the need for empathy as well as just a desire to help out our friends and neighbors is something I hope to get across to my young students all year long. Susan VanHecke has done this so well in AN APPLE PIE FOR DINNER. I would highly recommend it to parents and teachers, alike.

Please read on for interview with the multi-faceted, Susan VanHecke...

A picture book seems so completely different from what I’ve seen you do. Is this something you have thought about doing for a while?

You know, I never even considered writing children's books until I became a mom. Four years ago, when my kids were 2 and 4, I was reading a ton of picture books. Some I loved, others I thought were pretty lame. So I thought I'd give it a try.

Coming from the world of grown-up book publishing, I knew I'd have to streamline my writing style. To practice, I took several of my favorite folktales and retold them. I tried to use as few words as possible, and tweaked details – characters, settings, action – to update the stories.

An Apple Pie For Dinner was one of those exercises. Marshall Cavendish bought it as an easy reader and asked fabric artist Carol Baicker-McKee to create the amazing 3D bas-relief illustrations. I never, ever dreamed that my less-is-more writing exercise would become such a beautiful picture book!

You have written a lot about the music business and rock and roll, in particular. Are you a musician?

I come from a musical family. My mom is a church organist, choir director, and piano teacher. My dad has a beautiful tenor voice and sings all the time at church. My older and youngest brothers play drums. My other younger brother is a professional guitar player. I took piano lessons for many long years growing up, and also played clarinet and bassoon in school band.

While I was studying film at New York University, I did an internship at Island Records, then went to work at a music industry PR firm in NYC after graduating. There, it finally dawned on me that I could actually make money doing the thing I loved most – writing – about a topic near and dear to my heart – music. I became a freelance music journalist, an article turned into my first book, and it kind of took off from there.

I must confess, though, that I haven't touched a piano – other than to dust it – in years!

You must have come across some interesting people while doing your nonfiction research work. What is one of the most memorable things that you discovered?

While working on The Girl In The Box, my historical fiction for middle-graders, I learned that my ancestors in western New York were abolitionists. Not only were they abolitionists, they were "stationmasters" on the Underground Railroad, hiding fugitive slaves under their farmhouse and in a swamp on their property. This was at the time of the Fugitive Slave Law, where harbored runaways were considered stolen property. My relatives risked their livelihood, prison time – perhaps even their lives – to help slaves to freedom. It still blows my mind, and makes me so proud.

You mentioned on your website that you often work with a co-author and help people tell their own stories. What is one story that has stuck in your mind?

Actually, I worked on two books back-to-back that touched me deeply. The first was Roadwork: Rock & Roll Turned Inside Out, the memoir of rock photographer Tom Wright, who befriended guitarist Pete Townshend at Ealing Art School before Pete formed a band called the Who. Tom would go on to travel with the Who and other famous rock bands – the Stones, Faces, Joe Walsh, the Eagles – shooting the most extraordinary pix (now a part of the collection at the Center for American History) and developing them in hotel bathrooms.

It was probably inevitable, but Tom wound up with a major drinking problem. There's a point in the book where he's sleeping on the gravel floor of a friend's garage, living on red wine and cigarettes, estranged from his wife and son, questioning his art and his life. Such giant talent, such enormous sadness. Thankfully, Tom pulled himself together, but re-living that time with him was very painful.

After Roadwork wrapped, I went straight to work on Rock 'N' Roll Soldier, a Vietnam War memoir for young adults I co-wrote with veteran Dean Ellis Kohler. The things those young soldiers – teens, a lot of them, like Dean – were forced to see and do just broke my heart. No wonder they didn't, and still don't, want to talk about it. It's indescribable.

Dean had repressed some devastating memories and I hated having to make him relive them. On the other hand, my hunch is that our dredging up those experiences together and making them public, sharing them, trying to make sense of them via the book, might have actually been helpful (Dean's such a stoic, I'm not sure he'd tell me if that were the case or not).

Regardless, our veterans – of all wars – deserve our utmost gratitude for what they've endured and sacrificed for our country.

THE GIRL IN THE BOX has such an intriguing title! Can you tell us a little about it.?

It's based on the true story of a 7-year old slave girl who, with her pregnant mother, hid for 21 days in a wooden box in the back of a horse-drawn produce cart as they were smuggled from the Washington, D.C. area to Warsaw, New York. The plan of those who helped them was, no doubt, to get them to Canada. But when they arrived in Warsaw, the mother gave birth to a son – in my ancestors' kitchen! – then died soon after of tuberculosis.

Since there was no way an infant and a 7-year old, both considered fugitives, could fend for themselves in Canada, the Warsaw townsfolk rallied around the children and raised them as their own. Like all who assisted runaways at that time, these people were putting themselves and their families at great risk in order to do the right thing.

The girl grew up to become a beloved member of the community and married a cousin of W.E.B. Du Bois, civil rights activist and co-founder of the NAACP. It's really an incredible story.

The research for this book has been especially challenging, though, as not many records were kept regarding the Underground Railroad. It was just too dangerous for all involved. So I've been digging extra-deep – which I really enjoy. I almost turned a cartwheel when I discovered the pair's actual "runaway" advertisement in an 1850 newspaper!

If you weren’t a writer and editor, what would you be?

Maybe an architectural historian. I'm a sucker for old houses, have renovated two. I live in an historic neighborhood, and want to adopt every "stray" home in the area – you know, those grand old beauties that just need a little love?

For fun, I like to research the homes' histories – who built them, who owned them, who welcomed new babies and saw relatives off to war and celebrated graduations and weddings in them. I know, it sounds a little crazy. I'm a certified research-aholic!

Stay Away From the Tunnels

2009-11-02T06:58:00.000-05:00

"Don't go in the tunnels," Mom said...And since we were such well behaved kids, we never went anywhere near them. Sure.

They were part of our apartment building and they used to be fall out shelters--tunnels that ran underground from one apartment building to the other.

"Go play. Dad is trying to study." Mom would shoo us out of the apartment, so we really had no choice...did we? It was the heat of the summer in New York and we didn't have a television.

Sometimes my brother Tim and I collected kids along the way. Nobody ever asked where we were headed. The forbidden was always unspoken.

The laundry rooms for the apartment building were down there, but there wasn't very good lighting, and the tunnels had a damp, moldy feel to them. And it echoed down there. How great is that? Perfect for playing hide and seek. The fact that none of us was supposed to be down there, combined with a creepy, dimly lit area that used to be a bomb shelter really cranked up the excitement meter on the game.

I can remember feeling such relief when we ventured back out into the hot sun. Kind of like we had defeated a villain or something down there and come out unscathed.

So when my friend Margaret and I went suburban exploring a while back and we found the abandoned house with the Keep Out sign, it was the tunnels all over again. Don't go into the house. My mom's voice came up loud and clear in the back of my brain. Hmmm...we really had no choice, did we?

My Brother is Still Kicking My Butt

2009-10-05T20:06:00.000-04:00

Three pages a day. If it's good enough for Patricia Reilly Giff and Linda Sue Park, it's good enough for me! I figure if I set out to do three to five a day, I'll be able to come up with a solid two--easy...right? I'm going to also allow myself to adhere to the Anne Lamott SFD (loosely translated, "crappy" first draft) rule.

And here's another thing...my brother is completely kicking my butt in the blogging area. Not only is he incredibly prolific, his entries are incredibly not SFDs.

So...to keep up with this standard I've set, I need to maintain the 5:15 am start. As I pointed out to my friend, Laura, there is nothing pretty about 5:15.

This morning, I wrote about a page and a half, then went on a quick run to jumpstart the creative juices. So I'm running along the sidewalk in the neighborhood, and I see some kids emerge from the bushes across the street. I recognize a couple of them right away. They are now middle schoolers, but they were once my first graders. Something is up across the street, but being middle-schoolers, nobody is likely to squeal. So the best thing for me to do is to let them know I am on to them. As soon as we make eye contact, a tiny glimmer of panic flares up on their faces, because they know what I do; once you are in my first grade, I am forever your teacher. So I pick up the pace on the sidewalk. "Hi guys!" I call out.

"Hi," they say, nervously, wishing without a doubt they hadn't strayed from their backpacks at the bus stop.

"What's across the street?" I ask, freezing them to the sidewalk with my first grade teacher/Tony Soprano eye lock.

"Oh, nothing," one of them squeaks, weakly. "We just wanted to see what was over there."

Lame excuse, my teacher eyes tell them. Because a couple of them have lived down the street from that swamp their entire lives.

"Your feet must be wet," I say. "I'm sure you won't be going back there again, since it's just a big swamp."

They laugh nervously, trying unsuccessfully to avert their eyes from mine.

"Have a great day at school," I tell them. Don't worry, my eyes say. I'll be by again tomorrow.

ROCK 'N' ROLL SOLDIER

2009-10-04T14:53:00.000-04:00

The dinner table at our house was centrally located, with the kitchen behind my dad, and the living room television directly behind me. There was a definite routine to it. My brothers and I sat in the same places and the television was always on, permanently tuned in to the evening news, which was the closest I ever got to Vietnam.

I have several close relatives that served in the military in Vietnam, and not one of them was willing or able to say much about it. But Dean Ellis Kohler and Susan VanHecke do in the new young adult memoir from HarperTeen, ROCK 'N ROLL SOLDIER.

It's a good thing my family is pretty self-sufficient, because I had to force myself to put this book down. VanHecke and Kohler had my undivided attention from page one. I truly felt the grit and visceral emotions of a kid just out of high school as he lands knee-deep in Qui Nhon, Vietnam, a newly trained nineteen-year-old military policeman.

Before Vietnam, Kohler, like so many young adults, had dreams of making it in the music world, in a legitimate rock and roll band. And he was living his dream, having landed a national record deal. But his life was one of bad timing, because before he and his band could set foot in the recording studio, Kohler received his draft notice.

But he never feels sorry for himself. He sets out to get a band together-- a fully-functioning, touring rock band in the middle of the muddy, mosquito-infested war.

So here is what kept me reading...it wasn't just the fast-paced action that held me...it was the incredible voice. I was there in Vietnam like I'd never been during the evening news at my dining room table. I was in the makeshift club, listening to Kohler's band, The Electrical Banana, wanting to go put their record on my stereo. Kohler and VanHecke gave me an unusual glimpse of the humanity of the war, from pondering who the not-so-obvious enemies were, to coping mechanisms the young soldiers would acquire to keep from losing themselves.

This book will stay with me for a long while.

Driving to Sunday School in the Chevy BelAir

2009-09-14T07:04:00.000-04:00

My favorite quote from yesterday's first day of Sunday School. The five-year-olds were looking at their new children's bibles..."I've got two of these God books at home."

Whether you went to CCD or Hebrew School or Sunday School...you could probably insert your name into my story. First of all, you got the new shiny shoes. I loved my new church shoes. We weren't poor, but we didn't have a lot of extra money to toss around, so my mom was always screaming at us about not going outside and scuffing them up before we pulled out of the driveway in the station wagon.

I remember exactly what my brother looked like in his. He used to walk, looking down at them, with a big smile on his face. I was just thrilled that I didn't have to wear my ugly everyday saddle shoes, built to last and to survive a nuclear explosion. I'd tried to destroy those things. I'd get up to an earth-shattering speed on my bike, careening toward the vacant lot at the dead end of our street, and at the very last second, I'd slam the toes of those saddle shoes down on the pavement and skid to a stop. Yes, they were scratched-up a bit, but my mom would just smile with her wry, I'm-on-to-you face and get out the polish. I think that polish she soaped them up with had liquid concrete in it, because they always seemed a little heavier each time.

So back to the driveway... You'd think all would be well in the Haywood station wagon. New shoes...it's Sunday...supposed to be a day of rest and reflection. My dad will tell you there was nothing restful about the Chevrolet BelAir on a Sunday morning. That was when all the fights broke out. It usually started with our older brother not wanting to go...or maybe someone had gotten grass stain on their good pants trying to act out their best NFL plays in anticipation of the afternoon television marathon. Then an all-out battle would break out in the back seat. No seat belts in the Chevy, so when my dad took a corner, there was the inevitable sliding into your brother. And my older brother was king of the painful finger flick. He could thump you a terrible one in the arm with virtually no detection from the front seat. Then there was always a good amount of sharp kicking. We usually arrived at church with my dad careening around the corner, one hand barely on the steering wheel and the other trying to take a wild swipe at anything in the back seat. One big plus to not having seat belts was you could slide swiftly on the vinyl and out of his reach. Thinking back, I'm surprised my mom didn't get out at the first stoplight and jog off into the sunset. Whenever I see a mom with a tight smile on her face on Sunday morning, I know exactly what went on in their car.

I wore my black patent leather shoes yesterday, but my Honda CRV is not the same. I miss that Chevy BelAir. Thinking back, if I would have had any sense, I would have positioned my saddle shoes in the driveway behind the back tires. Those saddle shoes are probably in some landfill near Auburn, Washington. I can see them sitting right on the top, virtually unscathed and still shining with my mom's seventy-two coats of cement polish.

The Tweet of Anxiety

2009-09-05T11:06:00.000-04:00

I am fighting off Internet-based anxiety this morning. Do I know how to Twitter? Can I...should I figure out how to Tweet?? There's this really frightening feeling trying to surface in my brain: if I add one more thing to my technology challenged list, will my life turn into a retro Twilight Zone episode? Will I wake up one morning and find that the line between cyberspace and reality has been permanently blurred??

Running always reduces my self-imposed anxiety, so I go out for a nice long jog. As I'm going along, I picture this weird Twilight Zone scenario. If I do succumb to one more Internet-frenzied time suck, will I only be able to talk in web speak? Instead of deep conversations with my cousin, I'll only be able to say, "LOL, Trish. OMG . Let's TWEET-UP. TTYL." And on my runs, perfect strangers will start "following" me, waving a file folder, trying to get me to look at their questionable pictures. Then more people will join in the chase, trying to give me crucial information about how to enhance/alter one of my body parts that I may or may not have.

Someone honks their car horn at me and zaps me back to real time. An actual person! Yay! Someone I know! A friend who is giving me a real-life wave!

There's a chance for me, yet. All is not lost. I'm going to go home and write TWO snail mail letters...and two chapters for a book that will be on real paper with a nice, sturdy hardcover and book jacket...with real pages that you can turn and smell the newness or the unmistakable library shelf scent...

...Uh oh....what was that? You know TweetDeck makes a very appealing and realistic sound...

My Brother is a Facebook Addict

2009-09-03T07:02:00.000-04:00

Okay...this is totally cheating...I did not write the following blog....but I did keep it in the family. My brother wrote it. He's a year younger than me, so we spent a lot of time together as kids. You have to read it, because it shows, in a few short paragraphs, why my childhood was never boring and always an adventure...

Click HERE

Harmony Book Reviews

2009-09-01T05:54:00.001-04:00

Today I am guest blogging over at Harmony Book Reviews. Click here to find out how she's giving away a free copy of ALSO KNOWN AS HARPER...

Everything Hurts

2009-08-27T21:09:00.001-04:00

I can't move. I tried to climb the stairs to change into my running clothes, but my body was fighting back. Why do I always forget how young a six-year-old is? First graders are wonderful and funny and the first day of school is absolutely exhausting.

My favorite quotes from today:

"Will you read us another book?"

"I used to be a black belt, but it got lost."

"I like your toenails."

"I loved everything today, especially recess and lunch and P.E.."

"There is no video arcade at Niagara Falls."

"Can I call my mom?"

"I like it here."

"My cousin goes here. Can I go find her?"

"You have lots of pencils here."

So...I'm off to change my toenail polish, sharpen my pencils, and try to come up with some lessons that are more interesting than recess and lunch and P.E....so I can go back and do it all again tomorrow.

You CAN Go Home Again

2009-08-17T18:04:00.000-04:00

The building was different. It was just a few feet from the one I remembered, but it was still the Auburn Public Library and it was where I got my first library card.

You had to be able to write your full name, first and last, to get that coveted library card. And you had to be six. I can remember standing in front of the children's librarian's desk; I can even remember exactly what the form looked like. And then I got it. I listened dutifully to the rules-of-the-card as Mrs. Barnhardt slowly handed it to me.

And last Tuesday, I was back at that library with my first published book, ready to share Also Known as Harper with the teen writing group. Or so I thought.

As I was walking in, a woman behind me had her hands full and dropped one of her books. I pointed her out to my husband. "Let's go help her." And when the woman looked up, it was someone I hadn't seen since I was in high school. An old neighbor and friend of my mom's. I thought running into her was just a coincidence as my mom passed away over ten years ago.

...Until all the other people started walking in. The first woman stood very still and smiled at me.

"You don't know who I am, do you?"

Let me just say, I am not a crybaby. It takes a lot to get my tears flowing. But it was my first grade teacher, Mrs. Kelly.

And then came my third grade teacher, Mrs. Henderson. And the principal of my old elementary school, Mr. Kuhlman. And my junior high English teacher, Miss Olsson. And another teacher, Miss Mielke, and a high school teacher and more friends of my mother's.

"I tried to get ahold of your sixth grade teacher, but she must be out of town," Mr. Kuhlman said.

So I read from my book. I read to the people who had taught me how to read and how to write. It doesn't get any better than that.

There's more, but I must save it for another blog.

Don't pay any attention to the old saying, because you definitely can go home again.

Wordage That Makes You Squirm

2009-07-31T08:59:00.000-04:00

Some might call it creative wordage. Others might call it the massacre of the English language. I just call it word pet peeves. These are particular expressions that are the equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard or aluminum foil and fork tines against an amalgam filling.

I once knew someone who had a gift for changing words. She did this really creative thing where she would add an extra syllable or two to a perfectly good word. Talking to her always left me scratching my head, thinking, hmmmm...have I been saying it wrong all along? She said things like, "I'm going to go cook the chicken on the rotisserary."

I like to periodically work one of my cousin's pet peeves into our conversations. But then I have to run, because she gets really annoyed. She hates it when someone says, drive careful. "It's drive carefully!" she'll yell after me as I'm making my getaway.

My friend, Penny, likes to get people to say things a different way on purpose. She's got my entire extended family now referring to the Internet as the Internets. It's a mystery how she does it. You say it once, and you automatically have to keep saying it that way.

A few small things that make me wince (when adults say them--kids have a free pass until they get to upper elementary school): "kindeegarden", "I brung it with me", "I lied on the beach", "I have an idear" (I don't care if you live in New England--there is no r on the end of idea).

I've gotta go now. Me and my computer got to search the Internets for some good idears.

The Outdoor Confessional and Teachers With Unusual Names

2009-07-29T11:20:00.000-04:00

Sometimes when I'm running, I pray. People passing probably think I'm a crazy neighborhood lady talking to herself, or possibly that I can't be without my cell phone for my workout and I have a very cool hidden micro headset. I don't say the things I think God wants to hear, either. I say all kinds of stuff. Things I'm happy about, things I'm proud of, maybe even things I'm embarrassed about. And unlike my husband who tunes me out when he's had enough, I'm pretty sure God stays in it for the long haul. It's all very relaxing--not in a scary priest-behind-a-screen sort of way. More like a cool-Dominican-priest-who-smokes-cigars-while-he-chats-at- your-college-dorm-nonjudgmentally sort of way. Two things that I believe before I totally exhaust the four credits of philosophy I took in graduate school: God doesn't hate anyone and He appreciates a good joke.

A totally unrelated blog paragraph, but one definitely worth sharing was my conversation with a six-year-old boy at my husband's softball game. The kid was climbing around on the metal bleachers. I tried to distract him as he climbed to the top, backless one. "What grade are you in?" I asked, willing him to take a couple of steps down to safety.

"Kindergarten." He shook his head at me like I was insane. "Whaddya think?"

I kept going, because it was clear he had spunk, which could make things interesting. "Who is your teacher?"

He took one step down. "Her name is Mrs. Poop." He raised one eyebrow. "She poops her pants."

"Realllly...." I say. "Do they know about her down at your school?"

He took a step back up and ignored me.

Another woman was listening in and smirking.

I shrugged. "She must have tenure," I said.

The View From Outside the Pawn Shop

2009-07-21T10:37:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting at my favorite organic cafe. The inside is gorgeous--decorated in peaceful, healthy shades of green. But I prefer one of the two outside tables. Not so pretty out there on the sidewalk, but totally worth it. Why, you might ask? Because it's directly across from a pawn shop. It's a book waiting to happen.

A tall pair of bongo drums is prominently displayed in the window. Kind of sad, really. What if that bongo music was the only thing that made someone happy, and they were reduced to hocking them?

As I'm contemplating the tragic, downward spiraling life of the bongo player, one of the restaurant owners comes out and gazes across the street, smiling, because he knows exactly what I am doing. "I once saw a guy carrying in a suit of armor," he said. "I swear to you."

That took some deep thought. "Did he carry it in under his arm?" I tried to picture it.

"It wasn't really full-size," he told me. "For the longest time, I wanted to go in and buy it. I wanted to put it in my bathroom or something."

I tried to imagine my husband's face if I did something like that. "I've got something I need you to bring in from the car," I'd say. I doubt that he'd be surprised. Especially after the lime green Formica table I brought home from the antique store (just a few steps away from the pawn shop, by the way). I'd been on my bike when I saw it, so I had to go back for it. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one in the family who likes it, but I don't care. Green Formica makes me happy.

I started to go back to my tofu wrap when business picked up at the pawn shop. An SUV came zooming up the street and screeched to a halt in the middle of the road. A woman is driving and a man is in the passenger seat. They are having a screaming fight, but I can't tell what they are saying. Finally, the man jumps out of the car and runs into the pawn shop. The woman tries to parallel park, badly. Then she gives up and speeds away.

Hmmmm. Probably her jewelry he was hocking, because she doesn't come back for him.

Great stuff. I'm definitely going back. Maybe I'll go in next time. Put something on layaway, maybe -- some firearms or a suit of armor or something.

Was that the Partridge Family Bus?

2009-07-20T11:27:00.000-04:00

How could the line be so long? I listened to the advice of my friend, Nadine (she's an amazing children's librarian and has never steered me wrong!), and I got there early...but apparently not early enough. After almost an hour, a casino employee came out. She obviously had no idea that David was actually expecting me and she neglected to let me go to the front of the line.

"I'm sorry," she said (in an incredibly un-sorry voice). "We have finished our regular seating."

"But you have tons of empty tables!!" screamed an over-40 woman wearing more makeup than I owned.

"Those are for our invited casino guests," the casino lady said in her go-home-you-loser-you-probably-only-play-the-quarter-slot-machine voice.

"What's an invited casino guest?" I asked my husband (who was incredibly thrilled to be there, by the way).

"Their high rollers, I guess," my husband said in his I-wish-I-was-watching-Sports-Center voice.

The woman in front of us turned around and shot daggers at the casino lady. "Does she really think a high roller is going to step away from the table to see David Cassidy? I'm staying in line."

I decided to wait in line, too, only to have my hopes dashed when the same mean Casino lady let almost everyone in front of me in, but stopped about 7 or 8 people in front of me. I felt like I was in a Seinfeld episode. My husband became Man of the Year right then, because he'd saved an amazing standing spot for me pretty close to the stage. I had to push past angry fans to get to him though, but it didn't matter. David was just a few yards away, singing "Point me in the Direction of Albuquerque".

My husband rolled his eyes when I sang along. "You think you're the number one David Cassidy stalker--I mean--fan?" He shakes his head hard and points to the tall blonde lady on the other side of him. (She was also singing along, but she was dancing, too--vigorously--and she kept yelling, "I love you, David!!). My husband tried to scoot away from her. "She keeps touching me," he said. "Maybe she thinks I'm David's brother. I kind of look like him, you know."

"No you don't," I said.

And at that very moment David Cassidy pointed right at me. Right as he was beginning "Echo Valley 26809".

But the absolute best thing--what I had been waiting for ever since I plastered my walls with his Tiger Beat photos--was when he sang, "I Think I Love You." I tried to rush the stage, but my husband held me back. I think I tore a hamstring.

It was definitely worth it.

"Guess what?" I said to my husband the next day. "Tom Jones is coming to town."

He bit his lip. "You're on your own for that one."

My Brother Will Make Fun of Me Unmercifully if I Write About The Following

2009-07-15T15:53:00.000-04:00

This is a working list of things that will undoubtedly cause my brother to make fun of me unmercifully if I include them in my blog:

(I'm not saying I have, just that he most definitely would...)

*Random musings about my cat, especially when he does that thing with his litterbox (how exactly does he know that I've just changed it?)

*How much I still love David Cassidy.

*The fact that late 60s/early 70s pop music is clearly underrated and one of the best kept secrets in American music history. (Actually, he probably agrees with that one.)

*Anything that has to do with heroes, unless they're the sandwich kind.

*The wildlife in my back yard.

*Stupid things that I'm doing throughout the day, like laundry, making dinner, checking my email (truly why do people think that's acceptable to put that on Facebook, anyway??)

Tag, you're it, Tim.

My Barbie Tenement House

2009-07-14T18:51:00.000-04:00

The Barbie Dreamhouse--who didn't want it? I kind of knew someone who had one, but she was a friend of a friend of a friend who wanted nothing to do with me. There was absolutely no possible chance I would get invited over to even look at it, much less have my Barbie and her posse of riffraff stink up that girl's beautiful pink plastic house.

But what my best friend, Leslie and I had was so much better. It was more of a Barbie tenement house, really; a kind of Hooverville for Barbie and her friends. I have never been an elitist--everyone could pretty much play: GI Joe, Skipper, and all the Little Kiddles. If you needed more kids in the family, there were always Leslie's green plastic Army men. We'd line them all up and pick, kind of like a slow, thoughtful sports draft. You'd think the actual Barbies would get chosen first, but it was the plain, sometimes ugly generic dolls that often got scooped up at the beginning. They were much more interesting, because they got to have tragic situations like incredibly mean or just dead parents.

Then we got to build the tenement house. It took hours, because you had to divvy up different areas of Leslie's living room. Everyone wanted the double decker end table, because that was an instant 2-story house. The piano bench was also a prime piece of real estate. There were some things that we saved in her closet and brought out each time. Like the big blue Tampax box that we'd made into a stove. Or the Kleenex box swimming pool.

Who needed the Barbie Dreamhouse? Our Barbies kept it real.

Tiger Beat Lives On

2009-07-09T16:42:00.000-04:00

I started to walk past it, but something on the sign caught my eye. It couldn't be. Could it? Could it really be David Cassidy in the flesh, coming to a casino near me? I don't normally do music reviews here. In fact, I don't think I ever have. But David Cassidy? How can I not?

I saved my 12-year-old birthday money and a good chunk of my babysitting money just so I could go down to the Piggly Wiggly and purchase the monthly issue of Tiger Beat on the day it came out. I wanted to be the first one of my friends to have the most current double-page spread of David Cassidy photos up on my bedroom wall.

My husband rolled his eyes when I said I was going to the concert. (He has a lot of nerve, because I'm pretty sure he had the Knight Rider up on his wall, or something a la Starsky and Hutch.) I ignored his eye-rolling and launched into "I Think I Love You". Do you think he'll sing it?? I asked him. (No response, as I'm sure he'd tuned me out partway through the chorus.)

I was all of a sudden desperate to dust off my "Cherish" album and play it, and I was cursing myself for giving away my old Partridge Family album to my cousin, Heather. My husband is always all too happy to make a stop at Best Buy, or any electronic supplier for that matter, but he zoomed past it when he found out I was planning on purchasing one of those turntable converter things.

But I perked right up when I realized that I-Tunes has all the songs ready for downloading.

The concert is next week which gives me plenty of time to brush up and create some amazing playlists. And Andy, don't even think about trying to hide my I-Pod.

Heroes

2009-07-02T12:23:00.001-04:00

"It's not my sharing day. Can I share?" She hopped from foot to foot beside my desk, so I could tell it was important.

"Sure." I pointed to the end of the first grade show and tell line.

"I've got something to tell." I could tell she was going to be a good public speaker some day, because she leaned into the crowd and made some good eye contact, making them all stop chewing their fruit snacks and fish crackers before she went on.

"I'm going to my grandma's house and I'm going to play cards."

She paused again for effect.

"And I think I'm going to win, because every time I play cards with my grandma, I win."

I wanted to ask her what kind of cards they were playing, but that was just opening up something I probably didn't want to have any part of.

"I'll take three questions," she said, scanning the audience.

They're now supposed to come up with real questions, not "telling" statements about themselves, but six-year-olds have their own set of rules.

She pointed at a boy who had his hand waving so hard, it had lifted him off his seat like a helicopter propeller.

"My grandpa was a marine," he said. He did a quick scan of the crowd to see if he needed to crank things up a notch. "They had a war and they didn't pick him. So now he's a hardware guy."

Grandparents are the best. They are the true American heroes. And you don't even have to be six to think so.

False Teeth, Poetry, and Formula 44 Cough Syrup

2009-06-25T07:29:00.000-04:00

It felt as if I had been waiting for hours, but it probably hadn't been more than thirty minutes or so. And when the train finally coasted into the station, my mother could barely keep me behind the safety line.

The conductor would put out the step for her and the first thing I always saw were my grandma's black, t-strap shoes. I can still hear the clang on that metal step as the conductor helped her down. There was no one like my grandma. My cousins and I were sure she loved each one of us the best. It got a little brutally competitive at times about who Grandma's favorite was, but all I knew was, when I met her at the train station, she was all mine for a few days.

She always stayed in my room. She slept in my bed and I got to sleep on a cot next to her, a TV tray of her pills and Formula 44 cough syrup between us. She'd take out her false teeth for my brother and me, as many times as we asked her! And she had a real corset. I used to get to help her lace it up in back, because she had severe arthritis and she was born without the fingers on one hand. I loved that hand, because it was smooth and warm and it fit inside my little kid hand. I can still remember how her watch looked on the wrist of that hand.

But the most wonderful thing about my grandma was her poems. She would tirelessly recite poems to me. Even now, I can hear the ebb and flow of her words. That's probably what made me love poetry. Someone recently asked me why I made my main character in ALSO KNOWN AS HARPER a poet. I said it was to give Harper a way to feel heard and not to feel invisible. I guess that's pretty much what we all need--someone to listen like what you're saying is the most important thing in the world...and, of course, to take their false teeth out as many times as you ask them to.

The Written Word

2009-06-14T16:18:00.000-04:00

I always said that first grade was the one grade I'd never teach. You are responsible for far too much. My mother was a first grade teacher. I'd see her up late every night, preparing and planning. Imagine my surprise when I was offered a first grade position nine years ago and I heard my voice say, I'd love to.

Now I can honestly say it's one of the most rewarding things I've ever done. There's nothing like teaching someone to read. I love seeing their face when everything starts to blend together and the light goes on. Sometimes it takes a while for things to start to click. But when it does, it's all worth it.

I love it when someone will hold up a book from the classroom and say, "Can I take this home?"

The written word. There's nothing like it.

Win a Free Copy of ALSO KNOWN AS HARPER

2009-05-25T18:24:00.000-04:00

Only five and a half hours until ALSO KNOWN AS HARPER! Oh...wait...I guess that's only a Twilight/Harry Potter thing. I don't think there's a midnight release party...I could, however, push back the basketball hoop and arrange one in my driveway. I might be able to get a few random neighbors and family members to come out...

The good news is...at 6:00 p.m. on Tuesday (May 26), Other Tiger in Westerly, Rhode Island will be having a launch party. Please join me!

Also, if you would like to win a free first edition hardcover of ALSO KNOWN AS HARPER, click "Follow" in the sidebar, or say "I already follow this blog" and leave your email address in the comment section for this post. I'll be drawing the name of one lucky blog follower on Monday, June 1 at midnight (okay maybe 7 or 8 p.m....I don't usually make it until midnight...)

My First Novel

2009-05-21T06:08:00.000-04:00

I was twelve and I had finally finished it. I remember knowing it was done, because I'd reached the magic number of one hundred pages. It was in my loopy cursive and extra-special, I thought, because it was on the colored notebook paper I'd convinced my mom to buy at the beginning of the school year. It was more expensive than the regular old white kind with the red line up the side, but my mom was an artist and recognized the importance of such things. And it had almost no messy erasures either, because I always got hundreds on my spelling test, and more importantly, I was definitely not into revision.

Then I told my friends and family that I was going to get it published. I believed that with all my heart--so much that I wrote to Judy Blume and told her all about it! Don't ever throw away your work, she told me. And I didn't...it's still in a green binder, and I look at it from time to time. For a long time, I kept it in the corner of my room where I could see it when I was writing. Maybe it was to remind myself about how great it felt to sit in that orange plastic chair in Mrs. Rinear's class, tuning out everything around me and getting my words down on paper.

Thank goodness I finally did learn to revise, because this Tuesday, I get to see ALSO KNOWN AS HARPER on a shelf. It's not those same one hundred pages from the sixth grade, which is a really good thing for the readers! The story on the pages is a different one, but my own story hasn't changed. I'm still someone who tunes out the rest of the world to try to get my words to take shape. By the way, I'd do anything to have one of those orange plastic chairs for my house!

If you are in the area, I'd love to see everyone at Other Tiger bookstore in Westerly, Rhode Island on Tuesday, May 26 at 6:00. (Maybe I'll read from the green notebook...)

Happy Birthday, Harper Lee

2009-04-28T20:52:00.001-04:00

Happy Birthday, Harper Lee! Today she is 83. Thanks to my friend, Waterford Public Library children's librarian, Nadine Lipman, for letting me know!

My biggest reader's dream is that Harper Lee has several rooms full of manuscripts in her home in Alabama, just waiting to be shared with the world.

What made the month even better, was I received a package on my doorstep from my editor at Henry Holt: preview copies of ALSO KNOWN AS HARPER. It felt very surreal to hold the actual hardcover in my hands...

I took ALSO KNOWN AS HARPER to school to show to my first graders.

"It's coming out on May 26," I told them.

A few looked mildly interested. Most just kept working on their drawings.

Then one boy raised his hand. I got really excited for about half a second, thinking they might actually be interested in my writing process.

"Yes?" I said. "You have a question?"

He looked toward the windows. "When's P.E.?"

Oh well. Back to more important business.

About an hour later, a boy came up to my desk. "Mrs. Leal? You want to hear something?" he asked.

"Of course I want to hear something," I said.

"It's really exciting." He bounced on the balls of his sneakers. "My book is coming out today!" All I have to do is finish the front cover and staple it on, and it's done!"

Wow. Things move quickly in the first grade publishing world.

Then the very next day: "Mrs. Leal?" The same boy sat down at the reading table with me. "Remember when I told you I had a book coming out?" He paused for effect. "Now I've got three."

A triple book deal. Maybe I should give him my agent's number...

Kicking Serious Butt on My Bike

2009-04-19T16:20:00.000-04:00

It was a perfect day for a bike ride. I was all by myself and pedaling at what I thought was a pretty good clip up a monstrous hill. Okay, it was a slight incline, but I was the only one around, so who's to know? ...Until this little kid comes out of nowhere. He's about ten, and he's on a shiny blue bike.

He doesn't look directly at me, but I know he's got me in his peripheral vision. I've got the lead, but he's gaining on me. I'm on my twenty-one speed and he's on his minus three speed, and I know I can take him. Then something starts to snap inside of me, and I realize I want to kick his butt.

I know it's in the bag. All I have to do is switch gears. I'm mid-shift and something washes over me... guilt...shame ...I don't know--maybe just the realization that he's ten and I'm...well...over thirty.

So I let up, ever so slightly, and he coasts by me--still only looking straight ahead ...but with a small victory smile on his face. Maybe I imagined it, but I think I heard, Sucker...

No Video Equipment Allowed

2009-04-16T21:09:00.000-04:00

I have been doing Tae Kwon Do for a while now, and I have my second degree black belt test coming up in a little over a week. I'm worried about the usual... that I'll freeze up and forget what I'm supposed to do, or the universal worry, that I'll make a fool of myself.

A couple of years ago, I took my first degree test. It went pretty well, except for that special part that my husband caught on tape and set to music. It was the second half of the test, and I was sparring. I was exhausted at that point, and I got side kicked pretty hard and went down. The soft mat was feeling quite good, but I made myself get back up. I was so happy for that part to be over, and it didn't occur to me that I'd have to relive it via videotape.

I should point out that my husband is somewhat of a computer genius, but he doesn't always use his knowledge for good. This was one of those times when his computer genius went to the dark side. He made the video repeat several times in a row; I just kept falling on that mat... over and over again. To make things so much more delightful, he added a nice cartoony sound effect. I could hear him, on the upstairs landing, in front of his computer, laughing really hard at his creation.

He's going to be frisked at the door of next week's test. No video equipment allowed.

An Interview with 2k9 Author, Sydney Salter

2009-04-09T18:50:00.000-04:00

Today is the first in (I hope!) a series of interviews with my FabulousAuthorFriends. My first interview is with fellow 2k9er, Sydney Salter.

Sydney's recently released debut young adult novel is MY BIG NOSE AND OTHER NATURAL DISASTERS. I'm not sure if she actually sleeps, because her middle-grade novel, JUNGLE CROSSING, will be on the shelves in September!

I actually caught up with Sydney (virtually!) on the ferry as she was traveling to Lopez Island. And yes, she was writing on that ferry ride...

Me: I fell in love with your main character, Jory, from page one. Is she based on anyone in real life?

Sydney: While Jory is completely her own unique self, I did give her my biggest insecurity from my high school years (I hated my nose!). Some of the things Jory does with her friends are things I did with my friends during my Reno High years. And, yeah, I did wreck a delivery van and a wedding cake on the same day. Except I'd only had the job for four days!

Me: Do you have a special writing place?

Sydney: I work at a messy table in my living room, overlooking my bookshelves, while gazing out at my neighbors walking their dogs. I also love to write away from home--at the bookstore, a noisy cafe, a ski lodge...Writing under deadline often means writing in creative locations. Yesterday I revised a chapter on the ferry boat to Lopez Island, Washington on my way to visit my brother's family.

Me: How do you manage your writing day?

Sydney: I race my two daughters to school, peek at a few emails, and then dig into writing or revisions until the end of the school day. If I'm working on a first draft, I aim to write about a chapter a day and I try to write seven days a week. If I'm revising, I try to work just five days a week. I also meet my writing group at our local bookstore once a week for tea, chat, and a bit of critiquing (although I don't share my work until I've completed an entire draft).

Me: Do you remember the first story you wrote?

Sydney: My mother saved My Fish Book, a nonfiction picture book I created as a child, but I really don't have other early stories. I still cringe at the awful story I wrote in a creative writing class after college about professional football-playing brothers. Shudder!

Me: What is one book that you hope your own children will read?

Sydney: I always resisted my mother's reading suggestions, so I've been reluctant to recommend books to my own daughters. I just want them to love reading! I do try to read books that they love so we can talk about them together. And we have a large selection of books to choose from...I rarely say no to adding a book to our collection.

Me: Do you have a mentor?

Sydney: Oh, wouldn't that be so nice? I have friends who have been with me since the beginning when our writing group met in the bookstore's children's section so our preschoolers could play (we've now happily graduated to the cafe area). Every few weeks I meet another group of writers for dinner. My agent also gives me a lot of support, and my editor makes herself available, too. And, of course, I have my online friends from the Class of 2k9!

Me: I love hearing stories about "The Call". Can you tell us what that was like?

Sydney: My agent called me while I was in the airport waiting to board my flight to the SCBWI Conference in LA. I loved sharing my good news with so many writers! My husband flew out for the weekend and met me in the hotel bar with champagne.

Me: Can you describe your works-in-progress?

Sydney: Right now I'm revising another humorous YA called SWOON AT YOUR OWN RISK. It's about a girl who has broken up with five boyfriends over the past year, so she's afraid to risk falling in love again. But, of course, there's this guy... The girl also has to deal with the repercussions of having her grandmother, a famous advice-columnist, move in with the family for the summer. If all goes well, it should hit the shelves in 2010.

Me: You have a second book coming out soon. Is it anything like MY BIG NOSE?

Sydney: My second book is a middle-grade novel called JUNGLE CROSSING. It's a coming of age story about a thirteen-year-old girl who reluctantly travels to Mexico with her family on vacation, intertwined with an ancient Mayan story about a royal girl who is stolen, enslaved, and must find her way back home. Both books share a sense of humor and themes about family relationships.

Many thanks to Sydney Salter for stopping by The Backstory. So drop by your local bookstore and ask for MY BIG NOSE AND OTHER NATURAL DISASTERS. I think you will be drawn in, just as I was, by her great voice and sense of humor.

Going on a Bear Hunt

2009-04-01T17:12:00.000-04:00

I'm always afraid I'll forget, so I write down what they say on stray Post-it notes and in the margins of my teacher plan book.

We were back at the first grade reading table with another non-fiction book which seems a bit ironic, since such great fiction comes out of our non-fiction book talks. The books were open to a picture of a large brown bear.

"Once my dad shot a bear," my favorite fiction talker said. "Right in the butt." (I let him keep going, because it was getting good...) "I think it was in North Carolina." He leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully. "Or maybe it was at his house, 'cause there are all those woods back there." (Tons of bears in the woods of suburban Connecticut!)

Then, since he had our attention, I think he was starting to have regrets that he hadn't claimed to be the one to have shot the bear. So he upped the ante: "I've been in training for a BB gun," he said. "A shock gun." Then, just in case we were unclear about the "shock gun"..."The shocking pellet has a message that it sends to the brain and it tells it not to come back."

I'm not really a gun person, but that shocking pellet idea sounds kind of cool. I might have to get me one.

Keep the Dream Alive

2009-03-26T19:22:00.000-04:00

"I'm playing baseball."

He always starts talking to me when the line is coming in from the playground, before he's even crossed the threshold of the classroom. This tells me he plans what he's going to tell me each morning near the four square court. He always repeats himself a few times, because it's important and I might not have heard.

"I'm playing baseball and I'm going to get one hundred dollars for every game, 'cause that's what they get."

"This spring?" I ask.

"Yep. A hundred dollars. That's what you get."

I've volunteered at the snack bar for Little League, and I know what they get per game. I can only hope that his mom will clear things up before the first game is over. I hate to see him looking at the real after-game compensation--a paper cup with lukewarm orange soda.

I take the coward's way out and nod my head vigorously and say, "Wow! Cool!"

The teacher can't be the one to crush their hopes and dreams. When I was in the sixth grade, I was on my way to swimming lessons. It was our neighbor's turn to drive. He wasn't my teacher, but he was the Assistant Superintendent of Schools. I had just finished my first novel It was a hundred pages written mostly on colored notebook paper. I told that Assistant Superintendent that I was going to have it published. I was so proud. And then...he laughed. Real nice. Luckily, my amazing sixth grade teacher, Mary Rinear, said, "Of course you'll have a book published. You're a writer."

I didn't bother calling the carpool driver when ALSO KNOWN AS HARPER was published. But I did call my old teacher. I found her, still teaching at a school 3,000 miles away from me. She said, "I'm not surprised. You were always a writer."

Chatting with the Middle Schoolers

2009-03-19T07:35:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I went to talk about ALSO KNOWN AS HARPER with a group of kids at my daughter's middle school. "Do you want to go with me?" I asked my daughter.

"No. That's okay." She said it politely, but firmly.

I was thinking that writing a middle-grade novel might put me up a little higher on the coolness meter....but...well, you know. It's middle school and I'm her mom. Would it help if I was Stephanie Meyer? I asked myself. Probably not.

The book club kids at her school were great. But the best thing about them, was they were kids just like me a while back. (Only they called it Junior High way back then in the Dark Ages...) They lived and breathed books, just like I had (okay, like I still do!). They were smart and well-spoken and they listened so intently. My favorite part was toward the end of my spiel when I said, "Do you have any questions for me?"

"Actually, we have nine," one of them said.

The rest nodded in agreement. You gotta love that. Not "ten", or "I don't know", or the ever-popular shoulder shrug. Nine. They were curious, they were thoughtful and they were readers.

One of their teachers asked if they'd like to take a picture. We were in the library and one of the girls points to a prominent area of shelves. "How about in the Twilight Zone?"

Stephanie Meyer, you're killing me...

But a teacher so gracefully said, "I think the light might be a little too bright over there." She pointed to the bookshelves next to the circulation desk. "How about over there?" she said. "...under that big sign that says NEW..."

The Library Book

2009-03-12T18:56:00.000-04:00

When I walked into the soup kitchen from the parking lot, I knew people would be lining up early. With the New England wind chill as intense as it was, the director always opened the doors before the usual time. The cafeteria area became their crowded living room, and people arrived early and stayed late.

One thing I've noticed in the past few months is that tempers seem to flare easier. There is more than the usual amount of tension in the air.

But there is one guy who always seems the same. He always takes the time to come to the counter and thank me. He tells me about job leads, and he always has a smile for the clients and the volunteers. But one big thing I've noticed about this guy is that he almost always has a book in his hand.

It's a library book. This guy has practically nothing, but he has the library. That's one thing that hasn't changed for him.

The library. It's free. It always has been. How lucky are we?

I Was in Love With Moose Freed

2009-03-04T16:32:00.000-05:00

I was in love with Moose Freed. You remember him. He mowed the lawns in the neighborhood in Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. Margaret loved him, too, which made sense, because in my mind, Margaret and I were best friends. So it was just logical that we'd have the same taste in men/older teenage boys/neighborhood lawnmowers.

Moose was an easy one for both Margaret and me. We could worship him from afar, Margaret from the other side of the lawn, and me from the safety of a book. Margaret was new in town, much younger than Moose, and a bit on the shy side--all distinct disadvantages. I was at a distinct disadvantage where Moose or anyone like Moose, aka, a boy was concerned. I had glasses and braces. And they weren't those nice little stick-on braces that they have now. The kind they have now can be practically invisible, undetectable. Let me assure you that if there was any hint of a light source nearby, my braces were plenty detectable. Those shiny silver bands went around each and every one of my teeth and they came with something really special: headgear. And mine wasn't the semi-acceptable kind that was somewhat hidden around the back of your neck. Nope. Mine had a form-fitting cap of sorts that rested on the back of my head and fed two giant wires to my mouth. I guess you'd have to see the "before" picture of me on my website (www.annhaywoodleal.com, if you don't believe me...it's the picture of the kid with the yo-yo) to fully appreciate the severity of my orthodontia. I didn't have to wear the headgear for the full twenty-four hours in the day...but it left a beautiful imprint on the back of my hair to make it look as if I was still wearing it.

Each of the fifteen plus times I read Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret., I waited for Moose to really notice Margaret, as if Judy Blume had magically changed the story on me. If there was a chance for Margaret, maybe there was a chance for my 13-year-old self!

Things I Probably Don't Want to Know

2009-02-26T07:29:00.000-05:00

There's something about relaxing with a good book at the reading table that makes a first grader tell all. But there are some things I probably don't want to know.

You might think a non-fiction book about buildings would be dry--just plain boring. But not to a first grader. We turned to a building with pillars and a statue. One boy said, "Hey--that looks like a courthouse. My grandma's been to a courthouse, because my cousin was standing up in the car." My advice to myself at that point was to ask no questions and turn the page.

His friend couldn't have cared less about the courthouse or the kid standing up in the car. He was busy examining his arm. "I'm sort of Italian," he blurts out. "Because Italian people have skin like mine. I'm like my brother--he's half Italian." He pauses for a second and looks up at the ceiling, as if he is searching his brain. "My dad is....what's that language they speak in Pennsylvania?"

"English?" I ask. (I should know better than to get into this conversation.)

"No. That's not it," he says (with a disgusted you-should-know-'cause-you're-the-teacher-tone.)

"You know," he says. "The people we had a war with?"

Another thing about six-year-olds is that the line between fantasy and reality can be very hazy. Eight-year-olds aren't much different. I had the King of the Liars in my class when I was teaching third grade. He was great. Everyday he had been on a different adventure. If he didn't catch my attention on the first go around, he upped the ante. "I went down in a volcano in a helicopter," he told me one day. Then, of course he had to add, "...while it was erupting."

My friend told me to start calling him on it. "Ask for proof," my friend said.

So the next day he tells me he has a skeleton. "I found it in a swamp," he says. (Seattle is pretty wet, but there isn't much swamp land that I know of.)

I remember my friend's advice. "Bring it," I say. "Bring your swamp skeleton to school."

The next morning I am working at my desk and I hear a knock on the window behind me.

There is the King of the Liars, holding up a not-all-the-way-decomposed cat skeleton.

I guess the line between truth and fiction is a hazy one.

My Big "Problem"

2009-02-18T06:59:00.000-05:00

"You have a problem," my husband says. "...a big problem."

Hmmmm, I'm thinking. With two casinos practically within walking distance of my house, you're pointing out that I might have a book problem?? A problem with buying books??

And yes, I do use the library(ies). I just like having my own lending/owning library, too. I get very cranky and disoriented if I don't have a book/stack of books/whole case of books within reading distance. I love looking at Dorothy Parker's face as I'm drinking my morning coffee.

I've had this book "problem" most all of my life. Ask my brother. I made him play library with me when we were kids. I taped pockets for check-out cards inside the front covers of my books and I scooted my tin bookshelf to the entrance of my bedroom for my circulation desk. It was serious business for me. I even made him fill out an application form for a library card, and I'm quite sure I charged him a ten cent fine when he didn't make it back down the hall to my room in a timely manner.

And I have an enormous pet peeve, that I'm pretty sure stems from my serious librarian days...I can't stand it when someone folds down the corner of a page to mark their place. It's like fingernails on a chalkboard for me.

The smell of Spring in the air is great. But the smell of a new book...there's nothing like it.

Phone Talkers

2009-02-12T07:38:00.000-05:00

"I gotta go," my sister-in-law said. "I'm in the grocery store and I hate phone talkers."

My sister-in-law should have been in the dentist's office with me a couple of weeks ago. I was waiting for my daughter, when the woman sitting across from me in the waiting area got a call. She talked for a while, apparently forgetting she wasn't in her own living room. Then, quite suddenly she "came to" and looked around her. She glanced at me, resentfully, as if my presence might be interrupting her "flow".

Then she gave me the look that I translated as, "you're trying to listen in, aren't you." (Well, DUH, I'm a writer). So she stood up and moved to the toy alcove across the room. This obviously gave her permission to talk even louder. The poor receptionist had to raise her voice to speak over the phone talker. But my favorite part was when she was called in to talk to the dentist. She didn't even miss a syllable. She got up without tripping on any toys, pushed past the receptionist and plowed through the inner office door, the phone still attached to her ear. Wow. Impressive.

If she would've gotten off her phone for a second, I could've asked her a very pressing question. What had she done in her life to become so important? I could've taken notes, told my friends the secrets to her success, etc. I want to be that important. I think I'm going to get one of those things that hooks onto my ear. Hands free. Yep, that's what I need. Then I can pick through the apples at the grocery store and still keep talking. Or, hey, maybe I'll just leave my phone in the car, and make my calls when I'm in a quieter, more private place. Like church or the library.