Archive for October 23, 2008

Jigsaw Jones: What’s In a Book Cover?

One of the central themes of this blog is that whatever touches my life as a writer is valid content. Or as my pal Matthew Cordell might say, “blog fodder.” So, thus: I recently got this note from my editor at Scholastic, Matt Ringler:

TITLE: Jigsaw Jones Electronic Mystery: The Case of the Secret Skeleton
AUTHOR: James Preller

COVER CONCEPT:
Jigsaw Jones is sneaking into the janitor’s storage closet. We see him standing in the doorway. It’s dark but Jigsaw has a flashlight. In a back corner, lit up by the beam of light is a plaster human skeleton, hanging from a stand by its head. The skeleton should be the size of a normal person, like the ones used in science class to study anatomy. Jigsaw looks frightened. We can also see the normal paraphernalia that would be in the storage closet (i.e. mops, brooms, buckets, etc.). Visibly crumpled in the skeleton’s hand is a piece of paper (a clue).

And that’s it, one of the early steps toward designing a book cover. The manuscript, you should know, is not yet finished. In paperback publishing, it often isn’t. The book won’t be out for a year — but covers need to be placed in catalogs and brochures; the marketing guys need ’em in well advance. And you don’t want to mess with the marketing guys.

Matt and I discussed the “cover concept” over the phone. Then he had to present it at a meeting to get approval before taking the next step. Which is, I’m pretty sure, speaking with the art director who will contact the cover artist, R.W. Alley.

NOTE: At this point, I decided to do a quick Q & A with Matt Ringler.

Hey, Matt, thanks for helping me out. So what’s involved with getting this particular cover concept approved? Is it anything like, for example, meeting with the Spanish Inquisition?

I’d say it’s more like the “History of the World” version of the Spanish Inquisition, you know, with Mel Brooks singing and fully choreographed synchronized swimmers.

See, that’s where we part ways, my friend. I prefer the Monty Python version, with soft cushions and comfy chairs. [See clip below.]

The trickiest part is making sure everybody is happy. In this case everybody means: the author, the editor (me), the editorial director, the art designer, the manager of the Book Club this title is going on, and a creative director. After all those people sign off on it, the illustrator gets to add another important opinion. I don’t know how many times you’ve ever been around seven people who fully agree on anything. Personally, I have never seen it happen.

The Seven Dwarfs seemed pretty high on Snow White. [That’s the Disney spelling, btw.]

Well, you know what Randy Newman would say about that.

The Dwarfs would have hated the song “Short People” — with unanimous agreement, I’d bet. Too bad they didn’t design book covers.

It’s rare to get full agreement on anything, and that’s a positive thing. Different perspectives often work to improve a book cover. From most conversations I’ve had, many people are under the impression that an editor only corrects spelling and grammar mistakes. While that helps with the job description, I think the most important quality needed in an editor at this stage in the process is diplomacy. I’m happy when all of those people are satisfied and the cover concept arrives on my desk with all of the necessary signatures.

Once the concept is approved, what next?

The next step is to discuss it with the art designer. The designer will then discuss the cover ideas with the artist. A time line will be set. A rough sketch will then come in to the designer, who will place that art into the template of the book cover. At that stage, everybody will look at it again to make sure it works.

I have to say, I love this process stuff — how crayons are made, or Hershey’s Kisses, or whatever — I find it so interesting how many small steps are taken to make a book happen. When do you think the rough sketch will come in?

Most people aren’t aware of the hundreds of minor decisions that are made before each book is published. The time it takes to get a sketch depends on several factors: how fast the artist works, how busy they may be at that time, the book’s schedule, when the final art is due, etc. The standard time is about three weeks to a month. It is important to leave enough time for the illustrator to make any changes that may be needed.

Thanks, Matt. I intend to keep my loyal blog readers — who, clearly, and I don’t think this is saying too much, are willing to lay down their lives for me — posted on this whole process. We’ll be talking soon (and not just about the New York Mets, and our shared pain, but about actual work, too!).

Thank you, Jimmy. I always look forward to our conversations, and I know we will one day have one about a championship Mets team — even if we are old and retired by then!

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NOTE: Here’s some links to the follow-up posts in this seven-part series: One, Two, Three, FourFive, and Six, and Seven. Read them all and experience the awe and wonder of the creative, collaborative process!

Fan Mail Wednesday #17

Here’s one that just came sizzling through the wires, presumably typed by an older sister:

Hi!
My brother Tommy is a huge fan of yours. He is reading
Six Innings and is enjoying it very much. My sister Kathy is reading Jigsaw Jones and is also loving it!! Thanks for your time! Please right back.

From, Mary Beth

*Live * Laugh * Love*

Here’s my reply:

Dear Mary Beth, Tommy, and Kathy,

Thanks for the note. This is exactly what I’m talking about, America! Everybody in the house should be reading my books. Even the pets! Wait, I take that back — especially the pets!

Seriously, Tommy, I’m glad you are reading Six Innings. I vividly remember when I played Little League. Once when I was ten years old, the youngest kid in the Majors, I lost a game that I pitched, 1-0. I was crushed. I remember sitting in my dad’s car after the game — hiding, really — fighting back the tears that welled in my eyes. The opposing team’s pitcher, Michael Aldridge, who was 12 years old and the best player in the league, came over and shook my hand. He told me I pitched really well. But I couldn’t even look at him. All I did was sniffle. It’s amazing that I can remember that so perfectly, 37 years later. It must have been important, you know? That’s why I wrote that book. For a lot of boys like me, those games mean, or meant, a lot.

Kathy, that’s cool you are loving my Jigsaw Jones books. As a matter of fact, I am writing a new one, The Case of the Skeleton’s Secret. Anyway, I’ve never had anyone fart in a Jigsaw Jones book. Or burp, for that matter — even after more than 250,000 words. But I’m thinking about writing a fart scene after I finish this letter. Why? I can’t possibly think of a good reason! Except I want it to sound like this . . . poof . . . the softest, quietest sound ever. It’s more about the reaction than the, um, gaseous event. So it’s important WHO farts, you know. Obviously, this requires some DEEP THINKING. So I’ll write it, but I can’t promise the scene will stay in the book. We’ll see what my editor thinks. Do you think it’s too gross? I’m afraid it might be. But like they say, “Everybody farts.” Except for my wife, who simply refuses. I’m worried that one day she’ll explode.

Mary Beth, you must be a great sister. It was nice of you to write the email for Tommy and Kathy. I like that you end your message with: *Live * Laugh * Love* But I think you forgot some other essential L-words, like: *Lollipops * Lungfish * Lilliputian * La-de-da * Leg-of-Mutton * and Ludicrous.

Just trying to be helpful.

JP

New York Public Library Top 100 of 2008

Each year, the Office of Children’s Services of The New York Public Library announces its list of “100 Titles for Reading and Sharing.”

Why do we care about that?

Because I just got a phone call from Liz Szabla, my editor at Feiwel & Friends, telling me that Six Innings: A Game In the Life was named to the Children’s Books 2008 list, along with one other F & F title, Brooklyn Bridge by Newbery Medal-winning author, Karen Hesse. As Liz said to me, “You should be thrilled. That’s a list of one hundred titles, out of the, like, five-gazillion books that are published each year.”

Who can argue with that kind of math?

The full 2008 list is not yet available. For a gander at the 2007 list, click here.

And to see a way cool video of Karen speaking with Jean Feiwel about Brooklyn Bridge, start clicking like a wild person right . . . here.

“I Cup”

It is a special milestone for a parent when his youngest child, his baby, asks with a mischievous grin, “Dad, can you spell I see — no, I mean, wait — can you spell, ‘I cup?'”

I watch while she waits for it. And naturally, being Dad, much closer to Goofus than Gallant, I stumble right into it.

She laughs, and I smile at her laughter.

A few days later, while chomping on a chicken sandwich, my little girl asks, “Dad, do you like seafood?”

Does she think I was born yesterday?

But it’s a dance I gratefully perform. “Yes,” I reply, dimly. “I love seaford.”

And so she shows me.

And again, that sound — her laughter.

Readings: Autism

Recommended reading: A fascinating article in The Sunday New York Times Magazine, October 17, 2008, titled “Reaching an Autistic Teenager,” written by Melissa Fay Greene.

The article focuses on a small private school that serves — educates — teenage boys with autism or related disorders. When I started working on Along Came Spider, I was initially interested in isolation, kids who were cut off from their peers. I began to read about autism, sensing that it would help me understand (and in turn, build) a character in the story, Trey Cooper. For some reason, I connected with aspects of autistic behaviors, although I had little real-life experience. So the file gets thicker. And now it goes electronic.

Is that how writers work? Do we work on ideas? Or do the ideas work on us? The images crawling into our dreams?

Here’s one basic sentence from the article, and I’ll tell you why it resonates:

Children with autism — especially Asperger’s — are famous for all-consuming interests in Matchbox cars, bus maps, train schedules, oscillating fans, Civil War battles, baseball statistics, black holes, dinosaurs, chess or Star Wars.

Don’t all boys do that? Didn’t I? But somehow these boys who reach the point of clinical diagnoses– and I say “boys” because boys are four times more likely to be diagnosed with autism than girls — go farther, spinning, spinning, unspooling out. Obsessed with trains? Baseball statistics? Dinosaurs or Star Wars? Sounds like every boy I’ve ever known. Sounds like me. It’s just a matter of how far along the spectrum we travel. But we’re all on that same track. Connected by that invisible thread. Separated only by degrees.

In some limited but meaningful way, I identify.

Two more excerpts:

“I had a very bad night!” Edwick yelled from the floor. “Nightmares all night!”

“What was disturbing you, Edwick?” Nelson asked.

“What do you think?” Edwick cried in exasperation. “It’s St. Patrick’s Day!”

“What’s upsetting about that?” Nelson asked.

Edwick dropped his shoulders to relay how tiring it was to have to explain every little thing. “Leprechauns,” he yelled.

Hey, that’s funny. I mean, yes, it’s real, it’s poignant, it’s heartbreaking, and it’s funny.

Ty Martin, 14, is a cute and curly-haired guy who lives in terror of loud or strange noises. The faux thunderstorm in the produce aisles at the grocery store makes it difficult to take him shopping. A classmate’s coughing or a siren in the distance distracts him from schoolwork. His mother often was obliged to retreat to a windowless basement room at home, hugging and soothing her son when the outside world — especially lawn crews next door with leaf-blowers — overwhelmed him. “He doesn’t like crows,” Judy Martin told me last spring. “If crows are at a park, he’ll go from happy to berserk in five seconds. If we go to a restaurant, we’re all on edge, praying the bartender doesn’t turn on the blender.”

Here’s my favorite line in the article:

“You meet one child with autism and, well, you’ve met one child with autism,” says Linda Brandenburg, the director of school autism services at the Kennedy Krieger Institute in Maryland.

As a writer, dealing with one character named Trey Cooper, I felt a sense of obligation to the community at large — an impossible obligation to fulfill. There are so many different stories to tell, and I only told a small part of one. I couldn’t possibly get it all right. Couldn’t be complete or comprehensive. In the end, you have to accept the limits of a book, the limits of storytelling itself, the limits of my own skills.