I love hearing from readers of Six Innings, maybe because it’s the kind of book that I would have read as a boy that age. I feel a connection to those guys.
I replied:
Dear Drew,
Oh my, time flies. It looks like your letter was set aside for a while. I hope you are not to upset with me for the delay.
I was glad to read how you found the book, Six Innings, in the library, just picked it up and figured, Why not? Nice that you compared it to a rollercoaster ride, that’s a strong image and, I think, an appropriate one. A good book should bring you up and down, have slow parts and fast parts, wicked turns and gentle pauses. It should take you on a ride.
As a writer, I’ve often thought of my readers as passengers on a rollercoaster. They pick up the book, strap into the seat, and it’s my job to take them on a satisfying ride – and safely back again.
I don’t know, however, that the book had a point, per say. I think you get out of it what you get out of it, and it’s different for every reader. I didn’t really have a message in this one, though I did want to honor the friendship between Sam and Mike, as well as pay tribute to the game I love.
Thanks for your letter. I’m sorry for the delay in my reply. Despite my best efforts, every year I seem to reach a point when I get hopelessly behind in my fan mail. I guess my goal of “keeping it real” isn’t the most efficient approach. I once printed up cards that I’d sign and send, but it felt too phony, like I was working in a factory rather than responding to a real person.
Anyway.
I can’t believe you played in a State Championship game! Wow, that must have been an exciting experience. I know a few players I’ve coached who would throw up before big games, that crazy mixture of emotions, fear and nervousness and over-the-moon excitement. I hope you played well (and avoided hurling).
“Play ball,” yes, that’s what it’s all about. Just going out there, playing a game you love, and giving it your best, win or lose. The idea, I think, has been with me all my life. I grew up loving baseball, and still vividly remember Little League games from my childhood. As an adult, I’ve coached my three children in Little League, Travel, and All-Stars. I also spent seven years coaching a men’s hardball team. Coached more than 500 games, easy. Baseball offers up a world that I know. Also, I’ve read a ton of books about the sport, so it felt like a dream come true to contribute something to the bookshelf in my office that’s dedicated to baseball. There I am, next to writers like Roger Angell, Daniel Okrent, Bill James, Roger Kahn, Charles Alexander, Lawrence Ritter, Arnold Hano, Mark Harris, and many more. All of us pulling on the same oar.
Since you asked: You might enjoy my book, Bystander. It’s pretty much written at the same level as Six Innings, and is set in a middle school. Click here for more information.
If you missed Part One of the Alan Silberberg Interview, it’s absurd for you to be here. I mean, really. Please follow the link to catch up.
Don’t worry, we’ll wait . . .
Late in the book, Milo gathers together a number of objects that remind him of his mother, that press the memory of her into his consciousness. Where’d you get the idea for that?
I think that comes from the fact that I really don’t have anything from my mother. Things did get thrown away or given away and it really was like she died and then she was erased. When I was writing the book I started to think hard about my mom and tried remembering objects that evoked her to me. That became a cartoon called “Memories Lost” which were all real objects from my childhood that connected me to her. After making that cartoon, it struck me that Milo would want to go out and replace those objects somehow and that’s why he and his friends hit up the yard sales.
There is a scene toward the end in one of my books, Six Innings (a book that similarly includes a biographical element of cancer), that I can’t read aloud to a group because I know I’ll start to slobber. It’s just too raw, too personal for me. And I suspect that might be true of you with certain parts of this book. I’m asking: Are there any moments that get to you every time?
I think there are two specific parts of the book that choke me up, though lots of little places make me reach for tissues. The chapter where Milo goes to the yard sale and finds a blanket that reminds him of the one his mom had will always get to me. My mom had that blanket, the “pea patch blanket” in the book — so as Milo wraps himself in it and remembers her getting sick — I am always transported to the image of my mom and her blanket. The second place in the book happens in cartoon form, when Milo remembers the last time he saw his mother, which was when she was already under anesthesia being prepped for surgery and she has had her head shaved and he can see the lines for the surgery drawn on her head like a tic tac toe board. That image is directly from my memory of my last time seeing my mother. It’s pretty heavy stuff.
And so powerfully authentic. Milo describes that period after his mother died as “the fog.” Was that your memory of it?
I think trauma at any age creates a disconnect inside us. I think the fog settled in for me slowly. As the initial shock of my mom’s death wore off a sort of numbness rolled in over me. It was a survival technique to cover all that hurt stuff with an emotional buffer and I think that’s what I mean about “the fog”. It’s like I knew there was a pain in me but I didn’t want to touch it or think about. It was just always there as a dull feeling deep inside. The Fog.
Speaking of fog, you watched a lot of TV as a kid.
Ha! My two sisters called me “the walking, talking TV guide” because I always knew what was on and what channel. I’d never be able to do that today with all the satellite and cable channels — but back then, I was an authority on the network TV schedule!
We never got it at my house, but I remember being jealous of families who had subscriptions to TV Guide.
Absolutely! We didn’t have a subscription either but I would read the one at my friend’s house up the street and just soak it all up so I could be the authority for the upcoming week back home! Even before my mom’s death I loved TV — but after she died it really became a safe place to get absorbed into the fiction of other people’s lives. I loved cartoons and comedies the most back then.
You’ve written for television in the past. In what way do you think that helped when it came time for you attempt a novel?
The best thing about being a reformed TV writer is I already knew how to structure a story and more importantly, thanks to my animation writing especially, I was already really good at setting the scene and making sure to also describe the action. Scripts rely on good dialogue so that was a skill I’d already started to hone. When I started Pond Scum (my first book) I thought of it as a long episode of a great TV show and I let the chapters drive the story as if it was a script.
When I talk to students on school visits, I’ll sometimes do a quickie “show, don’t tell” lesson, and I’ll describe it as creating a movie in the reader’s mind — in part because my skin crawls when I hear it described by authors as “painting pictures with words.”
Yeah, the writer as painter image doesn’t quite skew in my head either. And I bet the kids really relate to your idea of imagining a movie in their mind. That’s nice.
I wonder, what did the novel format allow you to do that, perhaps, you couldn’t achieve while writing for television?
TV is dictated by the time of each episode, whether it’s 30 minutes or 60 minutes the writer is being told how many pages to write and where the commercial act breaks appear. There are producer notes and network notes and it really is a bit of writing by committee. I am really thankful for my TV writing experience — but I so appreciate the freedom of writing a novel where I can do whatever I want and am not restricted by time issues or rules of what my characters can and can’t do. I am so much happier being in control of the world I create when I write a novel. Of course there are notes that must be worked with from the editor at the publishing house — but I have always found that to be a collaborative experience to make the book better. In TV — notes were usually a headache and lots of times they never even made sense! My book editors, Donna Bray on Pond Scum and Liesa Abrams on Milo — have made me a better writer and I am so thankful to them for that.
Can you think of anything specifically that they taught you?
I think one of the best lessons I’ve gotten was to stay true to the kid voice of the story. Sometimes I let my characters talk the way I’m thinking and the situation is all kid, but the language comes out too adult. Maintaining the kid POV is always in the back of my head thanks to my editors.
Yeah, I have that struggle, too. Once I created a second-grade character with rheumatoid arthritis who had a fondness for lemon cakes, Jay Leno, and bargain-priced resort wear. I had to rethink it. Question: How do you know when something’s funny?
That’s the million dollar question! I wish I knew that answer. I think I have a good sense of humor so if something strikes me as being funny — it usually is at least amusing. I’m not too big on dissecting jokes or looking for rules of comedy (with the exception of “the rule of three” and “words with a “k” sound”).
Yes, the classic scene from Neil Simon’s “The Sunshine Boys” with George Burns and Walter Matthau. I can’t find the exact quote, but the basic idea: Alka-Seltzer is funny. Chicken is funny. Pickle is funny. L’s are not funny. M’s are not funny. Lettuce is not funny. Cucumber’s funny. Cab is funny. Taxi, not so much.
I saw the play version on Broadway and wish I could remember the cast but my mind is a blank. But it was funny. Very funny. As far as knowing when something is funny or not — I also like to run things by my wife and son — if they don’t at least crack a smile I know I am way off base!
I have this memory from college. This guy Dave used to introduce me to people, saying, “This is Jimmy. He’s really funny.” And I hated that. I finally had to say, like, Dave, dude, you’re killing me here. First, the pressure was ridiculous, and secondly, I didn’t want to play the clown. I can be funny at times, but it has to come in naturally. That’s how I feel about writing, too. I think I’m in trouble when I try to be funny.
Yeah, I was that guy at times but thankfully I can’t tell jokes so no one puts me on the spot anymore. I’m more of the guy who stands in the back of a group listening and then I add a zinger to the conversation — I’m a punch line guy who then shrinks back into the shadows!
Well, then feel free to say something funny, Alan. I’ve been waiting pretty patiently. Zing away. I sense that my Goofball Devotees are becoming restless.
No, really. This is when I bomb. The pressure to be funny will always result in the most un-funny thing possible, which I think I just proved with this last sentence.
No, that was hysterical, I laughed just watching the sweat pore off your head as you tried to think of something funny. Like the great scene with Albert Brooks in “Broadcast News.”
There’s a great line by one of the camera crew in that scene: “Nixon didn’t sweat this much.”
Back to Milo, did you worry that maybe you’d be blowing the appeal of your funny story by including the grief aspect. I mean, did some voice whisper in your ear, “Man, this is not the way to sell books to boys.”
Yes! As I mentioned, the initial goal was to just write a “funny book.” But once I realized what Milo’s story was — that he was the boy whose mom had died — it became a challenge to tell the story in a way that was both touching and funny. I stopped thinking about whether it would sell or not and concentrated on telling the story from a true place inside me. I had some deep seated confidence that this book would find its place and it was meant to find its way to Liesa Abrams at Aladdin. She embraced Milo immediately from her heart. I think that trying to write a “commercial” book is the worst way to go about it anyway.
So you think I should scrap the Geek Supernatural Romance I’ve been trying to write?
What? No vampires or zombies in it?
NOTE TO SELF: More vampires, jump on zombie craze.
Now, where were we? Oh yes, Alan Silberberg! Haven’t you gone home yet? How important are the illustrations to the book’s appeal?
I think it was important for me to add my cartoons to this story, in other words, be able to write and illustrate a book. Though I think the story could stand just fine as a text-only book, it’s clear that cartoons help get the book into certain young hands. But apart from that, I really felt the cartoons could add a dimension of story-telling to the book (not just funny eye candy).
You’ve said elsewhere that the words usually come first, that you are truly illustrating the story. But how does it affect you as a writer, knowing that you’ll have those illustrations? I’d think it would help with, say, a joke or funny moment. You’d be delivering the punch-line two different ways.
Exactly. I find that when I know there can be a cartoon anytime I feel like it — the writer part of my brain and the cartooning part kind of team up. I get a voice inside my head telling me, “Hey, you could punctuate that joke with a great doodle!” Certainly I found with Milo that there are parts of the book where I was having a hard time writing until I imagined how a cartoon would help the chapter be lighter or in some cases the opposite, where a cartoon could tell the sadness of the story in a visual way. I guess the writing was a little easier because I always had my cartoons to fallback on if I got stuck.
Any new books from you on the horizon? Or have you gotten up the courage to finally pursue that career as a catwalk model?
My legs are my best asset! Actually, I am almost done with the first draft of a new book for Aladdin. It’s another book that will include my cartoons but it is much more of a silly book than Milo. It’s a buddy story about two friends who want to be the school cartoonists and get more than they bargained for when their wishes come true.
Lightning round: Adam Sandler or Chris Farley?
Gonna have to go with Sandler.
Ouch. Okay, chin up: Ali or Frazier?
I’ll go with the Kelsey Grammer guy. Never liked Ali McBeal.
Separated at birth?
I think that’s Ally but . . . let’s move right along. The Halloween treat that makes you go back to the house a second time?
Has to be Nestles Crunch!
Top of your head, five favorite books?
A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole and Walker Percy, Adrian Mole by Sue Townsend(any and all), Half Magic by Edward Eager and N.M. Bodecker(it was the first book I remember loving as a kid), The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, Bird By Bird by Anne Lamott.
Five favorite movies?
The Big Lebowski, Memento, Back To The Future, Monsters Inc, Defending Your Life.
First album you ever bought as a kid?
The Who’s Quadraphenia.
Five most played songs on iTunes? No cheating.
“This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody)” Talking Heads, “I’ve Had It” Aimee Mann, “New York City Serenade” Bruce Springsteen, “Generator (Second Floor)” Freelance Whales, “Into The Woods” Soundtrack.
Nice list. It’s often a surprise what floats up to the top. Full disclosure, my five most played includes four Dylan tunes (“Love Minus Zero/No Limit,” “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues,” “Positively 4th Street,” “Tell Me That It Isn’t True”) and Van Morrison’s, “And It Stoned Me.” So: you live in Montreal, which surprisingly is still in Canada. Five favorite places in the city?
1) Schwartz’s has the best smoked meat sandwiches on the planet. 2) Westmount Library lets me fall asleep in their cozy chairs. 3) The Old Port of Montreal for the relaxed tourist ambiance of Europe with a Canadian twist 4) Shaika Café, where I like to write and watch the other people write while they watch me 5) This chair in my house. Love it!
Alan, thanks for stopping by. I’m glad we got a chance to meet. I’ll be watching your career and rooting for your success. Please accept this set of bamboo flatware as a parting gift. You’ll love giving your meals a tropical twist with real bamboo-like handles! The complete set serves one (and might be missing a fork). Shipping not included.
Some links to more interviews conducted by yours truly:
I’ll admit it: Sometimes fan mail can get a little repetitive, become a chore. That’s not a complaint, I realize how lucky I am, and blessed, but there’s a lot of letters I don’t share here with my Nation of Readers.
That changes now. Beause this letter is awesome in about six different ways:
I replied:
Gunnar,
Okay, that’s flat-out the coolest letter I’ve received in a while. Just to be clear: you were reading my book, got tapped on the shoulder, so you set down the book (careful not to lose your page) . . . and SHOT A BEAR!
Like, a real bear?
Somebody like this:
With teeth like this:
Oh, dear. I think I might have climbed a tree instead. But, wait. Black bears — which is what they’ve got in the Upper Peninsula — can climb trees, can’t they? In which case, maybe I would have stayed home and watched reruns of The Office.
Clearly, you are a gifted writer. I hope that you write about some of those experiences in the woods, the suspense of the hunt, the companionship with your grandfather, the waiting, the shot, all of it. I understand that it’s a gorgeous part of the country. Frankly, the hunt is a world I don’t know much about, but it appears to be something you have in your blood, even in your name. It’s one of the stories that only you could tell, and I think that’s what all writers seek, those stories that are uniquely our own. That’s rich soil for our writing.
Here at James Preller Dot Com, we have a policy, # 6.12:
6.12: When someone tells you that they shot a bear, and then that same person (possibly still armed) asks for a signed copy of your book, and he includes the book and a SASE in the letter . . . then you SIGN THE BOOK!
And if you want my wallet, Gunnar, here you go. Just don’t point that thing at me.
Thanks for including your book report on Six Innings. I love it when a review quotes a section of the book, it makes me feel like a real writer.
My oldest son is a high school senior, gearing up for college. We’re in the application phase, after whittling down the choices to eight colleges. It fell upon me to write the parent perspective, which I did a while back.
Not sure why, but today I thought I’d share with you what I came up with:
PARENT PERSPECTIVE
Early one night in May, Nick sat in the stands beside his stepmother, Lisa, and watched as his fifth-grade brother, Gavin, hit his first home run of his Little League career. It was a booming shot, high and far. As the team’s manager, I stood in the third base coach’s box and worked to contain my elation. Play it cool, I told myself. So I smiled at Gavin as he rounded second base, gave him a low five when he turned the corner and headed home. A wonderful moment for my little guy, and a thrill for any parent. A minor dream realized.
Seven years earlier, I had coached Nick on that same field. He needed a courtesy runner back then, unable to run the bases, as he was in the midst of chemotherapy treatment for leukemia. Nick was first diagnosed at age 26 months, went through three years of tough medical treatment, then relapsed again in fourth grade. Two more years of chemo, far worse this time around, spinal taps, toxic drugs, surgeries. Nick weathered it all with stoic calm, his bravery mixed with a child’s denial. Nick’s steadfastness pulled him through.
For Nick, cancer was something to get through, and move beyond; something to willfully ignore and, finally, push back into the dark closet of the past. And yet it is always present, will always be a central fact in his life. Those five hard years, the setbacks and the struggles, the blows to his confidence and self-esteem. And then the slow, steady rise from those depths to where he stands today, on the cusp of a great future.
I’m sure that every father has visions of his child’s successes. The home runs hit, the tests aced, the races won, the pretty girls kissed. We all look at our children and see the great possibilities; we dream of the potential realized, the wild hopes fulfilled and surpassed. Yet on that same baseball diamond, Nick was never a star. He didn’t hit well, didn’t even move well. He struck out too often. Nick’s face was puffy, bloated from prednisone, muscles achy from vincristine and methotrexate. He missed a few games due to fatigue, too sick to rise from the couch (though he rarely missed a day of school).
As a parent of a child with cancer, I had to reconcile some of those dreams of stardom with this new reality: Nick would not be hitting blasts over the wall, circling the bases to return home to the cheers and admiration of his teammates. That’s my boy, that’s my boy. No, it became enough –- more than enough –- that he simply played, a boy on the green grass among other boys, searching the sky for high-flying baseballs.
After Gavin returned triumphant to the dugout, I glanced in the direction of my wife. Lisa smiled at me, gave a little wave. And beside her sat Nick, a seventeen-year-old boy who had come to watch his little brother play. Not just to watch, but to root for Gavin, to hope and dream of home runs like the rest us. When I looked at Nick’s beaming face, I could not help but remember all that he’d been through. And I did not see any jealousy in his eyes, or envy, or the slightest trace of bitterness. Nick only showed pure, fierce pride in his little brother, maybe a little awe, and a lot of happiness.
He’s a good guy, that Nick.
In his life’s journey, Nick has traveled far, with many miles ahead. And I’m here to say that I’m proud of the young man he’s become.
That’s my boy, that’s my boy.
As far as I’m concerned, he’s already knocked that ball over the wall, high and far.
