Here’s 90 seconds of joy, a great voice and a great smile, to send you off on the weekend. I can’t wait to show this clip to my daughter. Thank you, Anna from Indiana.
Now get outta here!
Still hanging around?
I guess you should know that the song is by Lulu and the Lampshades, and that you can see these two young women perform their original by clicking here.
This cartoon from The New Yorker by David Sipress perfectly captures one small aspect of my domestic life. I handed it to Lisa and she exclaimed, “That’s us!” The man’s cluelessness, the wife’s (over)reaction to his cluelessness, and the lack of satisfying resolution. Lisa seeks closure; I contend that it’s myth: so we go round and round. It’s the dance we do. But at least we’re dancing, and still laughing about it.
I can’t wait until I’m an old man sitting in a rocking chair on my front porch, complaining about how the world’s gone plum crazy. That’s my default position: I’m naturally a cranky old man, even from when I was in diapers, my body just hasn’t caught up with my world view. Yet. The problem is that my essential attitude, “we’re all going to hell in a hand basket,” is so much more forgivable in an octogenarian with a bag of soggy Ritz crackers on his lap.
Anyway, the world is changing fast. Mac Kids — whoever or whatever they are, or that is (it’s so hard to keep track of publishers these days) — has come out with its Spring 2012 catalog in downloadable form. As I understand it, there’s no print version. It’s kind of sad, in some ways, since I hold a long affection for the object, but in other ways, very cool and democratic. Because you (yes, even mere you) can click right here and have access to the whole thing on your desktop.
There’s a bunch of cats available, but the one I’m referring to looks like this . . .
(I wonder, as an aside, if this new delivery system will be a case of reaching more people but less powerfully? I guess that’s the publishing question, measuring the trade off.)
Once you download the catalog, you’ll find that my hotly-awaited YA debut, BEFORE YOU GO, gets the two-page treatment, including a nifty little Q & A with the author. See pages 38-39. You’ll also get a first peak at new books by Philip C. Stead, Amy Schwartz, Lewis Buzbee, Rachel Vail, S.A. Bodeen, Kate Banks, Phillip Hoose, George Ella Lyon, Ralph Fletcher, Alexandra Day, and many more. Seriously, it’ll make your head spin. So many books, so much talent and creativity. It’s an honor to be a small part of it.
Here’s the Q & A:
What was your inspiration for the story? What scene came to you first?
I imagined a fatal car crash on a lonely road. I have sharp memories of driving around with my friends at that age, a little bit of Springsteen’s “Darkness on the Edge of Town,” that feeling, the boredom and the rebellion. So the book starts with a quick, dramatic scene, then skips back six weeks into the past. Readers then meet the four teenage characters that were in the accident. The interesting thing is, that was my exact experience as a writer. I was like, Who are these kids? What’s their story? I had to write the book to find out.
People keep saying teen boys don’t read. True, in your opinion? Who is the perfect reader this novel?
A year before I began the book, the owner of a local bookstore made an offhand comment to me, “You should write a teen relationship story told from a boy’s point of view. Everything in YA these days centers on girls — there’s nothing realistic for boys,” she complained. So, yeah, after kicking it around for a while, I took up that challenge. I hope this is a story that will appeal to both boy and girl readers.
There’s a slight melancholy aspect to Jude. He suffered a loss in the past.
Yes, Jude is grappling with ghosts from some years before. A sister who drowned. In a way, this book’s arc is about our witnessing Jude open up again after he initially presented himself as somewhat shutdown, closed. Jude was half-asleep, and this is the summer of his awakening. For me, I’m the youngest of four brothers and two sisters. I’ve seen two of my brothers pass away, and I gave the eulogy for my father. When our family gathers now, it feels to me like a ship that’s listing to the side; we never sit in the water quite right; we’ll never be whole again. I think that’s how Jude feels, too.
In the story, Jude is a runner. Are you?
I slog, achy and complaining, Jude flies. I built up the running them during the first revision, it was there in the beginning and naturally grew into a larger metaphor, I guess. Jude’s father runs; so does Jude. But sometimes in life you’ve just got to spread your feet and take root. For Jude, that might mean going to the end of the earth — the ocean’s edge — and making a standing, and choosing life.
Lastly, I want to offer my open-armed welcome to all the debut authors and illustrators included here: Gina Rosati, Anna Banks, Emmy Laybourne, Mar’ce Merrell, Christine Tricarico, Ken Geist, Lynne Kelly, Jennifer Bosworth, Sarah Wylie, Leigh Bardugo, and anyone else I might have missed. What a thrill, what a great moment for you and your proud family. Congratulations. Enjoy it. Have fun. And don’t hesitate to shoot me an email if you have any questions, or comments, or whatever. But no, in advance, I have no idea how to read one of these small-print contracts. I just sign the damn things, cross my fingers, and hope they don’t take away my house. (Still missing that first born, a bit. He was kind of cute. But, Live & Learn — that’s what I say!)
I mean:
Good luck!
I love soaking up all the “best of” lists that come out this time of year, all those recaps of the year in film, music, art, and books. It gets expensive though, because I try to load up on all the stuff I missed. Driving in the car a few days ago, I was moved to hear the end of an interview on NPR’s “Fresh Air” between Terry Gross and Maurice Sendak.
Sendak, at age 83, sounded vulnerable and wistful, full of sadness and self-knowing, bravery and hard-earned wisdom, nearing life’s end and yet unblinking. I urge you to click here and hear him for yourself, because there’s a feeling to his words that only sound can convey. It’s the difference between hearing a song and reading the lyrics on a page.
On the terrific NPR website you can read the manuscript in full. Aren’t we fortunate to live in an age when such things are so easily accessible? Here’s the piece of this amazing, profound interview that I heard as I drove up Murray Avenue, across 32, and wound my way home through the dark wintery streets, finally arriving in my driveway, car still running, not shutting it off until the interview concluded:
SENDAK: I’m not unhappy about becoming old. I’m not unhappy about what must be. It makes me cry only when I see my friends go before me and life is emptied. I don’t believe in an afterlife, but I still fully expect to see my brother again. And it’s like a dream life. But, you know, there’s something I’m finding out as I’m aging that I am in love with the world.
And I look right now, as we speak together, out my window in my studio and I see my trees and my beautiful, beautiful maples that are hundreds of years old, they’re beautiful. And you see I can see how beautiful they are. I can take time to see how beautiful they are. It is a blessing to get old. It is a blessing to find the time to do the things, to read the books, to listen to the music.
You know, I don’t think I’m rationalizing anything. I really don’t. This is all inevitable and I have no control over it. “Bumble-ardy” was a combination of the deepest pain and the wondrous feeling of coming into my own and it took a long time. It took a very long time, but it’s genuine. Unless I’m crazy. I could be crazy and you could be talking to a crazy person.
GROSS: I don’t think so.
(SOUNDBITE OF LAUGHTER)
GROSS: My guest is Maurice Sendak. He has a new children’s book called “Bumble-ardy.” We’ll talk more after a break. This is FRESH AIR.
(SOUNDBITE OF MUSIC)
GROSS: Let’s get back to my phone conversation with Maurice Sendak, the beloved children’s book author who’s best known for “Where the Wild Things Are” and “In the Night Kitchen.” He has a new book called “Bumble-ardy.”
What are your physical restrictions like? Can you walk OK? Can you get around?
SENDAK: No, I can’t walk OK. I’d love to walk. That’s why I’ve been doing that since the ’70s when I had my first coronary. I have heart trouble and I’ve had a very bad time after Eugene died and I was very sick and they thought I would die and I came back to do “Bumble-ardy.” And I have nothing but praise now, really, for my life. I mean I’m not unhappy.
GROSS: Mm-hmm.
SENDAK: I cry a lot because I miss people. I cry a lot because they die and I can’t stop them. They leave me and I love them more. And I’m in a very soft mood, as you can gather…
GROSS: Mm-hmm.
SENDAK: …because new people have died.
GROSS: Yeah.
SENDAK: They were not that old. And so it’s what I dread more than anything is the isolation.
GROSS: Yeah.
SENDAK: But I have my young people here, four of them who are studying and they look at me as somebody who knows everything, those poor kids.
(SOUNDBITE OF LAUGHTER)
SENDAK: SENDAK: If they only knew how little I know. But obviously I give off something that they trust, because they’re all intelligent. Oh God, there are so many beautiful things in the world which I will have to leave when I die but I’m ready, I’m ready, I’m ready.
GROSS: Well, listen - yeah.
SENDAK: You know, I have to tell you something.
GROSS: Go ahead.
SENDAK: You are the only person I have ever dealt with in terms of being interviewed or talking to who brings this out in me. There’s something very unique and special in you, which I so trust. When I heard that you were going to interview me or that you wanted to, I was really, really pleased.
GROSS: Well, I’m really glad we got the chance to speak because when I heard you had a book coming out I thought what a good excuse…
(SOUNDBITE OF LAUGHTER)
GROSS: …to call up Maurice Sendak and have a chat.
SENDAK: Yes, that’s what we always do, isn’t it?
GROSS: Yeah. It is.
SENDAK: That’s what we’ve always done.
GROSS: It is.
SENDAK: Thank God we’re still around to do it.
GROSS: Yes.
SENDAK: And almost certainly, I’ll go before you go, so I won’t have to miss you.
GROSS: Oh, God what a…
SENDAK: And I don’t know whether I’ll do another book or not. I might. It doesn’t matter. I’m a happy old man. But I will cry my way all the way to the grave.
GROSS: Well, I’m so glad you have a new book. I’m really glad we had a chance to talk.
SENDAK: I am too.
GROSS: And I wish you all good things.
SENDAK: I wish you all good things. Live your life, live your life, live your life.
You can go here to find “the best of fresh air 2011.” It’s so easy to download these interviews for free, or subscribe to podcasts, and play them on your iPod at your convenience — at the gym, on a walk in the neighborhood, wherever. Again, it’s just incredible that we have these resources available to us. It another reason why it’s so important to value, and Support Public Radio.
Now I think I’m going to find a window and look at some trees, and take time to see how beautiful they are.
Happy 2012, folks.
I know: I said I wasn’t posting until 2012. And that’s still totally true! Except . . . that Maggie just said another one and I had to get it down on paper. Or something like that.
Anyway, my two boys, Nick and Gavin, love Chipotle; it’s their idea of fine dining, competing only with the Five Guys burger chain for favorite fast food dispensary. Maggie, unlike her neanderthal brothers, has far more refined taste. She won’t eat fast food under any circumstances. But while we were out shopping yesterday, Gavin, Maggie, and I ducked into Chipotle for a quick bite, despite Maggie’s protests.
Maggie sniffed and observed, “It looks like a really fancy version of a prison cafeteria.”
I don’t know. I think maybe she nailed it.
But what is my eleven-year-old daughter doing in prison cafeterias? Anyway, after these guys sat down, we knew it was time to leave.
This will be my last post until 2012. I want to thank you for stopping by — I really do appreciate your interest and your support.
I wish you a healthy, happy holiday season.
I love Christmas music, all of it, of every stripe. And while there’s no beating Bing or Frank or even Burl, here’s some R & B/soul holiday tunes you might enjoy . . . because Otis and James are pretty cool, too.
Merry Christmas, Baby, Otis Redding
Gee Whiz, It’s Christmas, Carla Thomas
Presents for Christmas, Solomon Burke
Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, Ray Charles
I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, Amy Winehouse
Christmas Comes But Once a Year, Charles Brown
Santa Claus, Go Straight to the Ghetto, James Brown
Jingle Bells, Booker T. & the MG’s
I’ll Be Home for Christmas, Fats Domino
I Want a Rock n Roll Guitar, Johnny Preston
Back Door Santa, Clarence Carter
My youngest turns eleven tomorrow. I came across this old photo of us, probably about seven years ago. A certain kind of guy might even get a little weepy looking at it.
Happy birthday, Mags.
I’ve been enjoying Linda Perlstein’s wonderful book, Not Much Just Chillin’: The Hidden Lives of Middle Schoolers, which you might recall from a previous post, here.
I’m not really interested in conjuring up a new review for it, since most of it has already been said. For example, from The Atlanta Journal-Constitution: “Perlstein’s interpretation of what’s going on inside [middle schoolers] hormone-charged world is information every educator and parent should have . . . . A fascinating and important book.”
But as a writer, as someone who finds this stuff useful — applicable, insightful, helpful, necessary — I just want to say: Thank you, Linda Perlstein, great job. Very impressive, not only the detailed, intimate research, but somehow organizing that mound of raw data, as it were, into such digestible (and entertaining) form.
I’ve been working on a book about middle schoolers, seventh-graders to be precise, and at the same time sharing a house with a seventh-grader of my own. This book feeds and informs that work. So as always, I’m reading it with pen in hand, underlining, starring, writing in the margins, endlessly fascinated, sympathetic, horrified, amused, saddened. Such an age of change and uncertainty.
I share the above as an example of my marginalia. I nodded during that passage, because it exactly echoed the central theme of my 2008 book, Along Came Spider.
Anyway, here’s another brief passage I loved. Perlstein is writing about Jackie Taylor, a seventh-grader, her inner thoughts and musings:
If there were a giant question box in the sky, to which you could submit any query without fear of embarrassment, Jackie would ask two things: How do you make out? and What happens after you die?
There it is in a nutshell, don’t you think?
-
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
--
I’m not a ticker by nature. You know tickers, right, those bird-watchers who have the list in their back pockets, and are all too delighted at each new sighting to check another one off the list. Yellow warbler, good, that’s done.
I worry about those people. I sit up at night, fretting over the shallowness of that experience. Is that all they want, I agonize, just to check it off and be done with it?
I suspect that some readers are the same way. Read it, read it, read it. Done, done, done. What’s next?
Where’s the reflection? When did it become a race?
Better to read one book well, and deeply, than to race through a dozen.
That said, it felt good to finally get around to reading Robert Cormier’s The Chocolate War, the book that rekindles the question, “Do I dare disturb the universe?”
By the way, you know where that quote’s from, right? Only one of the greatest poems ever.
I thought The Chocolate War was brilliant, expertly written, full of youthful rebellion, combativeness, anger, sorrow, energy, brutality — and still timely today. A stunner, frankly. There are not many times when I feel I could have written someone else’s book, and it would be misguided and presumptuous for me to say that here, but I did feel a kinship with Cormier. I understood him down to my bones, recognized his choices, knew exactly what he was trying to achieve.
Cormier’s book is darkly beautiful, the characters vividly drawn, sharp and jagged. There’s the cold manipulation of Archie Costello, the puppet-master. Jerry’s confusion and inner conflict, his unresolved emotions, the way events took on a life of their own beyond any decision or intentionality. And all that catholic school stuff, yes, I remembered that, too. The 70s were my era, and the tone of this book rang clear and true. Cormier got it all right. The novel’s themes are closely connected to my own book, Bystander, but Cormier goes deeper, darker, older. If Bystander is right for middle school — a somewhat gentle introduction to bullying, a story that peers over the precipice but never makes that leap into the void — then The Chocolate War goes a step or two beyond, grades 8/9-up. It takes you into the black. Where I stopped short, by design, Cormier plunges bravely onward.
Stop it, stop it. But nobody heard. His voice was lost in the thunder of screaming voices, voices calling for the kill . . . kill him, kill him. Goober watched helplessly as Jerry finally sank to the stage, bloody, opened mouth, sucking for air, eyes unfocused, flesh swollen. His body was poised for a moment like some wounded animal and then he collapsed like a hunk of meat cut loose from a butcher’s hook.
On a different note, in my upcoming book, Before You Go, the main character, Jude, is a runner. I had to think about that, and describe his running, here and there, nothing much. A metaphor, for sure, alluding to deeper themes, but also something as concrete and specific as sneakers on the sidewalk.
Well, here’s a paragraph from The Chocolate War. A quick description of a minor character, Goober, who likes to run. Want to read a great passage?
The Goober was beautiful when he ran. His long arms and legs moved flowingly and flawlessly, his body floating as if his feet weren’t touching the ground. When he ran, he forgot about his acne and his awkwardness and the shyness that paralyzed him when a girl looked his way. Even his thoughts became sharper, and things were simple and uncomplicated — he could solve math problems when he ran or memorize football play patterns. Often he rose early in the morning, before anyone else, and poured himself liquid through the sunrise streets, and everything seemed beautiful, everything in its proper orbit, nothing impossible, the entire world attainable.
All I can add to that is, wow. Just slack-jawed wow. Poured himself liquid through the sunrise streets. Liquid! The portrait of Goober goes on for another remarkable paragraph, where Cormier turns the phrase, “The neighbors would see him waterfalling down High Street . . .”
Waterfalling! The noun as verb, the image startling and yet crystal clear, natural not forced. Waterfalling down High Street.
Run, Goober, run. See Goober run. Liquid, waterfalling.
Damn. That’s great writing.
ADDENDUM:
A librarian friend chimed in with this comment, via email:
Saw on your blog that you finally read The Chocolate War. Amazing book, huh? It gets banned EACH AND EVERY year, as you can probably imagine, for being – and I quote from some of the language in the bans and challenges – “pornographic,” for foul language, for its “portrayal of violence and degradation of schools and teachers,” for its “blasphemy” and because it is “ humanistic and destructive of religious and moral beliefs and of national spirit.” One challenge, in a Georgia high school, cited “ I don’t see anything educational about that book. If they ever send a book like that home with one of my daughters again I will personally burn it and throw the ashes on the principal’s desk.” And my favorite, from someone who wanted to ban it because the ending was…get this…too pessimistic.
A book like that, you just HAVE to read.
Maybe the worst part of writing a series is the nagging sense that, after ten books or so, nobody really notices if the books are any good or not. Especially not your publisher. Your editor cares, for sure, but everyone else . . . shrug. The sum of your work gets reduced down to a number, the notion of “quality” gets subsumed by “quantity” — and the book is as good as its sales figures. I know, I know: Real World 101. But still.
So as part of my continuing “Stories Behind the Story” series, I’d like to put the focus on Jisgaw Jones Super Special #4: The Case of the Santa Claus Mystery. It’s one of my favorites in the series and it’s probably out of print.
When I wrote the book, I really tried to create a great holiday story — a story with value and content that could stand up to any of the Christmas classics. So I decided to tackle a tricky subject: Jigsaw gets hired to prove if Santa is real or not. Now I knew that I had a range of readers with a varying beliefs, and I felt a keen obligation toward them, so I was determined that my book would not spoil it for anyone. In essence, I wrote myself into a box, locked the lid, and like Houdini had to squirm myself out of it.
Here’s an early scene in Jigsaw’s basement office:
Sally Ann’s mood turned serious. She stared hard into my eyes. Her arms were crossed. “I want to meet Santa,” she demanded.
I cracked open my detective journal. “Santa?” I repeated, scribbling down the name. “Last name?”
“Claus,” Sally Ann said.
“Santa . . . Claus,” I wrote.
“That’s the one,” Sally Ann said.
“Big white beard? Wears black books and a red suit? Last seen driving a sleigh led by, let’s see . . .” I flipped through the pages of my journal and pretended to read, “. . . eight flying reindeer?”
Sally Ann didn’t like being teased. She never cracked a smile. Instead, she rummaged inside her pink plastic pocketbook. She pulled out the head of a Barbie doll — that’s it, just the head. Sally Ann frowned and continued poking around. She pulled out some baseball cards, a tissue (used, I suspect), a handful of rocks, beads, a hammer (!), and other assorted junk.
“Here,” she finally said.
Sally Ann smoothed out a dollar bill on my desk.
Illustration by Jamie Smith.
She was serious.
Sally Ann Simms wanted to meet Santa Claus.
And it didn’t seem like she would take no for an answer.
I asked her why.
“We have business to discuss,” she grumbled.
And so the book begins, fueled by the mystery. Along the way, a number of entertaining events occur — including a sly tribute to Dick Van Dyke. With the help of Reginald Pinkerton Armitage III, sort of standing in for the character “Q” in the James Bond series, Jigsaw planted a hidden camera on Sally Ann’s mantelpiece.
After Christmas,. the only thing left to do was to retrieve the photographic evidence from inside the camera . . .
By December 27, Eddie Becker had already left three telephone messages at my house. I didn’t return the calls. I already knew what Eddie wanted.
A photograph of Santa Claus.
He wanted to get rich. But I just wanted to get it over with.
Mila had said it from the beginning: “I don’t think we should mess around with Santa.”
I was finally beginning to understand what she meant.
After lunch I clomped through the snow to Sally Ann’s house to pick up the daisy camera. I brought Rags so he could play with Pickles. Sally Ann had built a giant snowman on her front lawn. Actually, it was a snowman and a snowdog. She even used a real leash.
I returned home not long after. I brought the camera into my bedroom and stared at it for a long time. I thought about a lot of things. About Santa Claus, about Christmas, and about what it meant. I thought about my parents, and Equinox, and the smiles on the faces of the people when we delivered their holiday meals.
I picked up the vase and turned a leaf, just as Reginald had showed me. A small camera popped out. I remembered his warning. If I expose the film to light, all the photos will be ruined.
“Whatever you do,” Reginald had said, “don’t pull these petals.”
Down the hall, I heard the phone ringing. Probably Eddie Becker again, I figured, eager for his big payday. I took a deep breath . . . held the camera under my lamp . . . and pulled on the petals.
Poof, no proof.
The film was ruined.
Some mysteries don’t need to be solved. I believed in Santa, and I believed in the spirit of Christmas, and I didn’t need to dust for fingerprints to prove it. My heart told me everything I needed to know.
I wasn’t going to mess with Santa. The big man deserved that much. After all, I figured I owed the guy.
Case closed.
A merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
NOTE: This book was dedicated to my editor at Scholastic, Shannon Penney (who remains a loyal blog reader), and also acknowledges the charitable work performed by the staff and volunteers at Equinox, a nonprofit community agency that seres the Capital District area of New York. Jigsaw and his family spend a brief part of this book volunteering at the very same Equinox.
Oh, hey, I might as well include this little scene, because I’m fond of it. Setup: It’s Christmas Eve and Jigsaw is trying to fall asleep. Remember that feeling, in bed on Christmas Eve, just wanting it to come. Jigsaw’s mother enters the room and rubs his back. He’s still just a boy.
“How did you like delivering those meals today?”
I was getting sleepy. “I liked it, I guess.”
“Is that all?”
“It felt like we were doing a good thing,” I said. “I guess that made me feel good, too.”
My mother bent down and kissed me on the cheek. “Funny how that works,” she said. “Good night, Jigsaw. You make me proud. See you in the morning.”
“Good night, Mom. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I was alone again. Now my eyelids were heavy.
I didn’t want it to end. Christmas Eve, the most magical night of the year. I just lay there, enjoying it. And then, drifting off easily, tired and happy, I slept.
