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Two Full Reviews for BETTER OFF UNDEAD, Plus Chapter 3, “Drink Plenty of Fluids”

Here’s goes, the full text of the first two reviews for BETTER OFF DEAD along with a sample chapter for the curious.

 

From Booklist, with a STAR!

star-512Preller takes the black-kid-in-a-white-school premise to the next level with Adrian, who is not only African American, but also a zombie. The author sets his tale in a near-future world in which climate change and pandemics are wreaking odd paranormal phenomena as well as predictable havoc. Having inexplicably survived a fatal hit-and-run accident over the summer, aptly named Adrian Lazarus is off to seventh grade, sporting a hoodie to hide his increasing facial disfigurement and lunching on formaldehyde smoothies to keep himself together. Simultaneously resenting and yet understanding the varied reactions of his schoolmates—which range from shunning to all-too-close attention from a particularly persistent bully—Adrian is also surprised and pleased to discover that he has allies, notably Gia Demeter, a new girl with a peculiar ability to foretell certain events. Preller might have played this as a light comedy (and there are some hilarious bits), but he goes instead for darker inflections. Even as Adrian sees himself becoming ominously aggressive (while developing tastes for roadkill and raw meat), his discovery that fabulously powerful data miners Kalvin and Kristoff Bork are ruthlessly scheming to put him under the knife in search of the secret to his longevity cranks the suspense up another notch. Nonetheless, in a series of splendidly lurid exploits, Adrian beats the odds as he fights for a well-earned happy ending. — John Peters

From School Library Journal:

Gr 4-7–Adrian Lazarus is a middle school zombie, the result of an accident that left him “as undead as a toenail and not really thrilled about it.” The book is similar to Paolo Bacigalupi’s Zombie Baseball Beatdown; however, this cautionary tale is more than just a brain-eating gross-out. Set in the not-too-distant future when humanity is suffering from numerous self-inflicted woes, this story’s villains are the Bork Brothers, owners of K & K Industries, “the richest, most powerful corporation on the planet” and also the source of much of the planet’s environmental troubles. Like The Wizard of Oz, to which this book makes frequent allusions, the Bork Brothers control the world behind a curtain of extreme privacy, “pour[ing] their millions of dollars into helping certain politicians win elections.” With one of the brothers dying, they attempt to kidnap Adrian, hoping to glean the secret of cheating death. Adrian foils this plot with the help of his friends, one of whom is a thinly disguised Demeter-like creature. While following these fantastic adventures, readers learn about real environmental issues, such as the vanishing of bees, with the clear message to not be a “zombie,” but to instead take action to protect the planet before it is too late. VERDICT This uproarious middle grade call to action has considerable kid appeal and a timely message. A strong addition to school and public library collections.–Eileen Makoff, P.S. 90 Edna Cohen School, NY
Publisher: Feiwel & Friends * Pages: 288 * Price (Hardcover): $16.99 * Publication Date: October 2017 * ISBN (Hardcover): 9781250066480
EXCERPT NOTE: Below is chapter 3 of 39 chapters. The book is just settling in, and here we address the central dilemma. The actual plot — the new friends, the deeper themes, and the mystery that propels the book forward — come gradually later. Still setting the scene, meeting our main character.

3

 

Drink Plenty of Fluids

 

 

I was a busy guy during the first week of my death. Sort of the opposite of what you’d imagine, right? You’d assume it would be quiet, even relaxing, being dead and all. But not in my unlife. There was a lot to do.

For the first few days after the accident, I was seen by every medical expert in the area, even people from the FBI and mysterious others flashing U.S. Government badges. All day long they wandered into my hospital room to marvel at the new patient. They looked at me and frowned, clucked and murmured, and said helpful things like, “Hmmm, interesting, interesting.” I was a fascinating case, a puzzlement. I was tested, probed, poked, prodded, scanned, questioned, measured, charted and MRI’d until, finally, the folks in their white coats shrugged with a mixture of defeat and boredom. After three sleep-interrupted nights of liquids dripping and machines beeping, they told me to go home. Something about insurance costs. There was nothing to be done. After that, I was assigned to the primary care of Dr. Lewis Halpert. He was some hot-shot specialist flown in from who-knows-where. And so we visited his pristine office for regular check-ups at the K & K MediCorp building. As far as I could tell, I was his only patient.

On the day when my bad news got worse, I played with the controls of a leatherette recliner of the type normally found in a dentist’s office. My mother fiddled with her new watch computer, setting up the connection with my Dad who was still deployed at an unspecified location somewhere in the African continent. Dad couldn’t give us details on his work assignments, it was hush-hush, and we’d often go months without a word. Even so, he was supportive about my situation. Dad said he wanted to come home immediately, but, well, the Corporation couldn’t let him go just yet. He was a second lieutenant in a privatized army, outsourced by the government, and Corporate depended on him. The Skype was Dad’s way of being there, a grim-faced, tight-lipped, square-jawed head on a computer screen.

The room was filled with glass surfaces and glittering utensils. I kept catching my reflection staring at the strange surroundings like a startled woodland creature. Chap-lipped, sore-faced, hideous: zombie me. I missed the identity of my dark skin in our mostly white town. I used to be the black kid, but not anymore. Race, religion, politics, “zombie” trumped them all. After another routine examination –- reflexes, none; eyesight, failing; sense of smell, gone; etc. — Doctor Halpert looked at me, mustache drooping, eyes flickering with indecision. He parked heavily on a stool and rolled close to me, leaning in. “Adrian,” he began, raising his palms as a sign of surrender. “As doctors, we like to think we have all the answers. We possess all this expensive equipment, years of scientific research . . .” his voice trailed off, losing steam. He sighed, checked my mother with a glance, looked hopelessly at my father’s image in the laptop. “But there’s so much we don’t know. That’s just a fact.”

I watched him, gave a nod. At least he was honest.

“By every measure we currently employ, medically speaking, you should be dead,” Dr. Halpert said.

My throat felt dry. My tongue seemed to swell. I tried to swallow.

“You don’t have a heartbeat,” Doctor Halpert stated. “Yet here we are. We have tested you in every conceivable manner. And the fact is,” –- he ran his thumb and index finger down his thick mustache –- “the fact is,” –- repeating himself, struggling to find the words –- “we just . . . don’t . . . know . . . diddly.”

“But, Doctor –-“ my mother interjected.

“Oh, we have theories. We could sit around and speculate all day long. It might be this, it might be that. An exotic strain of virus. Ebola this, Superflu that, cancer-causing agents in the water table, the fallout from fracking, too many genetically-engineered foods, a new strain of dengue fever, or just plain bad luck. All I know, Adrian, is that you are –-“

“—- a freak,” I said.

“No, no, no,” Doctor Halpert said, “A miracle! And as a man of science, it kills me to say that. I don’t believe in miracles, Adrian. I believe in facts, hard data, research. We simply don’t understand how you are walking around today, much less why. Talking. Seeing. Thinking. And, seemingly, living. It makes no scientific sense. When it comes to your case, Adrian, we might as well be in the dark ages, applying leeches and burning incense.”

“Is it . . . contagious?” asked my mother, inching ever so slightly away.

“Not at all,” the doctor replied. “It’s certainly not an airborne virus or anything of that nature. Of course, I wouldn’t let him bite you, ha-ha-ha!” He turned to me, smiling broadly. “You’re not going to bite your mother, are you, Adrian? Of course not!”

I joked, “Yeah, no, I just had a big lunch.”

More laughter, ho-ho-ho, even my dad thought it was a laugh riot. Mom, however, didn’t seem amused. Her mouth laughed, but her eyes didn’t get the joke. Mom’s cell buzzed with an incoming message. She checked it, frowned. She was missing work for this appointment.

Dr. Halpert looked at me, waited. I didn’t know what to say. I rarely did. My thoughts refused to organize themselves; the words wouldn’t cohere. My mind was a buzz, a beehive, a blur, a whirr. I stared at him, blinking, thinking, coming up empty.

My father broke the silence. “Well, that’s not a very satisfactory answer, is it, doctor?”

Dr. Halpert shook his head. “No, it isn’t,” he admitted.

“So what now?”

Doctor Halpert glanced at me, and back to the computer image of his inquisitor. “Summer’s almost gone. School starts in another week or so. Middle school, I guess.”

“You think he can go to school?” my mother chimed in, shock registering in her voice. “You think it’s all right?”

“Life goes on,” the doctor replied. He scratched his cheek with nervous fingers, tugged at his white lab coat. Perhaps Doctor Halpert recognized the irony of his own words –- this crazy situation -– so he quickly added, “I mean, Mr. and Mrs. Lazarus, I don’t see the harm in it. Admittedly, Adrian’s is an unusual case. Bizarre, truly. No one has an explanation for what’s happened to your son. By everything we know, there’s simply no way on earth your boy should be sitting in my office having this conversation. There’s no heartbeat! He’s dried up, blood doesn’t course through his arteries. He’s a zom . . .”

The doctor stopped himself, embarrassed or unwilling to finish the word; so it hung in the air unspoken like a bubble on the verge of bursting. Zombie. I felt a twitch in my stomach. If I had anything to hurl, I would have upchucked right there on the floor.

The thought of going back to middle school, seventh grade, was sickening.

My mother sat staring at me, the downward sickle of a frown on her lips. She made a dabbing gesture on her face, as if applying phantom makeup. “Is there anything we can do to –-“

“Ah, yes! I almost forgot,” Dr. Halpert said, jumping out of his seat cheerfully. He pulled open a cabinet door, then another, reached for bottles, pushed others aside, scanned labels. By the time he was finished, the counter was cluttered with all sorts of medicines and potions. “The good news is, there’s some very simple things we can do to stave off the symptoms.”

The doctor read the question in my eyes.

“I don’t think we can cure you, Adrian –- this is uncharted territory for all of us — but there’s a lot we can do to keep the, urm, illness from progressing. You know, just by using standard over-the-counter products such as creams, lotions, eye-drops, salves, and whatnot. Chap stick, for example, works wonders,” Dr. Halpert said. “And drinking plenty of fluids will help, too.”

My mother listened intently, obviously interested. She finally had something to latch onto after days of helpless hoping. They weren’t going to try to cure my condition. Nope, they just wanted to conceal it.

“Essentially, Adrian, you’ve lost your vital secretions. You’re body is drying up, no juices, and we can’t have that.”

“I see,” my mother murmured, grasping the concept. She said, “It’s like putting on hand moisturizer. I do that every night before bed, Adrian.” She raised her smooth, well-moisturized hands as if they were exhibits in a legal proceeding.

I smiled weakly.

“Exactly,” Dr. Halpert chirped. “We’ve got to keep him . . . squishy.”

Both of them chuckled over the word. Squishy. Ho-ho. Meanwhile, I scratched at the skin on my dry, flaking knees. “Doctor,” I spoke up. “I don’t have a heart beat. My face is falling apart –- my face! Are you seriously telling me to drink lots of water?”

He shook his head. “No, no, no. I mean, yes . . . and no. The truth is, Adrian, water will help. Lots of it. A gallon a day, maybe two in your case. But I have something else in mind, too.” He plucked a pink pad from his front coat pocket, scribbled on it, tore off the top sheet, and handed it to my mother.

She scanned it and read, “Formaldehyde smoothies?”

“Formaldehyde is a common embalming agent,” Doctor Halpert explained. “It’s frequently used in, urm,” he gestured with his hand, pulled again on his thick mustache, and said in a muffled voice, “funeral homes and whatnot.” Cough-cough.

“On dead bodies?” I interrupted.

My mother gaped at me, neck stretched forward, as if to say: Don’t be rude. I felt pressure behind my eyes, a welling up, but no tears came. Not squishy enough, I guess. No juices. Real zombies don’t cry.

The doctor continued, “Formaldehyde helps preserve dead tissue –- though it’s most often used as a fixative for microscopy and histology, but nevermind that. The point is, Adrian, if you drink one of these smoothies every morning, I believe it will help keep you looking better, feeling better, and, urm, smelling fresher.”

He stood to open a window.

For a moment I thought about jumping out of it. But what would be the point?

Dead was bad. Middle school would be worse.

Grateful for Another Positive Reading of “The Courage Test”

I’m extremely grateful to Jack Rightmyer for this generous review of my new book, The Courage Test, in a recent edition of the Albany Times Union newspaper.

An author sends a book out into the world. After that, there’s very little control over what happens next. Reviews, awards, invitations to speak at schools. Or sometimes, the cluttered, dusty world simply coughs and shrugs with indifference. Out of print, forgotten. Ultimately, I always hope for readers, it’s really all any author can ask. Articles like this one below do so much to help that hope become realized. 

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Most American authors get around to it eventually, the road novel, where two different characters set out on a journey to discover the country and more importantly to figure out who they are.

“We’re a car culture,” said local young adult and children’s author James Preller. “Americans love to be on the road. It’s awesome. This was my first attempt at writing the quest/journey book, and I loved the structure of it. My two characters were attempting to get to the West Coast. It’s a plot with built-in drama and the myth of the eternal return home.” 

This is Preller’s fourth book for children ages 10 and up. Seven years ago he hit it big with “Bystander,” a book about bullying just when the topic was hitting a fever pitch around the country. Two years ago, he wrote “The Fall” about teenage suicide. His latest book, “The Courage Test” (Feiwel and Friends, 224 pages, $16.99), is a father-and-son journey along the Lewis and Clark Trail from Fort Mandan to the Pacific Ocean.

“I really wanted to write a father/son book,” said Preller, who lives in Delmar and is a parent to three teenagers. “I got the idea after reading Roald Dahl‘s book ‘Danny the Champion of the World.’ I loved the relationship of the father and son in that book, so I created two characters and set them out on the Lewis and Clark Trail.”

The story is told from 15-year-old Will’s point of view. He’s not too happy to stop playing on his summer baseball team to take a cross-country trip with his dad, who has recently left his mom and has a new girlfriend. Will’s dad is a professor and an expert on the legendary explorers Lewis and Clark. He thinks it would be good for his son to do something difficult like hike in the backcountry and go whitewater rafting.

“I want readers to like Will, even if he’s a bit of a jerk at times,” said Preller. “There’s a natural tension between a teenager and a parent, and I want the reader to sense that.”

Will and his dad don’t have much in common. “Will’s dad tends to lecture like he’s standing in front of a class, and he doesn’t care at all about baseball. My dad was like that. I learned my love of baseball and how to play the game from my mom. When my dad would throw a baseball to me, he was awkward and uncoordinated, and I’m sure I looked at him in a strange way. My kids look at me that way today when I sometimes butter my bread.”

Preller did an enormous amount of research on Lewis and Clark before writing the book. “I’d love to say I got in a car and traveled the route I wrote about, but no one was paying for me to take that trip,” said Preller. “What I did was read blogs, look at maps and photos of the Lewis and Clark Trail. There are so many resources on hand today. As I wrote the book, I felt like I was on the trip, and as a writer, I was able to use my imagination.”

Some of the plot takes place while the characters are whitewater rafting, and there is even an encounter with a bear. “I’ve gone rafting. I’ve seen bears. I’ve been to Montana, so I’ve experienced the essential feelings of what these characters were going through,” said Preller.

What readers begin to discover as they read this book is that Will’s father is bringing his son on this difficult trip to toughen him up for some hard times ahead. “Will’s dad is a bit of a geek, and he really does believe his son will be a stronger person by following in the footsteps of Lewis and Clark. That might be a bit idealistic,” said Preller, “but the essential experience is spending time alone with his son where they can face this hardship together.”

In researching this book Preller read numerous books about the Lewis and Clark adventure. “At first I thought they were only a metaphor for the plot of my book, but the more I read about them the more I was impressed about these explorers. They were amazing and flawed individuals, and I decided to include a lot of information about them throughout the book.”

He was impressed with how detailed their daily journals were as they explored the unknown territory of the West. “Lewis could hike 20 or 30 miles a day then journal and draw incredible pictures of the plants and animals he had encountered. He read the stars to figure out where they were on a map. There were many locations where they could have turned back, but they kept going right through dangerous Indian territory and up and down the Rocky Mountains.”

Preller has had a successful career as a writer for over 20 years. His Jigsaw Jones series for beginning readers has sold millions of copies, and new editions will soon be available. He has also recently completed a series of Scary Tales that are always popular around Halloween.

“One of the great joys of writing for young people is the opportunity to visit schools throughout the country and meet your readers,” said Preller. “I tell my young readers to write from your heart. Write something that means a lot to you, and read every day.”

 

——–

 

A NOTE OF CLARIFICATION: My children are Nick (23), Gavin (17), and Maggie (15). In addition to picture books and series titles for younger readers, these are my other middle-grade titles: Along Came Spider, Six Innings, Bystander, Justin Fisher Declares War, Before You Go (YA), and The Fall (now in paperback).

Confession: I Finally Got Around to Reading “The Chocolate War” by Robert Cormier

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.