Tag Archive for Justin Fisher Declares War!

Literate Lives Reviews “Justin Fisher Declares War!”

My friend Bill Prosser over at the outstanding Literate Lives blog just read and reviewed my new book, Justin Fisher Declares War!

You can read that review in full by clicking here. My favorite part of the review:

“It’s short!”

Ha! Actually, Bill created a photo mosaic inspired by the book and I thought it was a very clever, creative response to a book with some real pedagogic potential. In the comments section, Bill explained how he did it, so I thought I’d share that with my Nation of Readers (see below).

Yes, that sums up my book quite nicely. War and Peace it is not. According to Bill:

“I use Flickr to collect the pictures and use BigHugeLabs to create the mosaic. It’s really very simple and fun. I haven’t tried it with my students because I’m still looking for good picture collections that are accessible to my students.”

Bill is an old school guy, meaning that he’s hopelessly stuck on books, but by dint of effort he’s forced himself, admirably, to keep apace of technology. While I personally remain averse to Twitter (Bill just took the plunge into the Twitterverse — Ashton Kutcher, watch your back!), I do think he hit on something with this mosaic concept. Bill’s been happily making a few based on some of his favorite books (Savvy, Make Way for Ducklings, and more). Check out this post, “Some Tech Stuff for the Summer,” for the glorious details, cool images, and happy links.

Jack’s Mustache

Does anyone read Acknowledgments? I mean, I know that some folks do, but I doubt there are many young readers among that number. We knew that the Acknowledgments section was a useless body part, a pretentious sixth digit, folderol to skip past, along with Forwards and Prefaces and Introductions and (the aptly named) Appendixes. The story was elsewhere and that’s all we wanted, thank you very much.

In any event, an alert acknowledgment-reader might note that I mentioned Jack Rightmyer’s mustache as a source of inspiration for my new middle-grade book, Justin Fisher Declares War!, due for release August 1, 2010.

Here is the mustache in question, attached to the face of a young, first-year teacher who is desperately trying to look all growed up. Definitely a Groucho Marx thing going on here, as if it were smeared on with greasepaint.

Pretty inspiring, don’t you think? I interviewed Jack back in January 2009, because I had read and enjoyed his book, A Funny Thing About Teaching. You can find that interview in full by clicking here. During our conversation, Jack recalled his experiences as a first-year teacher, fresh out of college. This snippet comes from that discussion:

Tell me about that advice you got in the teacher’s lounge, “Don’t smile until Christmas.”

I think a lot of the veteran teachers saw me as this young twenty-two-year old kid who was going to get chewed up and spit out by the high school classes. I actually grew a mustache the summer before I began teaching so I could look a bit older.

Oh, that’s hysterical. Nobody would dare mess with The Mustache! Was it one of those baseball mustaches, you know, nine hairs on each side? Or were you like some studly Keith Hernandez?

A photo is worth a thousand words . . .

Good God, Jack! I just fell off my chair! Warn me next time you do that. That photo is so great, it should have its own website. Anyway, you were saying about the advice other teachers gave you . . .

These teachers cared about me. They wanted me to get off to a good start, and they felt I needed to come down hard on the students. Before my first class, some of these teachers got me so worked up I felt like I was going in as a prison guard and not as an English teacher.

At the time of that interview, I was in the beginning stages of writing Justin Fisher. Early on, I knew the book would turn on a contentious relationship between a teacher and fifth-grade student. At first, the teacher was classically bad — and pretty one-dimensional. It wasn’t working. My conversation with Jack helped me see that teacher in a sympathetic light, humanized him for me. The teacher, Mr. Tripp, was struggling just as much as Justin, both unhappy, both trying to be something they weren’t.

In Chapter Five, “You’re Going to Thank Me Later,” Justin becomes a little obsessed with Mr. Tripp’s upper-lip region. Here’s a brief excerpt:

By mid-October, the mustache was fully formed, brown bristled, thick as a push broom.

“Mr. Tripp? Mr. Tripp?” Justin interrupted a Wednesday geography lesson. “Is it hard to grow a mustache?”

“Not now, Mr. Fisher. We’re in the middle of –“

“Why’d you grow it?” Justin persisted.

The teacher’s forehead wrinkled and his brows lowered. He returned his attention to the map on the wall. “As I was saying,” he continued with his back to the class, “an isthmus is a narrow strip of land connecting two larger pieces of land . . . .”

Teachers had no idea how uncomfortable it was to sit in those hard wooden chairs. It was impossible to sit up straight all day long — but that was exactly what Mr. Tripp expected. Sit down and be still. How could anyone survive fifth grade without going a little crazy?

Justin’s solution: to tip his chair as far back as possible. He’d lean it on two legs, lift his hands off the desk, balance there for as long as he could, then catch himself at the last second. It was a habit that inspired Mr. Tripp to create The Justin Fisher Rule: All four chair legs on the floor at all times! After that, Justin had to pick his spots.

The problem with Justin’s daredevil game was that when he pushed it too far, the chair crashed to the floor.

Hey, it was usually good for a laugh.

But not lately.

——-

That’s Jack’s book, above; product description, below.

Addressing the daily challenges that new teachers face in front of a class, this humorous, personal account shares the lessons learned from one mans lengthy teaching career. Imparting practical advice in an engaging manner, these truthful tales transport readers through a wide array of settings—urban and suburban schools, from sixth grade through college. Future educators will discover methods for using levity to build trust with their students and learn how to detect and avoid common pitfalls in the classroom. Offering advice on discipline, testing, bullying, and coaching, this memoir provides a fresh perspective on maintaining control of the class, while sharing the importance of using humor as a way to brush off the minor stresses of the job.

Fan Mail Wednesday #90-91 (Friday Edition)

I received two similar emails, so I’m going to post both and give one reply to avoid repetition:

Letter #90:

Dear Mr. Preller,

I love your book Bystander. My teacher read it to my class for a read aloud. It was very well written. I could really relate to it since I have been bullied. I understand what it feels likes to not have anyone stand up for you. I strongly suggest you should write a sequel from the different characters points of view. I love reading and writing! Do you have any good writing tips for me? I would love to hear back from you!

Yours Truly,
Marissa

Letter #91:

Hi, I’m Jake. I’m a 5th grader. I have read Six Innings and Along Came
Spider
.  They were both very good. We read Bystander for a read
aloud in school. That was fantastic. Do you have any new books coming
out. Also do you have any tips for me as a writer?

My reply:

Marissa & Jake,

I hope you don’t mind sharing the same response, but this seemed faster and easier for me. And that’s what we’re all about here at jamespreller.com: me, Me, ME!

(Sorry, I got excited.)

Thanks for reading my books. Marissa, when I began to dig into the research on bullying — and part of that research was about memory, looking back and really thinking about what I’d seen and experienced in my own life; that is: heart work — I realized that I could write a 100 different stories, from 100 different perspectives. Ultimately a writer has to make choices. I tried to tell one story the best that I could. But you are totally right: There’s a lot more there to be explored, more stories to be told.

Jake, I have a follow-up book to Along Came Spider coming out in August, called Justin Fisher Declares War! It’s set in the same school, and some characters recur (Spider, Trey, Ava, Ms. Lobel in minor roles), but the focus shifts to a different classroom and new characters. Honestly, it’s a light, quick, easy read — hopefully funny — and it concludes with a school Talent Show, something I’ve wanted to write about for some time. And yes, there is barf. I’m currently finishing my first true “Young Adult” novel, featuring 16-year-old characters. It’s been the best writing experience ever, I’ve learned so much, and will come out in Fall 2011. Still pondering the title.

Both of you asked about “tips” for writers. As much as I enjoy talking about writing, or at least illuminating my own writing process, I’m always hesitant to break it down into rules and quick tips. We’re all different, and all of us need to find our own way. That said, I have written about my experiences as a writer — some of the things I’ve learned along the way — in various blog posts. Here’s a few of them:

* The Reading Feeds the Writing (about how one writer reads with pen in hand)

* Writing from Memory to Realistic Fiction

* Asking “What If” Questions

* Rules for Writing (from other authors)

* Rereading The Elements of Style (notes on a classic book)

If you are really interested, just click on “the writing process” under CATEGORIES in the right sidebar column. There’s lots to explore at your leisure, and it was all written with young writers like you in mind. It’s all about transparency here at jamespreller.com and BP Petroleum. I don’t possess any magic knowledge, there are no great secrets, but I am willing to share my own fumbling, idealistic efforts at writing the best I can.

Ultimately, I don’t feel comfortable playing the role of expert, handing out a nifty cheat-sheet of tips. The obvious suggestions remain true: Read, read, and read some more. Value your own perspective, your individuality; no one else can be you, can offer up your unique observations, thoughts, and feelings. As a writer, that’s what you’ve got above all the others: Nobody else can be you. Treasure those things in your life that formed you, that in-formed you; your family, your life experiences, your secret dreams and feelings.

Like I said before, writing is heart work. And that’s where it begins.

I’ve come to view dialogue as the single most important part of writing. Maybe that’s overstatement, but work with me here, guys. In some ways, it’s the easiest to try — everybody talks! — and yet the hardest thing to get right. Dialogue crosses all genres, whether you are interested in writing about wizards or warrior rats or realistic fiction. There are always characters, and we always meet them best when they open their mouths.

So that’s my other advice: shut up and listen. Eavesdrop. Jot down notes, little phrases you hear. Listen to how people talk. Really talk. Also — and this is tricky — step back and listen to yourself. What comes out of your mouth? What do you say when you see a friend? How do you greet each other in the hallway? What’s actually said at the dinner table? Take notes in a little memo pad, even just a snatch of conversation. Later, you can add description, set the scene, write about the interior (a character’s inner thoughts and feelings) as well as the exterior (the outside world, the cup on the table).

Story is a natural outgrowth of character. Or, wait, another way: Story is character revealed. Begin with character. Add conflict. Stir.

Thanks.

JP

P.S. Oh, hey, by the way: Try this “Instant Story Recipe” from the englishbanana.com just for fun! Plug in the words and it writes the story for you! Uh-oh. I just realized that soon some computer is going to put me out of a job! Oh, wait. I have one thing a computer can never possess.

“Justin Fisher Declares War!” Brief Commentary & Excerpt

My new middle grade novel, Justin Fisher Declares War!, hits the shelves on August 1. I haven’t talked about it much, so figured it was time to share a little background info. The nudge came when a lone copy of the book arrived in the mail the other day, a real book, whaddaya know.

In thinking about Justin, I imagined a boy who acts out in the classroom, what we used to call a class clown. So I got to thinking, what drives a clown?

I remembered all the times I watched kids at the bowling alley during those interminable winters when all birthday parties seemed to land at Dell Lanes. There would always be those boys who were not any good at it. And rather than struggle, and persevere — that is, risk the embarrassment of attempt and possible failure — they opted for comic effect. Bending over and rolling the ball between their legs, the goofy approach to the pins, the diverting silliness, and so on. They used humor as a defense against embarrassment.

Like Johnny Appleseed, I took that kernel of an idea and planted it. Here’s a scene from Chapter One, “The Funniest Thing Ever, Maybe.” The book begins this way:

Maybe life would have turned out differently for Justin Fisher if he had ordered a grilled cheese sandwich instead of that lousy plate of spaghetti and meatballs.

It’s the little things that make all the difference, you know.

Because at that exact moment — when Justin pointed to the meatballs and said to the school lunch lady, “Yeah, bring it!” — all his problems began.

<snip>

I’ll skip a little, hold on while I flip a page . . .

He paid for his food, clutched the loose change in his right hand, and moved unsteadily into the cafetorium — which, by the way, was one of Justin’s favorite words in English or any other language. Cafetorium. Part cafeteria, part auditorium. Some days both, simultaneously.

(The only worse combination of rooms Justin could come up with was bathatorium. The privacy of a bathroom — with grandstand seating!)

So there he was, moving precariously forward with his tray, when things began sliding. The Jell-O shivered, slipping toward the edge. When Justin tipped the tray up, the three meatballs began to tumble, rumble, and roll in the other direction. To make things even worse, Justin had a paperback book tucked under his arm and an apple wedged between his chin and neck. As he tried to stop the sliding, slipping meatballs with a minor tray adjustment, the daredevil Jell-O decided to make a leap for it. Look out below! It splattered to the floor, a splotch of green goo.

As if that wasn’t bad enough — Justin wondered what dessert could possibly survive such a fall — a chunk of Jell-O slithered under his next footstep. Squish. And that was when the cardboard tray, complete with spaghetti worms and meatlike balls, flew toward the ceiling. Justin’s left knee buckled. His right foot slipped and kicked out, making him look like a backward-falling punter on a football field. Shoulders tipped back, and back, and back. At that moment, Justin Fisher had a pretty amazing view of the spaghetti as it soared up and up, like flying snakes but without wings or feathers, magical airborne spaghetti right out of some crazy sci-fi adventure movie. Then down he went with a thud, an ooomph, and a hard knock to the head. Ouch.

Seconds later, the spaghetti plunged down, too.

Onto Justin’s shirt, his neck, his face.

Justin could picture the whole ugly scene in his mind, and he wasn’t the only one. Because everybody say it. Or, okay, not everybody. He couldn’t say everybody, because there was always going to be someone out there who would call Justin on it. A foe who lacked both wit and imagination, just waiting to make Justin Fisher’s life a daily misery — like, for instance (not to name names or anything), Carly Edwards-Sapperstein, his neighbor and nemesis.

He could hear her high-pitched voice inside his head. (The words seemed to come out of her nose instead of her mouth.)

She’d say:

Everybody? I hardly think EVERYBODY in the whole world could fit in the school cafetorium! HMMMMM?

So, correction: Justin meant that everybody in the cafetorium saw the whole horrible thing, his humiliating fall. There was a moment of stunned silence. In that moment, he felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe they would turn away without a second thought. Maybe they saw but didn’t really see. Maybe the laughter wouldn’t come.

But, oh, it came.

In buckets. In squeals. In thunderous cheers, jeers, rib-splitting guffaws. Some kids even gushed milk from their nostrils with the force of fire hoses, drenching tabletops and neighbors. The merriment was deafening, and from that day forward Justin’s fall was known as “the funniest thing ever”!

To Justin, just a scrawny third grader at the time, it was not.

He wasn’t injured by the fall. Not physically, anyway. His injuries were way worse than a busted bone or a bumped head. He was embarrassed, mortified, a laughingstock . . . with spaghetti on his face.

And at that moment, Justin saw that he had come to a fork in the road. If he chose one direction, he was headed toward the elementary school life of a loser. So he took the other path.

Justin Fisher decided, right then and there, that he would play the clown.

He stood up, brushing gobs of spaghetti off his jeans, and took a long, deep bow, grandly flicking his left wrist in the air, a goofy grin on his face. It was terrific. The joke wasn’t on him anymore. They were all laughing — together.

The only problem? Justin had to spend the rest of his life trying to top it.

——-

POSTSCRIPT: I always felt this was the image for the book cover, some humorous illustration showing the book’s main character, spaghetti on his face. But, you know, I guess not.

Asking “What If” Questions & Pulling on Threads: A Short Sample from “Justin Fisher Declares War!”

I’ve always loved the writing process, how a jumbled ball of yarn becomes an actual sweater. Conversely, it’s amazing to me — pulling on that thread and watching how the fabric unravels.

Back in September, 2008, I wrote this on my blog:

I have an idea for a character who gets into trouble at school. The book is about this kid, and, in part, the surprising relationship he builds with the school principal. But how and why does this boy get into trouble? What does he do? What kind of hilarious escapades can I conjure? Then one notion hit me over the weekend: He smuggles a goldfish into school!

I love that idea. I can WORK with that idea. That is: There are possibilities that appeal to my sensibilities. So then begins the series of questions: How does he do it? Why? What goes wrong (because something must go wrong)? I’ve already daydreamed over a host of options — involving a thermos, soup broth, and a swallowed goldfish — but I know I’m not there yet.

Below, please find a brief scene from my upcoming middle-grade book, Justin Fisher Declares War! (Scholastic, August 2010). The scene represents the realization of those bloggy wonderings. Yesterday I read this passage aloud to a group of foruth-graders. We’d been talking about the importance of asking “what if” questions. In this case, what if a boy wanted to smuggle a goldfish into school. How might he do it? The answer to that question is the scene you write.

If writing fiction is anything, it is asking “what if” questions, following the logic and playing with those possibilities — thinking it through. After all, “what if” questions are at the core of what’s now called “Speculative Fiction” and, I hasten to ask, what brand of fiction is not speculative? We’re all daydreamers here.

Here’s the scene:

Justin understood that he’d never get past the front door carrying his sister’s goldfish bowl. She’d freak out and wail like a siren, and his mother would end up yelling. No, Justin needed to come up with a foolproof plan. And after a few minutes of heavy-duty thinking, he did.

The next morning, he asked his mother for tomato soup for lunch.

“You never eat it when I give it to you,” she said.

“This is different,” Justin assured her. “I really need soup today, Mom. It’s like . . . Soup Day in school and . . . all the kids are bringing in different kinds of soups and –“

“Soup Day?” His mother raised an eyebrow.

“It’s a guy thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Okay, okay.” His mother relented. She opened the cupboard, shifted a few cans around, and said, “Sorry, we’re all out of tomato. How about chicken noodle?”

“Perfect,” Justin clucked.

Operation Goldfish was in effect.

At the next opportunity, Justin snuck into the bathroom, dumped out the soup, and rinsed the thermos clean. Then, on tip-toe, he entered the forbidden zone — his sister’s room. The room itself was hideous, a monstrosity of purple and pink, with Disney posters and stuffed animals. Justin couldn’t imagine how his sister managed to sleep in there.

Justin paused by the door, listening. Lily was downstairs, eating Pop-Tarts. Justin poured water from the goldfish bowl into the thermos, spilling only a small puddle on the rug. With a net, he fished out the goldfish and dropped it into the thermos.

What about air? Justin wondered, as he screwed the cap on. I can’t suffocate my sister’s fish.

He thought about trying to find a hammer and nail. Maybe he could drive small holes into the screw top.

“Justin? What are you doing up there?” his mother called. “You better get moving if you want to make it to school on time!”

“Coming!” Justin hollered. He placed the thermos back into his lunch box, stuffed that into his backpack, and hustled down the stairs. He figured he’d open and close the cap every hour or so, just to make sure the goldfish got enough air. He might have been a little mischievous, but he wasn’t a cold-blooded fish murderer.

I’ve called this “my rebound book,” since it comes after the more serious, precise Bystander. This one is loose, light, short, funny. Rereading my early notes from the blog, I realize that I changed Justin’s relationship from the principal to his classroom teacher, Mr. Tripp. That struck me as more immediate, more natural, and allowed me to make his teacher more sympathetic. Originally, I conceived of the teacher as sort of a one-dimensional uptight obstacle, but it got much more interesting when he became a well-rounded person — a first-year teacher, nervous and well-intentioned, who makes some mistakes in handling an attention-seeking student.

Aside: I think the single worst character in the Harry Potter series — the character I consider a major failure — is the one-dimensional Dolores Umbridge, appointed High Inquisitor of Hogwarts in the fifth book, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Lacking all shade and substance, she ruined much of the book for me.

I hated her, but not in the way J.K. Rowling wanted me to hate her.