As a service to my readers who might be shopping for dinette sets, I submit this:
Yes, that’s a real commercial. Have a great weekend.
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Category: Fun Clips, Greatest Hits / Tags: Just Like a mini mall, Mini Mall Rap, Montgomery Flea Market Commercial
Jigsaw Jones: What’s In a Book Cover?
One of the central themes of this blog is that whatever touches my life as a writer is valid content. Or as my pal Matthew Cordell might say, “blog fodder.” So, thus: I recently got this note from my editor at Scholastic, Matt Ringler:
TITLE: Jigsaw Jones Electronic Mystery: The Case of the Secret Skeleton
AUTHOR: James PrellerCOVER CONCEPT:
Jigsaw Jones is sneaking into the janitor’s storage closet. We see him standing in the doorway. It’s dark but Jigsaw has a flashlight. In a back corner, lit up by the beam of light is a plaster human skeleton, hanging from a stand by its head. The skeleton should be the size of a normal person, like the ones used in science class to study anatomy. Jigsaw looks frightened. We can also see the normal paraphernalia that would be in the storage closet (i.e. mops, brooms, buckets, etc.). Visibly crumpled in the skeleton’s hand is a piece of paper (a clue).
And that’s it, one of the early steps toward designing a book cover. The manuscript, you should know, is not yet finished. In paperback publishing, it often isn’t. The book won’t be out for a year — but covers need to be placed in catalogs and brochures; the marketing guys need ’em in well advance. And you don’t want to mess with the marketing guys.
Matt and I discussed the “cover concept” over the phone. Then he had to present it at a meeting to get approval before taking the next step. Which is, I’m pretty sure, speaking with the art director who will contact the cover artist, R.W. Alley.
NOTE: At this point, I decided to do a quick Q & A with Matt Ringler.
Hey, Matt, thanks for helping me out. So what’s involved with getting this particular cover concept approved? Is it anything like, for example, meeting with the Spanish Inquisition?
I’d say it’s more like the “History of the World” version of the Spanish Inquisition, you know, with Mel Brooks singing and fully choreographed synchronized swimmers.
See, that’s where we part ways, my friend. I prefer the Monty Python version, with soft cushions and comfy chairs. [See clip below.]
The trickiest part is making sure everybody is happy. In this case everybody means: the author, the editor (me), the editorial director, the art designer, the manager of the Book Club this title is going on, and a creative director. After all those people sign off on it, the illustrator gets to add another important opinion. I don’t know how many times you’ve ever been around seven people who fully agree on anything. Personally, I have never seen it happen.
The Seven Dwarfs seemed pretty high on Snow White. [That’s the Disney spelling, btw.]
Well, you know what Randy Newman would say about that.
The Dwarfs would have hated the song “Short People” — with unanimous agreement, I’d bet. Too bad they didn’t design book covers.
It’s rare to get full agreement on anything, and that’s a positive thing. Different perspectives often work to improve a book cover. From most conversations I’ve had, many people are under the impression that an editor only corrects spelling and grammar mistakes. While that helps with the job description, I think the most important quality needed in an editor at this stage in the process is diplomacy. I’m happy when all of those people are satisfied and the cover concept arrives on my desk with all of the necessary signatures.
Once the concept is approved, what next?
The next step is to discuss it with the art designer. The designer will then discuss the cover ideas with the artist. A time line will be set. A rough sketch will then come in to the designer, who will place that art into the template of the book cover. At that stage, everybody will look at it again to make sure it works.
I have to say, I love this process stuff — how crayons are made, or Hershey’s Kisses, or whatever — I find it so interesting how many small steps are taken to make a book happen. When do you think the rough sketch will come in?
Most people aren’t aware of the hundreds of minor decisions that are made before each book is published. The time it takes to get a sketch depends on several factors: how fast the artist works, how busy they may be at that time, the book’s schedule, when the final art is due, etc. The standard time is about three weeks to a month. It is important to leave enough time for the illustrator to make any changes that may be needed.
Thanks, Matt. I intend to keep my loyal blog readers — who, clearly, and I don’t think this is saying too much, are willing to lay down their lives for me — posted on this whole process. We’ll be talking soon (and not just about the New York Mets, and our shared pain, but about actual work, too!).
Thank you, Jimmy. I always look forward to our conversations, and I know we will one day have one about a championship Mets team — even if we are old and retired by then!
NOTE: Here’s some links to the follow-up posts in this seven-part series: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, and Six, and Seven. Read them all and experience the awe and wonder of the creative, collaborative process!
Elmore Leonard’s Rules for Writing
As part of a series called “Writers on Writing,” published in The New York Times, Elmore Leonard penned a thought-provoking article that first saw print on July 16, 2001. Every once in a while I remember that it exists and go back to reread Leonard’s observations.
I’m sympathetic to Elmore Leonard’s basic vision. I mean to say, I think I could hang out with the guy. When he talks about writing, I tend to nod my head. Grateful, reaffirmed, inspired. He explains in the opening paragraph, “These are rules I’ve picked up along the way to help me remain invisible when I’m writing a book, to help me show rather than tell what’s taking place in the story.”
A long time ago I decided that ego was the enemy of good writing. Thing is, that’s a tough dragon to slay. These days, I most admire writers who get out of the way (another way of saying, “remain invisible”) — who strive to eliminate any trace of “look at me, I’m so darned clever!” from their writing. (That tends to be the exact opposite of what we are taught to appreciate in college English courses, so most of my adult writing life has been about trying to unlearn aspects of my college education.)
Regarding Leonard: I like his everyday guyness, his plainspeak, his pragmatism, his unpretentiousness. Unfortunately, and oddly, I’ve never really gotten into his books. Maybe I’ve tried the wrong ones, or not tried hard enough. The thing is, I want to like his books more than I actually do. It may be worth noting that so many of his books have been made into movies precisely because he is such a “show, don’t tell” styled writer. Or maybe it’s because he’s okay with sex and violence.
Though I encourage readers to go back to the full article (linked above), I’ll only post the ten rules along with an indispensable additional comment or two from Leonard (in the article, he provides more background on each rule). Enjoy. And remember, when it comes to writing, there are no rules. But guidelines can be instructive.
1. Never open a book with weather.
2. Avoid prologues
3. Never use a verb other than ”said” to carry dialogue.
Writes Leonard: “The line of dialogue belongs to the character; the verb is the writer sticking his nose in.”
4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb ”said” . . .
Says Leonard: “To use an adverb this way (or almost any way) is a mortal sin.” For what it’s worth, there are a ton of adverbs used exactly this way in the Harry Potter books.
5. Keep your exclamation points under control.
6. Never use the words ”suddenly” or ”all hell broke loose.”
7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.
8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.
9. Don’t go into great detail describing places and things.
And here comes my personal favorite:
10. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.
Leonard comments: “Think of what you skip reading a novel: thick paragraphs of prose you can see have too many words in them. What the writer is doing, he’s writing, perpetrating hooptedoodle, perhaps taking another shot at the weather, or has gone into the character’s head, and the reader either knows what the guy’s thinking or doesn’t care. I’ll bet you don’t skip dialogue.
My most important rule is one that sums up the 10.
If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.”
I love that phrase, “perpetrating hooptedoodle.”
NOTE: For more posts that touch on the writing process, click on the “writing process” icon on the right sidebar, beneath “CATEGORIES.” I’m trying to do more of this kind of thing on this blog, in the hopes that it might sell books, urm, be helpful to teachers, or to writers of any age!
ANOTHER NOTE: I lifted that sound, urm, from the legendary graphic novel, The Watchmen (soon to be a major motion picture). A character in there says it a lot, just a variation on “um,” but I like it.
Writing Process: Six Innings
I’ve never had a particularly good memory. Most of the details are lost, but essences remain. As a writer, those essential feelings are what feed my books.
However, when it comes to baseball, I do have startlingly vivid recollections. Here’s one of my favorites:
When I was little, I used to throw a rubber Spalding ball against the back of my house for hours at a time. I filled notebooks with imaginary lineups and kept score. I pitched against all the legends of the game, past and present. One week my grandparents came to watch over the horde (remember, I was the youngest of seven) while my parents were away. Now let it be known that Grandpa needed his afternoon naps. But whap, whap, whap, there was little Jimmy throwing that ball all day long.
Instead of getting mad, or forbidding me from doing what I loved, Grandpa went out and shocked me by buying a brand-new pitchback. It was the most beautiful, unexpected gift I ever received. Sploing, sploing, sploing — now I hurled hard baseballs, real baseballs, almost soundlessly against the net. While Grandpa napped contentedly.
Like many boys, I played out fictional games in my imagination. And I talked to myself in a half-whispered mumble, announcing the action: “Jerry Koosman into the windup . . . it’s a hard smash back to the box . . . Koosman snares the line drive . . . inning over . . . the Mets win!”
Reflecting back, I realize those were the first stories I ever told, the beginnings of my life as a writer, working through a fictional narrative, juggling a variety of characters, with the game itself neatly providing its own beginning, middle, and end.
In Six Innings, I gave that experience to a minor character, Max Young, who finds himself on the mound during a crucial spot in the 6th inning:
The relief pitcher, Max Young, is not nervous. He has been in spots like this hundreds of times before . . . with one important difference. It was never the real thing.
For years, Max stepped into his backyard, walked off the proper distance from his pitchback, and entered the limitless realm of his imagination. He played fantasy games in his very own field of dreams. And all the while, Max talked to himself, taking on the voice of the radio sportscaster. Somehow the words made it real. In a barely audible whisper he’d murmur: “Leading off for the Legends team, it’s Tyrus Raymond Cobb. The Georgia Peach . . . .“
I’m convinced that hundreds of thousands of boys have done and still do the same thing. I see them on driveways everywhere, bouncing a basketball, looking up at the net, their lips moving, the hushed words bringing a story to life.
Later in the book, with everything on the line, there’s Max again, with a touch more poetry:
One last time, Max is alone in his daydreams, throwing against an imaginary hitter in a game of his own invention. He is the author and the instrument, the pitcher and the ball, the beginning and the end.
Max rocks back into his windup, he drives forward, the ball leaves his fingertips, comes in high and hard and true.
Angel Tatis hits nothing but air. Swing and a miss.
Category: Greatest Hits, Six Innings, the writing process / Tags: baseball, baseball memories, Books for Boys, Jerry Koosman, Little League, Six Innings, Spalding, the writing process, Ty Cobb
Baseball, This Invisible Thread
I love baseball. It’s kind of ridiculous, I know. But it’s not like I had a choice.
As the youngest of seven children, I remember lying sprawled on the tiles of our playroom floor, the television turned to a ballgame, my mother moving from the washing machine to the dryer, bending, lifting, hauling, then over to the ironing board, then back, again and again.
At one point in her life, before I came along, before preschool was in vogue – this was the 1950s, deep in the post-war suburban dream – my mother had five children below the age of seven. It kept her busy. She was busy still in the 1960s, back when I was a pup.
So there she was, that white-haired mother of mine, rooting for her “Metsies.” I learned their names – Cleon Jones, Tom Terrific, Cool Koos and Eddie Kranepool. My mother, a good Irishwoman, showed a decided preference for Wayne “Red” Garrett, the young third baseman who was an average player on his best days, but handsome in that freckled, honest, Irish way. (It was only in later years, as baseball changed, when her crushes shifted to undersized Spanish-speaking shortstops like “little” Jose Oquendo and Raphael Santana.)
I also learned the names of the players on the other side, those Mets-killers who broke our hearts. Their names were Shannon and Perez, Clemente and McCovey, Banks and Aaron.
Today I still repeat my mother’s line, inherited and ingrained, whenever a tough batter steps to the plate: “Uh-oh, he’s trouble.”
In my heart, my mother is linked to the New York Mets, and there are times when I don’t know if my love for one is a confusion for the other; or if, in my affection for the Mets, I am only expressing that childlike love I once carried – and still carry – for my mother, the soft lap I once rested my head upon, her hand in my hair. There she is at the end of the couch, a glass of crushed ice on the table, from which she constantly bites and chews. And the game is on the screen, the announcers’ voices in my ears. I am content, I am at home: the game is on and I’m with my mom.
She taught me how to catch, my mother, how to play. That wasn’t Dad’s department. Blithely indifferent, or just otherwise occupied, he didn’t care about sports. We never played catch, or hardly ever. That’s okay, because Mom did. And I liked Mom, plenty. She had a good arm and soft hands.
I remember as a Little Leaguer asking, “Mom, am I graceful?”
She liked grace, my mother, the smoothness that certain outfielders had when they drifted back to the warning track, glove stretched out, eyes in the clouds, finally cradling that ball to the dull, soft slap of leather.
“Yes,” she’d answer. “Very graceful.”
And today, like her, like then, I still snap off the television in despair when the Mets play poorly. “I can’t watch anymore!” we’ll both exclaim across the years and miles, attached by an invisible thread.
Ten minutes later, both of us will again reach for the clicker, filled with the unquenchable hope that is at the heart of every game.
Now I can see that same sweet dynamic in my own children, particularly the two boys. They follow the game, just as they once obsessed over dinosaurs and super heroes, books and guitars. Now it’s baseball. All mixed up and confused with their love for me, I know.
After all, I should, I helped sew the blanket of baseball that wraps around us.
Sometimes I even hear them say it, when certain sluggers step to the plate, Chipper Jones perhaps, or the redoubtable Albert Pujols:
“Uh-oh, he’s trouble.”
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Category: Greatest Hits, New York Mets, Six Innings / Tags: baseball, Cleon Jones, Eddie Kranepool, James Preller, Little League, Mothers and baseball, New York Mets, Six Innings