My Weird and Welcome to It

In which Dr. Missy sucks up to her agent for no apparent reason

2010-05-14T18:00:00.003-06:00

My new toy

Okay, so I'm a gadget freak. I did not sleep in front of a Best Buy in order to be one of the first to get an iPad, but I did check the inventories of the local stores until I found one that had the iPad in stock. Then we rushed off like a hurricane or blizzard or typhoon or some other weather condition and I got one.

So far, I think it's terrific. Playing Bejeweled on it is awesome. Also, the iPad did an admirable job standing in for my iMac and Powerbook when both came down with maladies. In fact, I took it with me to the....

Writer's retreat

Every year my agent has a retreat and this year was my first time. I was very nervous because I figured everyone knew everyone else from previous retreats and I would be like the new kid in school and have to stand in corner by myself. In fact, they couldn't have been nicer and more supportive. I read a couple of pages from my WIP and they were all good enough to laugh where I had hoped people would laugh. At least I didn't hear any crickets chirping.

Still, when I think about the kind of stuff I like to write, I feel overwhelmed by the stuff other people are doing, stories with all kinds of deep emotional conflict and multiple subplots. I'm writing about a boy who gains super powers and flies around and gets lost.

At the retreat, I listened to excerpts from about 25 other writers and I knew my turn was coming. I started thinking, "Dang, maybe I can sneak back to my room without anyone noticing. Or maybe I could shout, "Help, I have horrible diarrhea!" and make a run for it. I'm sure no one would have tried to stop me.

We showed up the day before the retreat officially began and I wore a t-shirt from the Steve Dahl radio show that proclaimed in large letters: "Reading is for Losers." Obviously, I don't share this view but I wanted to see what kind of reaction it would get. Unfortunately, the one person at the retreat who knew me by sight spotted me, and then, horror of horrors, my agent showed up. I'm sure she was thrilled with the shirt. The scary thing is that it got a lot of attention when we went shopping, but only from young women.

My agent's birthday

Nearly every year I write a short story about my agent's birthday. They always involve monsters, vampires, ogres, etc. and I always visualize my agent as being 12 years old. I have no explanation for any of this. It just is. This year's story is no exception, except that I decided to limit myself to 750 words like in a typical picture book, except I might be the world's worst picture book writer.

Thing is, picture books require such tight writing and I tend to be a little sloppy. I am reminded of the quote by the great Mark Twain, who said, "And madam, if I were your husband, I'd drink it!"

No wait, that was Winston Churchill. Mark Twain once wrote a friend and said, "I'm sorry this is so long. I didn't have time to make it shorter." Or words to that effect. I'm not a Bartlett's, you know.

So, without any further ado, here is my homage to my agent's birthday.

Erin slept with a grin on her face. She dreamed of her birthday and the fun she would have when she woke up.

The quiet of her room was broken by a scratching sound at the door. “Hello?” came a muffled voice from outside.

“Who’s there?” Erin asked groggily.

The door creaked open. A hairy foot appeared, followed by an equally hairy body two feet tall. The thing wore a small purple hat. Two dark eyes glittered from under the fur.

The thing gave Erin a small wave. “Hi. I’m Larry, your birthday monster.”

"My what?" Erin mumbled.

“Birthday monster. I’m here to terrify you on your birthday.” Larry raised his arms and let out a growl. It sounded more like a kitten mewing. "Are you scared yet?"

“There’s no such thing as a birthday monster,” Erin said. She nestled under the covers and closed her eyes.

A few minutes later, she felt someone wiggle her big toe.

“Excuse me. Hello?”

Erin opened one eye to see Larry standing next to her bed.

“Wake up. I have to frighten you now." Larry bared his small teeth and crossed his eyes.

Erin sighed and sat up in bed. “I don’t know if you’re real or not, but why do you have to frighten me?”

"You're my homework," Larry said. "I'm supposed to ruin your birthday. I'm going to…." He stopped to scratch his head. "I can't remember. But it's really scary stuff.”

Erin frowned. "Birthdays aren't scary. They're about cakes and presents and parties and silly hats and—”

“That’s it!” Larry cried. “I’m supposed to frighten the birthday cake, scream at the presents, eat the silly hats and then…no, that’s not it.”

He kicked the bedpost in frustration. “Ow!” he cried, hopping in circles on one hairy foot.

“Serves you right,” Erin said. “Scaring people on their birthday is dumb.”

The monster stopped hopping. “You really think so?”

“How would you like it if I showed up on your birthday and frightened you?”

Larry shook his head. “I wouldn’t like that. But if I don’t frighten you and ruin your birthday, I’ll get yelled at by my teacher. Steve is the best birthday monster ever. One year he ruined fifty birthdays in one day.”

“Sounds rotten to me,” Erin said.

The monster began to pace next to the bed, deep in thought. “Okay. Maybe I should frighten the birthday cake, eat the presents, and…oh boy, my teacher is going to be mad if I don't figure this out.”

Larry began to sniffle. A tear trickled down his cheek.

“Okay, don’t get all gooey about it,” Erin said. “I have an idea.”

Later that day, all of Erin’s friends came to her birthday party. They brought presents, they wore silly hats, and they ate birthday cake. But mostly, they looked at the hairy thing sitting next to Erin at the head of the table. It wore the silliest hat of all, and held a piece of birthday cake in each paw.

“That’s the ugliest doll I’ve ever seen,” said Ruth, Erin’s best friend. “How do you get it to eat cake like that?”

Erin watched as Larry finished another piece of cake, candle and all. His furry face was covered with crumbs and icing.

“I don’t know how it works,” she said, giving Larry a wink. “Maybe it has a computer in it.”

Ruth shrugged. “It’s ugly and it just ate a birthday hat. What do we do now?”

“We’re going to play a game,” Erin said. “We’re going to run outside and scream as loud as we can. And the loudest screamer gets a big prize.”

And that’s what they did.

They screamed so loud that people blocks away opened their doors to see what was going on. Dogs began to howl. Huge flocks of birds flew from the trees. Somebody called the police.

It was the loudest scream anyone had ever heard.

The next day, in a classroom far, far away, a large monster patted Larry on the head.

“Good work,” Steve said. “We could hear the screams all the way down here. You are the scariest monster in the school.”

“Aw, it was nothing,” Larry said. He burped and a birthday hat flew out of his mouth. “People are weird. Those things taste awful.”

Email of the day

Dear Dr. Missy,

I am a newbie children's author and I'm ready to buy a computer. The trouble is, I don't know which kind to buy. I've heard that PCs are cheap but they all have trouble with viruses and whatnot. Macs cost more but don't have the virus problem. However, a friend told me that Macs are prone to being haunted. What should I do?

Dazed and Bewildered

Dear D and B,

It should be obvious from what I wrote above that I am a Mac Person and proud of it. At least with a Mac I don't have to worry about my computer bursting into flames or being infected with a new virus every five minutes.

Unfortunately, the reports of "haunted" Macs are true. Apple has acknowledged the problem, which is due to certain logic boards mutating into irrational boards that somehow summon the spirits of creatures from another dimension that take up residence in Macs.

Hey, what can I say? It happens.

My agent was the victim of a Technohaunting, and it changed the programming on her computer so that every third word she wrote was replaced with "poop." As a result, I received emails that read:

Dear Melissa,

Poop was good poop to hear poop from you poop. About your poop: I sent poop to Ed poop at Random poop and he poop as soon poop he can. Poop.

Well, you get the idea. She had a Buddhist guy come in and do some kind of exorcism thingie and now "poop" only shows up every fiftieth word or so. That's not so bad and she doesn't have to worry about flames and poisonous fumes shooting out of her keyboard as is the case with certain other brands. I think you know what I mean.

Dr. Missy

Fun's over, time to do the blog

2010-03-25T12:29:00.031-06:00

I'm back!

I haven't really gone anywhere but real life gets in the way of blogging. Well, I did go to Chicago and look for ghosts with children's author Adam Selzer, though we didn't find any. Then we went back to Chicago again to see if we could find the best cheeseburger in the city. Much more research remains before a winner can be crowned.

My youngest son got a taste of city life while we sat in a park late one evening. A man who had perhaps drank a little too much plopped next to him and introduced himself as Pete. Within five minutes they were involved in a lively argument about whether Inspector Gadget said "Go go gadget hat!" or "Go go gadget copter!" when he needed to fly. I'm not sure this vitally important issue was ever decided. I'm not sure how the subject even came up. I'm not sure I want to know.

I love using Chicago as the locale of my stories, so I try to learn as much about the city as I can whenever we head up north. Last time, I spent an hour walking from one end of the Navy Pier to the other with a video camera glued to my eye. I'd written a specific scene that takes place there and I wanted to make sure I had it right. One day we spent over an hour near Michigan Avenue looking for a suitable alley for another story. These activities, of course, thrill my family to no end. I hear a lot of "Can we go now?" and "All right, already!"

Civilians. They'll never understand the heart of the true artist.

Dead Mother Report

I just finished reading Big Nate: In a Class by Himself by Lincoln Peirce. At first glance you might say to yourself, "Aha! This is just a crummy ripoff of Jeff Kinney's Wimpy Kid books! But there is a red banner running across the top of the front cover with Kinney quoted as saying "Big Nate is funny, big time."

Big Nate appears in over 200 U.S. newspapers. So there.

Big Nate is what I call a hybrid book, one with text and pictures mixed together, like the Wimpy Kid books or Ruth McNally's Barshaw's Ellie McDoodle series. I'm sure the publishing industry has come up with its own nifty term for these books but I haven't been paying attention if

they have.

Anyway, Big Nate is a quick and enjoyable read. I had the plot figured out early on but that didn't take away from my enjoyment of the characters and Nate's unending battle to stop being sent to detention. The artwork, while similar to Kinney's, is appealing, and the story is fun. This book should be very appealing to MG readers, especially boys.

What you want to know, of course, is whether or not there is a dead mother in this book. The answer is: I don't know. Nate has a somewhat stereotypical doofus dad and annoying older sister, but his mother is nowhere to be found. Is she dead? A zombie? A vampire? Did she run off with the milkman? Was she hit by a shrink ray and is trying to climb up a table leg in order to get the family's attention? The author gives us no clues.

Dead Mother Rating: Who the heck knows?

News of the weird:

From Illinois Homepage: An argument between a father and his adult son over the best way to change diapers sent one man to the hospital.

Gregory Bishop was fighting with his son about how he was changing his baby's diaper. Police say that the argument got physical and Bishop tried to get a knife to defend himself. In the process of doing that, he accidentally cut himself and had to be treated at a hospital in Springfield.

The son took off before police arrived to the scene. They say the baby was unharmed because its mother took the child from the bedroom when she heard the fight break out.

Email of the day:

Dear Dr. Missy,

Are all little boys weird or is it just mine? If I'm going to write books that will be appeal to them, I need to know what they are like.

Concerned

Dear Concerned,

My little boys have grown up to be ginormous teenagers. One of them has a beard that makes him look fairly Amish. But here's a true story from when my youngest was a cute little bugger without any beard, Amish or otherwise:

We're at Bed, Bath & Beyond and I notice these rubber squishy balls near the checkout. They're about the size of a racquetball and are supposed to be used for relieving tension or as therapy to combat carpal tunnel. Since my youngest spawn is the fidgety type, I grabbed one for him to fidget with in the car. And since my wrist had been a little achy, I grabbed another one for me.

As it is with all things, my son insisted the balls be given names. He decided his would be Steve. I couldn't think of an appropriate name for a ball, so I snagged the first idea that flitted through my head and christened mine Hey Albert, which came from my failed attempt the night before to recall the name of the cartoon series, Hey Arnold.

Later that day, I walked into my bedroom to find my son sprawled on the bed on his stomach, staring at the two balls, which sat an inch part, unmoving.

"What's up?" I asked cleverly.

He gave me one of those "Duh!" looks. "Can't you see? Steve and Hey Albert are fighting."

Sure, why not? I left him there, a silent spectator to an epic battle between two enraged and motionless squishy balls. I never asked who won but I hope it was Hey Albert. There is such a thing as loyalty, after all.

So yeah, my son was fairly weird, but now he has actual prestigious universities vying for his attention despite the beard. So don't give up hope. I've got plenty more stories from where this one came from.

Sincerely,

Dr. Missy

News bulletin! Liar controversy resolved!

2009-08-12T13:12:00.006-06:00

Liar

As everyone in the children's publishing knows by now, a controversy erupted over the cover of Justine Larbalestier’s novel, LIAR, published by Bloomsbury. The original cover, which featured a Caucasian girl with straight hair, did not match the author's description of the main character, an African-American girl with "nappy" hair. Larbalestier, which is a very hard name to spell, made it known that she was upset over the cover but was told the cover could not be changed.

This led to a storm of protest from people on the Interweb who like to protest things, although you can hardly blame them in this case. A similar outcry occurred in 1969 when a Hardy Boys book (The Secret Under the Sink) was released with a cover inexplicably showing Joe Hardy dressed as a Rastafarian and Aunt Gertrude firing a Glock 19 at the family dog.

In the case of LIAR, one proposal that caught fire amongst children's authors suggested that everyone who buys LIAR should return the jacket to Bloomsbury, along with a polite note stating, "You better send me a different cover or else, chumps."

In the end, Bloomsbury recently announced that the book with be re-jacketed in time for its release in October.The odd thing is, the new cover will feature the late Bill Cullen (see right), host of the original The Price Is Right and many other game shows. We could not discover why this decision was reached, although we did receive a whispered late night phone call from a woman who said, "Everybody liked Bill Cullen, okay? Who's going to complain about him?"

Email of the day

Dear Dr. Missy,

I was thinking of going to one of those SCBWI conventions. Have you ever gone to a convention? Is it worth the time and money? What the heck does SCBWI mean, anyway?

Bev (My real name)

Dear Bev,

I went to the last SCBWI convention in New York. Well, I tried to get there but it didn't work out. First I had trouble at the airport because I refuse to travel without my collection of antique tweezers and nail clippers. It was a bad scene and the security guys got jumpy and Maced me. Big deal. These days, all that does is make me sneeze a little. After I got away from them, I thought I'd found my flight but my eyes were a little watery and I didn't read the sign quite right. I ended up flying to York, Pennsylvania.

When I got off the plane a woman pointed at me and started yelling that I was the Sweet Potato Queen of literary fame. Okay, the Sweet Potato Queen is real tall and has big curly hair and I'm real tall and have big curly hair but I'm still not her. Despite my protests, no one would listen, so I was taken to the local high school to give a talk on sweet potatoes to the student body.

Thing is, I hate sweet potatoes. I can't stand to have them near me, so my speech was mostly a lot of yelling about how people who eat sweet potatoes should be thrown out of the country because only communists would eat the stupid things in the first place. That caused a fuss and they tossed me out of the high school. Unfortunately, they still had my suitcase, so I had to fight my way back in to get it because I was not leaving my collection of antique tweezers and nail clippers in York frigging Pennsylvania.

Luckily, I was able to hitch a ride with a trucker taking a load of urinal cakes to New Jersey. Unluckily, he insisted we sing C.W. McCall's "Convoy" all the way there. It's not a bad song, not really, but it's a long way to New Jersey and we must have sang the &*^%$#@! thing a thousand times. Hey, Rubber Duck, you got your ears on?

The trucker let me out somewhere in eastern New Jersey and I caught a cab the rest of the way. I stopped off for a look in the newly-opened Museum of Socks, then hung around the Ed Sullivan Theatre for a while to see if David Letterman might show up. By the time I got to the convention site, all the SCBWI people had left. I wandered the hotel aimlessly until I found a meeting for fans of the old TV show, "Emergency." I chatted with a professional Randolph Mantooth impersonator until he started grabbing at me, then I decided it was time to go home.

Next year I'll try and do things a little differently.

Dr. Missy

P.S. I don't know what SCBWI means. It's probably one of those secret things like the Masons have. It's better not to inquire about that kind of stuff because you don't want to wake up with a goat's head in your bed or whatever it is they do.

That was zen, this is tao

2009-07-18T14:35:00.005-06:00

The new me

Yesterday I took my son to the Social Security Administration to get him a new card, seeing as how he lost the first one. As I expected, there was quite a crowd, so we took seats in the back row. A couple of minutes later, a disheveled man came in, looked over the available seats, and decided to sit next to me. They always do. After he settled himself, he took out a container of doughnut holes and began to carefully examine each one. Perhaps he was looking for defects or maybe he was counting them--it wasn't clear.

I tried my best to ignore the guy and his aroma, but I made the mistake of sneaking a peek at him. He caught my eye, smiled a gruesome smile, and said he knew a "a real pretty lady over to Gibson City" who looked just like me.

"He's trying to pick you up," my son whispered, trying not to laugh.

"I've never been to Gibson City," I said.

"Oh," the disheveled guy said. "Well, you sure look like her." He went back to inspecting his doughnut holes.

My son and I, with a long wait ahead of us, decided to use the time by coming with a nickname that would help my writing career, something that would grab the attention of an editor or the reading public. Here are some of the nicks we evaluated:

Missy "Tourist Hater" Neal

Missy "The Inkinator" Neal

Missy "The King of Pop" Neal

Missy "Get Down with Your Own Bad Self" Neal

Missy "Gonzo" Neal

Missy "Melissa" Neal

Melissa "Missy" Neal

Melissa "The Italian Stallion" Neal

Melissa "Read or Die" Neal

Melissa "Dr. J" Neal

Well, you get the idea. Coming up with a good nickname, especially one for use in literary circles, turned out to be quite difficult. In the end, we decided on... (drum roll)

Melissa "The Enforcer" Neal

I need to tell my agent of this new moniker, if she would only answer her phone. I think she will be quite happy, telling editors that she has a new manuscript from... The Enforcer. "Whoa," the editors will say. "A new one from The Enforcer! Break me off a piece of that because I am hungry for some great reading!"

After a long wait, we didn't get a new Social Security Card because my son forgot his school ID. So, we went over to Barnes & Noble, where I stood near the front door and pretended I was having a book signing. "Hey," I said to customers entering the store, "The Enforcer is here. Have pen, will sign."

Most of the customers shied away from me. One woman started to cry. A big, nasty looking guy glared at me and said, "Who do you think you are?" I replied, "The Enforcer." After that, the cops showed up and we had to leave.

Email of the day

Dear Dr. Missy,

I am a children's author but my children (Augie, Robert, Kristal, Gwen, and Petey) refuse to eat cauliflower no matter how I prepare it. They say it looks like brains! Do you know of a way I can get them to eat this most important vegetable?

Bev (My real name is Dotti)

Dear Bev and/or Dotti,

What the heck does this have to do with children's writing? Never mind. As it happens, here is my recipe for cauliflower:

Take one pound of lean ground beef

Three tablespoons butter

One pound sharp cheddar cheese

Six slices of English muffin bread

One pound of cauliflower

A nice bottle of merlot

Shape ground beef (ground sirloin is best) into three patties and cook over medium heat until the meat is slightly pink in the center.

Break cheese into pieces and melt over medium high heat in a double boiler

Toast English muffins in toaster (duh)

Place each ground beef patty on one slice of muffin and cover generously with melted cheddar. Cover with second slice of muffin.

Throw the caulflower out the back door and hope the danged squirrels will eat it because it does look like brains and it tastes horrible.

Return to kitchen and invite two friends over for burgers.

Wash down burgers with merlot.

Put butter back in fridge since you never got around to using it.

Optional: Serve chips next to burgers

Also optional: Put ketchup or mustard or mayonnaise on burgers

There. I hope that helps.

Sincerely,

Dr. Missy

Nothing about cobras this time, I promise

2009-04-07T15:32:00.006-06:00

The Squirrel Man

I was cleaning out my computer desktop yesterday and found a file called "Squirrel Man." I had no idea what it was so I opened it and started reading. I read a little of it and decided I must have downloaded it from the Interweb and kept it for some reason. Then I read a little further and saw a couple of personal references. Turns out I wrote the thing, probably one of those late night ideas that wouldn't let go of me until I wrote it down.

Since I don't have anything terrifically witty today. Here's the Squirrel Man.

I passed the old man every day on my way to work. He sat on the same park bench from daybreak to sundown, in rain and snow, heat and cold, he was always there.

He dressed in a gray wool overcoat that had seen better days and an ancient Cubs cap. His face was deeply lined, his hair thinning and gray. His eyes gave no sign of happiness or sorrow. They just stared ahead, looking at something in the far distance.

I called him the squirrel man because he was covered with squirrels. They perched on his shoulders, arms, and legs, even on his scuffed boots. Without seeming to move, a piece of corn or a nut would appear in his hand for a second before one of the faster squirrels grabbed it in both paws and hurriedly nibbled at it.

After a while, I ceased to notice him. He was another park fixture, more like a statue than a man. The seasons changed but he did not.

A few days before Christmas, I hurried through the park on my regular route to work. Fat snowflakes skidded past, borne by a gusty wind. When I reached the park bench, the squirrel man slowly turned his head and looked at me for the first time. I stopped and gave him an awkward wave. His eyes lowered, indicating the vacant seat on the bench. After a moment’s hesitation, I sat next to him, causing a mass exodus of squirrels.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be,” he said in a whispery voice. “They’ll be back, soon as they figure you’re okay.” An acorn appeared between the squirrel man’s thumb and forefinger. A squirrel approached, and after giving me a wary look, jumped on the man’s knee and grabbed his prize.

“See? They’re just a little shy, that’s all.” He paused and took a long breath. “You come through here ‘bout this time every day.”

I nodded. “It’s a shortcut to work.”

“You got a good job?”

“I think so. I enjoy what I do.” I paused, feeling my curiosity get the better of me. “Are you…are you retired?”

He nodded. “Long time.”

I flinched as a gust of wind hit us. The snow came faster. Drifts began to pile up against the trees.

“Aren’t you cold?” I asked. "It's terrible out here."

“I’m always cold. Ever since I was in Bastogne. That’s a Belgian town, you know. Everybody thinks it’s in France but it’s not.”

“You were there during World War II,” I guessed.

“Yep. I was a paratrooper. Got caught in the middle of the Battle of the Bulge. Them Krauts came through the forest with everything they had. Shot the hell out of us.”

A nugget of corn appeared in the man’s hand. Two squirrels jumped in his lap and fought for it, chittering angrily.

“The whole world wants to fight,” the man said. “It don’t solve nothing.”

“You must have been brave to be at Bastogne,” I said.

“Nah. It don’t take bravery to jump out of a burning building, does it? We were there because we had a job to do. Besides, if we’d come out of our foxholes, the Krauts would’ve picked us off in a second.” He paused and closed his eyes. “It was real pretty in those woods. Sometimes at night, it got so quiet, all you could hear was the snow dropping from the branches.”

I groped for something positive to say. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

He stared at the ground in silence while more squirrels advanced. He made sure they all got a piece of corn.

“Soon be Christmas,” he said. “You can hear the bell ringers all over the park. They got real pretty lights strung up on the buildings.”

I could no longer feel my toes and I was late for work but I couldn’t leave. “Do you have family?”
“Probably so. They don’t much want anything to do with me.”

“Why?” I asked and immediately wished I hadn't.

“I got shot up pretty good at Bastogne. I weren’t the same any more.”

“I’m sor—”

“I don’t want nobody to be sorry. I took my life as it came, and that’s all anybody can ask of me.”

I started to feel a little frantic. I wanted to get inside where it was warm but I couldn’t get up and leave the old man alone. “Do you have somewhere to go for Christmas?” I heard myself ask.

He nodded. “Got my post right here. The squirrels don’t know about Christmas. They get hungry no matter what day it is.”

“It’s too cold,” I said. “You can’t sit out here in this kind of weather.”

His head slowly swiveled toward me. “Bastogne was worse, lady. At least here I don’t have nobody shooting at me.”

“I’ve got to go.” I stood and shook snow off of my coat. “What if I brought you something warm later on? Maybe some coffee or some soup?”

“I’m okay just like I am.” He pointed at the lapel of my coat. “I like that pin. I used to keep bees, long time ago.”

I glanced down at the gold honeybee pinned to my lapel. “My sons gave this to me a couple of years ago. I’d almost forgotten it was there. Look, are you sure there isn’t something—”

“Get out of here before you’re late for work.” The old man turned away and gave his attention to the squirrels. As I walked away, they swarmed over him, waiting for something to eat.

That day, I couldn’t stop thinking about the squirrel man. I felt guilty sitting in my warm office. After taking a sip from my fourth cup of gourmet coffee, I made up my mind to do something for him.

The snow continued to fall. Schools let out early; street closures came over the radio. It looked to be one of the biggest snowfalls in years. Surely the squirrel man had gone for shelter somewhere. No one could last long in this weather.

I left work a little early and hurried to the park. It was nearly dark. A police car and an ambulance stood at the entrance, their lights flashing. A fender bender, I decided. Cars were skidding all over the icy streets.

The park bench was empty. All around it, shoeprints had churned the snow into mush. I felt eyes peering at me and looked up into the trees. Dozens of squirrels looked back.

A policeman approached, scribbling something in a notebook.

I pointed to the park bench. “There was an old man—”

“Crazy old coot.” The policeman snorted. “Sat there so long he froze to death.”

“No!” I blurted. “Not him.”

The policeman shrugged. “’Fraid so. Happens all the time.”

“What was his name?” I needed to know.

“No idea. Just another vagrant.” The officer peered at me and pulled a small package from his pocket. It was wrapped in a greasy menu from a Chinese place down the street. He glanced at the package and nodded. “Found this on the old guy. Are you the bee lady?”

I nodded. “He liked my pin.”

“Works for me. No crime committed here, so we don’t need this for evidence.” He tossed the package to me and walked away.

Give this to the bee lady, the old man had written in a shaky hand. I fumbled to unwrap the paper and found a worn velvet box, and inside that, a medal with a striped ribbon. A silver star. I turned it over. For Gallantry in Action, it read.

I stared at the park bench, now empty, and tears began to burn my eyes. “I didn’t even know the man,” I said out loud. “I shouldn’t be this upset.” I started to walk away but after a few steps I stopped and looked into the trees. “Okay, I’ll be back,” I told the squirrels. “You won’t go hungry.”

I hugged my coat a little closer and turned into the teeth of the wind. I wondered how cold it got in Bastogne.

Odds and Ends

2009-01-29T18:41:00.002-06:00

Dr. Missy's Almanac

1/31: Send a Fan Letter to Bob Keeshan Day in Gnaw Bone, IN
2/3: Remember that Bob Keeshan Is No Longer with Us Day in Gnaw Bone, IN
2/7: Feel Bad About the Bob Keeshan Thing Day in Gnaw Bone, IN
2/12: Set Fire to a Pumpkin Festival in St. Louis, MO
2/14: National Salad Fork Day in New York City

I Didn't Make this Up

Here is a picture from an ad I received yesterday, which has not been altered in any way. I find it disturbing. Perhaps the economy is worse than I thought. Also, I don't want to think about what that orange stuff in the bowl might be.

Arcola Strikes Again!

The National Toy Hall of Fame features such well-known playthings as Legos, Hot Wheels, Tinkertoys, Tonka Trucks, and the Hula Hoop. No surprise there. In 2002, the Raggedy Ann doll joined the inductees, followed in 2007 by Raggedy Andy. These dolls were created by Johnny Gruelle of Arcola, Illinois.

The 2008 inductees included the baby doll, the skateboard and a stick. Yes, a stick. A plain old stick from a sycamore tree, to be precise. This choice received a great deal of media attention but what I find interesting is that the owner of said stick is one Julian Harshbarger of that hotbed of toy design, Arcola, Illinois.

By the way, Mr. Potato Head and Crayola crayons failed to make the cut this year. Apparently they weren't invented in Arcola.

Barack Obama: Senator, President...Lawn Ranger

Here is a picture of Barack Obama brandishing a toilet plunger.

To be honest, Mr. Obama was not president when this picture was taken. He was campaigning for the U.S. Senate in 2003 when he happened to run into an interesting bunch called the Lawn Rangers. (Official motto: You're only young once... but you can always be immature.)

The Lawn Rangers are a group of men who describe themselves as a "precision lawn mower drill team." They count among their membership such famous authors as Dave Barry. Okay, Barry is the only famous author in the group but who's counting? Barry describes the Lawn Rangers thusly: "We are an extremely random group of middle-age guys who carry brooms and push specially decorated show lawn mowers, which we use to perform synchronized broom-and-lawn mower maneuvers that always get a big crowd reaction (usually: 'Huh?')."

So far, the Rangers have marched in over 200 parades, including those for the Holiday Bowl, the Indianapolis 500, the Fiesta Bowl, and the Broomcorn Festival to name but a few. During these parades, the Rangers often carry batons, or as most of us call them, toilet plungers, which is how Obama came to be photographed holding one.

When Obama won the presidency, the head Ranger, Pat Monahan, remembered that 2003 picture. Overcome with patriotic fever, he decided it would be a good idea for the Rangers to march in the inauguration parade.

For reasons no one understands, the parade organizers agreed. And so the Rangers, clad in red graduation gowns and cowboy hats, thrilled (confused) Washington with an exhibition of their lawn mower pushing skill. According to Barry, five Ranger women dressed as Abraham Lincoln (with beards) were also on hand, carrying a banner announcing the Rangers' world-famous status.

As you probably know, the Lawn Rangers are based in Arcola, Illinois. Must be something in the water.

See the Rangers in action in this ABC News clip: http://tinyurl.com/cr54yj

Email of the Day

Dear Dr. Missy, My agent thinks we should hire a freelance editor. Problem is, an editor will cost anywhere from .015 cents a word to .03 cents a word, which can get pretty expensive. I figure a full manuscript would cost about $2,000. Is this a good idea?

Lost Linda (My real name is Bev but don't tell anyone)

Dear Lost,

My agent, Eddie "Carwash" LaRue paid a freelance editor to read one of my stories. He blew the money buying rude pictures of Angela Lansbury on eBay and skipped town.

The next editor was better but not much. He actually read my stuff but when he finished, he threw himself out of the nearest window, screaming "I can't live in a world where people who write like this exist!" or words to that effect.

Thing is, the fall wouldn't have killed him, as it was a first floor window, but he landed in the middle of Chinese throwing star competition and died of massive blood loss plus his head came off. Needless to say, he didn't do us much good.

I hope this helps.

Dr. Missy

Procrastinating!

2009-01-06T19:01:00.005-06:00

Dr. Missy's Almanac

1/16: Rearrange Your Dirt Day in Westmoreland, TN
1/21: Be Mean to Mr. Claude Templar for No Good Reason Day in Parkland, OR
1/25: Valentine's Day in Canadia
1/28: Order the Clam Special at Howard Johnson's and Refuse to Eat It Day in Houston, TX
1/30: Wear Your Shoes Backward Festival in Kansas City, MO

How to procrastinate

It's a whole new year! Woo hoo! Yay!

Everyone is busy making resolutions to make this the bestest and brightest year ever! In fact, people on the CW list are being forced (possibly at gunpoint, possibly by blackmail) to come up with their "one word" for 2009, that single clump of letters they will use to steel themselves for the challenges of the next twelvemonth period. These words include: hope, contract, dedication, confidence, pus, finish, and kretch.

As the purpose of this blog is to be as dysfunctional as possible, my word shall be... PROCRASTINATE! Ha ha!

Here are ten activities I will use to successfully procrastinate throughout 2009:

1. Tweezing the middle out of my unibrow
2. Singing the Madagascarian national anthem (it rocks!)
3. Playing my extensive collection of Cowsills records backward to find secret messages
4. Spying on my neighbor, Mr. Bushida, via one of the cameras I secretly installed in his home
4. Playing Wimpy Bells over and over at www.wimpykid.com/WimpyBells.html
5. Writing hysterical letters to Dotti Enderle claiming that her books have caused my soul to be taken over by Randolph Mantooth
6. Counting how many staples are left in the staple gun
7. Bandaging wounds caused by checking how many staples are left in the staple gun
8. Staring at interesting bits of metal discovered in the driveway
9. Seeing how many different words I can make out of "SCBWI"
10. Arranging my tubes of foot lotion in alphabetical order

What happened to this blog?

Okay, it's been a long time since I updated this blog. I could say that sinister forces were at work trying to corner the world's supply of Corn Nuts and only I could stop them. I could say I had been kidnapped by a cult dedicated to the overthrow of the Jonas Brothers, whoever they are.

Or I could say I've been busy managing my real estate empire, which consisted of a couple of apartment buildings my mother left me. After a month, I decided to rename the apartments Mom's Revenge because being a landlord is a crummy job. People called up constantly wanting things! My bathroom faucet doesn't work. I lost my keys. My apartment needs to be repainted. I think I saw a mouse last night. There's a vampire hiding under the kitchen sink. On and on and on, except when it was time to pay the rent, and then half of them became very quiet and were never home when I came around to collect. Then I had to toddle off to court in a vain attempt to get the non-payers to cough it up.

Eventually I found someone to buy the apartments. I didn't quite get the price I wanted but my life suddenly became less complicated and now I have enough money to buy a trebuchet capable of hurling a grand piano at least 500 yards. (Never mind why I need one--I just do.)

Email of the day

Dear Dr. Missy,

I'm writing a story and I want to include this line: "The sun shone bright." But then I got to thinking, maybe it should be "The sun shined bright." Or the "The sun shone brightly." Now I'm horribly confused and don't know what to do. My writing has come to a standstill and I now spend most of my time wandering the back yard muttering to myself. I'm afraid the neighbors will think I'm crazy. Please help me finish my book!

Perplexed in Vegas

Dear Perplexed,

One thing is for sure. You will never get a book published if you continue to write like a hack. If you were an author with any real talent, you would have written this: "The sun blazed in the sky like some massive sun-like object, a roaring furnace of fantastic heat that, if you were to touch it, would hurt like the dickens and probably cause a blister. And while the sun shined brightly overhead, the mother died and her kid acted up and got all full of angst. A bunch of other people died too, horrible lingering deaths with a lot of pus and bile and stuff. In the end, though, hard lessons were learned, lessons that would carry them through the tough times when robots ruled the world and everyone was forced to eat asparagus." That, my friend, is the stuff that wins Newbery Awards. Get with it!

Dr. Missy

Do you have a question for Dr. Missy? If so, write in care of this blog and it might get answered, depending on how busy I am with the new trebuchet and any legal problems that result.

The French love me and Jerry Lewis

2008-05-08T22:10:00.008-06:00

Dr. Missy's Almanac

Upcoming holidays:

May 11: Throw a Hex Nut Wrench Through Your Neighbor's Window Day in Deland, Florida
May 15: Snicker at a Republican Day in Pittsburgh, Kansas
May 24: Follow Someone You Don't Know Until They Get Nervous and Call the Cops Day in Boston, Massachusetts
May 25: Refer to Your Best Friend as Albert Even If That's Not His Name Day in Lansing, Michigan
May 30: National Claim to Have Eaten a Deadly Black Mambo Viper Day in Madagascar

Great review for moi!

For some odd reason my big people novel has shown up at Amazon France. Not only that, it received a four-star review! Unfortunately, I don't read a lick of French but I did pick out a few phases, like monde de la perversion, que chaotique, and beaucoup amusée. Hooray for me!

I think.

People always ask, why do you keep your book a secret? I don't, not really. In fact, this very blog sat around for a month with a picture of me wearing a Santa hat whilst reading my opus and declaring it to be the best book ever written, or some such thing. No one said a word.

In other news, I am seriously considering creating the world's first DMI, or Dead Mother Index. It would consist of examining whatever books come my way and then summarizing how the parental units fare in said books. Of course, you readers are welcome to make submissions as well! The more the merrier!

The DMI so far:

THE TRUE MEANING OF SMEKDAY: Absent father, missing mother
THE DAY MY BUTT WENT PSYCHO: Dead mother
ENDYMION SPRING: Parents separated
BLACK BOOK OF SECRETS: Parents alive but creepy and homicidal
TUNNELS: Missing father, deranged mother
FLORA SEGUNDA: Deranged father
ATTACK OF THE FROZEN WOODCHUCKS: Dead mother
AIRBORN: Dead father
AIRMAN: Parents alive and reasonably normal
PURE DEAD FROZEN: Parents alive but odd in a cool way

You get the idea.

Bev Cooke tears the roof off the sucker!

Bev Cooke is the author of KEEPER OF THE LIGHT: SAINT MACRINATHE ELDER, GRANDMOTHER OF SAINTS from Conciliar Press, the newly released FERAL from Orca Books, and the forthcoming KEEPER OF THE LIGHT, also from Conciliar Press.

Dr. Missy: Looking at these titles, I would say they are about a
lighthouse keeper, a wolf, and a different lighthouse keeper. Am I right?

Bev Cooke: Close - very close! the third book is "Royal Monastic" about a snooty princess who has a secret identity as a nun and works as a spy for Interpol.

Seriously, Keeper of the Light is about St. Macrina the Elder, an early Christian saint who was exiled for 7 years into the wilderness (and she had about as much woodlore as a life-long New York City native who might be able to identify a squirrel in Central Park) then, once she returned to her city, became destitute when the Roman Empire took away all she owned. She was basically a street person for a few years, then when Christianity became legal, got all her belongings back.

Feral is about a cat who lives in the subway and the street kid who befriends her.

Royal Monastic is a biography of Princess Ileana of Romania - who was not your typical princess and her life was not what you'd call a typical life of royalty, unless of course, being exiled, broke and sick all your life is your idea of how royal people live.

DM: What moved you to write these particular books?

BC: This little guy sneaked into my office and held some kind of weird ray gun to my head and promised that if I didn't, he'd take me into his space ship and forcibly marry me to Elvis. I figured anything was better than that, and besides, I'm already married, so I wrote the books.

Seriously, the first two have to do with my faith - in the first, I was drawn to St. Macrina, not just because of what she suffered for her faith, but for the fact that she taught her grandsons about the faith. Her grandsons went on to become giants of the Christian religion - the work they did still affects us today, and monks and nuns still live under the rules St. Basil the Great wrote down for monastics. But without Macrina's teaching, they wouldn't have been able to take the steps they did to make the discoveries they made.

Royal Monastic was suggested to me by my publisher - and the more I learned about Ileana and what she went through in her life, the more impressed I was by her - her courage, her good humour, her ability to get up and keep going when things knocked her down.

Feral is about belonging and acceptance and what you'll do to belong. Since I spent a lot of my younger years feeling very much an outsider, the book was an exploration of that. And a lot of kids spend a lot of time feeling like they're outside - I think because they're not really kids anymore, but they're not adults either, and so they don't quite fit into either 'box.' And I like cats a lot - so it was easy to write about a cat.

DM: Which of the following words describes you best?
A. Gangsta rapper
B. International weapons dealer
C. Zookeeper
D. Mixed martial arts fighter
E. Washed up soap opera actress

BC: Oh, you know, I'd love to be a combination of a gansta rapper, a zookeeper and and mixed artial arts fighter, but I'm probably more like the washed up soap opera actress.

DM: Tell us about your favorite book. Or not. It's not like I have any power over you or anything but if you don't tell us about it, I will probably do something awful to you. I hate to be that way, you know? Being an interviewer is hard, so very hard. I didn't sleep at all last night, knowing I would have to write these questions. I thrashed around in bed, bathed in a cold sweat, and occasionally I would cry softly to myself. It's a far greater burden than anyone should have to bear. It's not like I'm asking for pity, you understand. It's just that it's so bloody stressful trying to get people to answer simple questions! Tell us about your favorite book! Is that so hard? No! I don't think so! Just do it already!

BC: Oh, Dr. Missy, it's too bad you stayed up all night - you missed the greatest dreams in the world. But do I feel sorry for you? Mwhahahahahahahaha no! Because that meant *I* got them all. And I'm keeping them and not sharing - not at all! Mine, all mine, I tell you! I have all the best dreams in the entire world and nobody else can have them!

Ahem.

My favourite books: it's more like my favourite authors. Once I find a book I like, I search out other books by the same writer. Beth Goobie, Carrie Mac, Tim Wynne Jones, Kenneth Oppel, and Arthur Slade are about my favourite Canadian YA authors. Chris Crutcher, Dotti Enderle, Diana Wynne Jones, Arthur Ransome, and CS Lewis are some of my favourite US & British YA authors. Adult writers: Terry Pratchett, Peter Straub, Stephen King, Shirley Jackson, Stephen Brust, Barry Hughheart, Andre Norton, Anne McCaffrey. Anything by any of them.

DM: Have you done any book signings? How did that go? If you haven't done any book signings, tell us about latex catsuits or whatever.

BC: I've done two book signings. One was nice and quiet and straightforward - they gave me books, I signed them. Unfortunately, at that one, I met a fan who then showed up at the next one, and between the weird guy in the brown leather bear suit, my reclusive next door neighbour who only comes out when the moon is full and howls at it, the stranger who was only in the bookstore to buy the latest around the world cookbook and myself, we managed to overpower him and wrestle him to the ground before he was able to do more than torch the travel section of the bookstore. But frankly, if it hadn't been for the gold miner from the north part of the island, who drove everyone away with his smell, I'm not sure we'd have succeeded.

DM: What's the best part of writing for children?

BC: Being a kid in my head - I don't think I ever really grew up and this way I get to be a kid all the time, without having to spend time in my local institution and take lots of medication.

DM: Who was the better Catwoman, Julie Newmar, Eartha Kitt, or Lee Meriwether? Discuss.

BC: Julie Newmar - she originated the role and that black shiny plastic just works.

DM: What words of advice do you have for the beginning children's writer?

BC: Stick with it, read everything you can lay your hands on, write constantly, and write what you love and moves you.

DM: Dead mother books: Cliche or not?

BC: Cliche unless the mother is a zombie (but zombies are kinda cliche too), or the entire book is about dead people.

DM: What's the weirdest thing in your office or writing space?

BC: My four foot high stuffed raccoon, who doubles as my social secretary.

DM: What's next for Bev Cooke? And by that, I mean a writing project and not what you usually do next, which I can't mention on a family blog.

BC: Mwhahahahahahahahaha! I can't tell you anyway, it's top secret, but I will say that involves latex cat suits, international spies and a gold mine in the north part of the Island.

Seriously - I'm working on three projects - one is about a bioengineered troll who likes music and hair ribbons, one is a story told from the point of view of an insane teenager (I mean more insane than they usually are, and in different ways. Teen insanity is usually pretty cool, but this won't be), and a collaboration with a friend about a Fool for Christ.

DM: Ask yourself a question. Go on, do it. Don't make me angry.

BC: What are you going to do when you get to the gold mine?

(None of your business, you nosy parker, Bev.!)

Email of the day

Dear Dr. Missy,

What's the deal with you anyway?

Susan (but not the one you know)

Dear Susan,

What's the deal with me, you ask? I'll tell you. We swim in deep and treacherous waters, my friend, where behind every corner lurks one of those giant squid things with nasty suckers. Yes, we must face the fact that the driveway of freedom is cracked and in need of repair and the seven-point inspection plan of courage often omits step five. Why is it that we can rip a CD but we can't rip our hearts out to show our compassion? Why is the money-back guarantee of intelligence often sent in too late to receive a manufacturer's refund?

Now is the time to step back and ponder how we can return to a time when the hair of wisdom gleamed with protein conditioners, when the six-pack abs of caring were ripped and well-defined. But that's not enough! We must stop buying things where the little plastic bits are going to break off after a week's use, just as our souls have broken off and lie strewn in the leaf proof gutter of despair. I think you know what I mean.

Sincerely,
Dr. Missy

Ruth McNally Barshaw and Rampaging Pitbulls

2008-03-10T01:16:00.005-06:00

I've been flat on my back for the past ten days, fighting the Virus from the Depths of Hell Itself. Still it holds me in its grip, but I managed to sit up in bed long enough to update this blog. At least I think I'm updating the blog. This could be another hallucination brought on by the fever. I'm told the other day I ran through the house shouting that I was the former Belgian longjumping champion Nils LaFontaine. It was only when I stood on the dining room table to receive my gold medal that the Resident Brit and a couple of neighbors managed to tackle me and haul me back to bed. I am now relatively certain I'm not Nils LaFontaine but as they say, only a fool is completely sure of anything.

Ruth McNally Barshaw: the explosive interview!

After the raging success of my interview with Susan Vaught, I decided to try again. This time, the lovely and talented Ruth McNally Barshaw was kind enough to answer my questions and I didn't even have to threaten her much. Without further ado, here it is:

Dr. Missy: Your first book is ELLIE McDOODLE: HAVE PEN, WILL TRAVEL from Bloomsbury USA, which received Two Thumbs Up and a Hoohah from Dr. Missy. Your forthcoming book is ELLIE McDOODLE: NEW KID IN SCHOOL, also from Bloomsbury. Who the heck is Ellie McDoodle? Are you Ellie McDoodle?

Ruth Barshaw: Nooo. She's more brave than I ever was. When I was a kid, mostly I was embarrassed to be alive. Still, we do share many of the same afflictions and idiosyncrasies. The Ellie books have a lot of little truth-becomes-art moments in them. Like where Ben-Ben is eating Ellie's favorite cereal, with his toes, right out of the box. In real life it was my daughter, Katie (who Ben-Ben is based on, incidentally). Editors think I'm wildly imaginative, but really I just lead a twisted life.

DM: England. 1942. The Second World War at its height. Bombs falling in London. U-Boats on the prowl in the English Channel. Spies everywhere. Food, gas, and clothing rationed. Many people sleep in tube stations because they no longer feel safe on the surface. Instead of writing about that, you created a story about a girl who goes on a camping trip. Were you inspired by wartime England or was it something else?

RB: Actually it was the Korean War. My dad was a Major and enlisted in the National Guard when he got back home. Every summer he'd spend two weeks at National Guard camp in northern Michigan. Because he and my mom had 7 kids and it'd be insane to leave her alone with us for two long weeks every year, we went with him and camped at the state park nearby. The Ellie story came from those annual trips. So did my affinity for raccoons, packing things efficiently, and campfire smell.

DM: Tell us about Fing Fang Fooey.

RB: It's a variation on Rock, Paper, Scissors, and it's used to count out who is "it" for a game of, say, Sardines, Ghost in the Graveyard, or Cereal Tag. Everyone stands in a circle with their fists in the center. Together they all chant at the same time, pumping their fists, "Fing, Fang, Fooey!" and on "Fooey!" they all thrust one, two or three fingers into the circle. Add up all the fingers, start counting from the youngest person in the circle, and the person you land on is "it." This is all carefully documented in the first Ellie McDoodle book.

DM: Kirkus describes ELLIE McDOODLE as "Part journal, part graphic novel" which is also the case with such recent books as DIARY OF A WIMPY KID and THE INVENTION OF HUGO CABRET. Are we seeing the emergence of a new genre in children's books?

RB: I hope so. I'd throw AMELIA'S SIXTH GRADE JOURNAL in there too. I'm thrilled to be in such good company with these nonstandard graphic novels. It's fascinating that all these books/series came about at roughly the same time. Each alone might have been merely a footnote. Together, and with HUGO CABRET taking the Caldecott this year (Yay!), each gains street cred. Maybe we're a mini-trend -- we need a name. And a spokesmodel.

DM: How did you come to the attention of your agent? And why does she want to be known as Eddie "Carwash" LaRue?

RB: It was all very mysterious. One of her spies told her about my SCBWI NYC conference sketchbook on my website (http://www.ruthexpress.com/), and the ensuing discussion on some of the writer groups about whether that style would work for kids' books. Carwash approached me. As luck would have it, she liked the work-in-progress, Ellie McDoodle, and it sold. A year later I finally found out who my benefactor was: Susan Vaught, the wonderful and illustrious author of Big Fat Manifesto, Trigger, and Stormwitch, among others. I'm forever in her debt, because Carwash changed my life.

Why the name? To remind her to sell, sell, sell, so she never has to go back to her previous job.

DM: I'm not going to ask what tree you would be because the last author actually answered the question. Instead, I ask this: If you could have a superpower, which one would you choose? And don’t say invisibility. Everybody wants that one but it’s really lame. Think about those Frantic Four people. There’s Flame Guy who shouts “Fire Ahoy!” and he catches on fire and flies around, and the Mr. Stretchy, who can stretch (duh), and Rocky, who’s made out of rocks or bricks or something and he’s real strong. Then there’s Invisibility Gal, who just stands around being invisible. Big deal. I'll bet she goes around peeping in windows at night or something creepy like that. So choose something else!

RB: Well, if I could be a tree, I would be back in first grade where I was a tree in the class play. It was humiliating, especially getting my photo in the newspaper next to the stars of the show. I wouldn't want invisibility, actually. I've already had that, being born into a large family. My fifth-grade daughter told her teacher last week the thing she craved most was a voice -- she wanted to be an agent of change in the world, but felt if the class bullies wouldn't even listen to her, then how could she make the world listen, and stop the wars, and repair the earth? The teacher thought this was rather profound, as do I. What I crave is the superpower to preserve that idealism in all our youth. She's my youngest, and while I love seeing her grow into a thoughtful, helpful member of society, and maybe even a good leader, I'm scared about the changes that I know are coming soon. I wish all 10-year-olds could keep that enthusiasm for learning, the sense of wonder, strength and empowerment that so many of them have, and that too many people lose over time. That'd be a collective superpower, and we'd all be better for it.

DM: I went into a Barnes & Noble last week and tried to buy ATTACK OF THE FROZEN WOODCHUCKS by Dan Elish but they didn't have it. In fact, the information desk guy sneered at me, like the book I wanted wasn't worth his attention. I'll tell you what, he was a nasty specimen. Later on, when we went into the cafe to get some Starbucks, the manager came in and started fooling with the cash register and managed to break it. "Nice job, Sherlock," I said after ten minutes of waiting, and he sneered at me some more while he failed to fix the register. In the end, we had to take our coffee and books to the front register, which he hadn't managed to break yet. The next time you go to a bookstore, what will you buy? I hope they have it.

RB: Wow, I'm surprised B&N didn't have Elish's book. You can get it on Amazon starting at $9.66 for used and new (I admit I was shocked to discover the book actually does exist). I went to a bookstore tonight, for an author event, and bought: A tote bag with waves screenprinted on it. (I plan to add a fish; my mother's maiden name is Codd, and we do all sorts of fishy events with kitschy fishy memorabilia. Maybe I'll bring it to the next wedding) - A cow keychain that poops cola-flavored candies. - A mini Uglydoll keychain: Ice-Bat. Hmm, apparently I collect keychains. - THE DISORGANIZED MIND by Nancy A Ratey. About coaching ADD-addled brains like mine--I hope I manage to read the whole thing. :x - FUN DOLLS by Aranzi Aronzo, basically how to make cute, Japanese stuffed animals.

I got paid for some author visits this month and went on a book-buying binge that lasted two weeks. Some new favorites: Boni Ashburn's HUSH LITTLE DRAGON and Kelly DiPucchio's GRACE FOR PRESIDENT. If I buy something the next time I'm in a bookstore (critique group meeting next Saturday) it'll likely be a sandwich and a sketchbook.

DM: Dead mother books: cliche or not? Explain yourself.

RB: Sooo old and cliche. Disney started it with Snow White in 1939, and nearly every Disney mother since is dead. Haven't we had enough of this sorry trend? Though I admit I may write a dead father book eventually. My dad died when I was 12 and it nags at me. I think dead mothers exist in novels to give characters desperation, loneliness and independence. Maybe there are other ways to achieve that.

DM: What inspires you to write? Do you listen to music, do you sit under a shady tree, or do you stand in the middle of your writing room and scream for an hour as I do?

RB: :::laughing::: I'm sorry, that's such a disturbing visual (so unlike you). Deadlines inspire me. Paying the mortgage inspires me. The rising cost of travel inspires me. I do listen to the radio, often classical music in the daytime, NPR news in the evening. Or I listen to the small selection of MP3s on my computer, over and over and over. I'm a rut sort of person. Last year and the year before, while doing book revisions, I watched all available seasons of The Office, over and over and over, laughing my fool head off. It was glorious.

DM: What is next for Ruth Barshaw? My studio's a mess. My adorable dog is elderly. Our dishwasher is broken. Two of my kids got engaged recently, one's pregnant. Most of our family birthdays are in April and May. I am reading two great books on illustration and transcribing harmonica songs in musical notation. My picturebook is almost ready to submit to Carwash, and I have a few new ideas for the next Ellie. March is Reading Month turned into March is Visiting Author Month. I've been running sporadically and want to make it regular. I need a haircut before I start hacking away at it myself. I want to make some Ellie dolls. Life looks to continue as it has been: Tumultuous.

DM: Ask yourself a question. Go ahead, it won't hurt.

RB: Were you ever given an upside-down spanking? Why, yes, in third grade, for talking too much, and at the time I was, regrettably, wearing a dress. Why do you ask?

Thanks so much, Dr. Missy. I appreciate your patience. You, Susan Vaught, Carwash and Mr. Bushida are my heroes.

Email of the day

Dear Dr. Missy,

My first book is coming soon and I want to do as many book signings as possible. Since my book is about pets, do you think I should bring my dog to the signings? His name is Rupert and he's a really cute poodle who just loves people.

Pet Lady

Dear Pet Lady,

I also have a dog. His name is Scooter and he is 95 pounds of Staffordshire bull terrier. We "liberated" Scooter when he was a puppy from one of those Michael Vick places that train dogs to fight. Contrary to popular belief, bull terriers are not naturally violent. What makes them popular as fighters is that they are very powerful and possess approximately 3,000 huge teeth.

The biggest problem with having a bull terrier is that Scooter developed the idea that he could best show affection by gnawing on us--whatever arm, foot, hand, breast, nose or other extremity he can reach is equally satisfactory. He is particularly fond of toes, perhaps because they have an interesting flavor or maybe they're just the easiest target, what with toes being at floor level most of the time. When Scooter still possessed his razor-sharp puppy teeth, the entire family went around with scabby toes. It looked like we shared a particularly disgusting foot disease.

Another thing about bull terriers is they like to shop. Scooter becomes positively giddy when we take him to Petsmart or Petco. We have to go up and down every aisle to make sure we don't miss anything, with plenty of stops to sniff especially interesting items. We finish at the hamster cages, where Scooter sticks his nose against the glass and causes the hamsters to suffer panic attacks.

One time Scooter decided he wanted to shop at Best Buy. He ran inside before we could stop him and proceeded to start a small riot. "There's a pitbull in the store!" a woman screamed, and people started running around aimlessly while Scooter patrolled the aisles. The security guy hopped in place near the front door, waving his arms and shouting about keeping calm while my son stood in front of him yelling "Don't shoot my dog!" I guess my son thought the security guy was packing heat.

Anyway, my son finally corralled Scooter near the cell phone area and brought him back to the car, where he found the Resident Brit and I sprawled in our seats, helpless with laughter. I am laughing now, just thinking about it.

Hmm. Looks like I didn't address your question about taking your dog to a book signing. That's a shame.

Dr. Missy

A Children's author reveals all!

2008-02-17T16:05:00.008-06:00

A Quicky with Susan Vaught

Susan is the author of several nifty children's books, including Trigger, Fat Tuesday, Stormwitch, L.O.S.T. and Shadowqueen. In her spare time, Susan is a neuropsychologist and recently began sending me emails insisting she was a superhero named Insulation Plaster Woman. (Don't ask, because I don't know, okay? Sometimes it's better just go along with these things.)

I recently disguised myself as a foreign book reviewer named William "Big Bill" Schoonover and tricked Susan into conducting the following interview:

Q. Your newest book from Bloomsbury just came out. It's called The Communist Manifesto. No wait, that's Karl Marx or somebody. It's called Fat Girl and the Goblet of Fire. No, not that either. Junie B. Jones and the Manifesto of Doom? The Stinky Cheese Girl? Heck, I can't remember. What is the danged title?

A. BIG FAT MANIFESTO

Though in our endless struggle to find a title (never mind the cover), we might have cycled through all those options. Trust me.

Q. What's the book about? Does it have any wizards or unicorns in it? I'm getting pretty tired of wizards and unicorns myself.

A. Big Fat Manifesto is about Jamie Carcaterra, a fat girl trying to survive and fighting for her right to be herself in a thin, thin world. No wizards or unicorns. Sorry for the oversight. I should have at least added a dragon? A fire-spitting lizard? I'm remiss...

Q. Why did you choose to write this story? Or did it choose you?

A. This story definitely chose me. The character of Jamie popped into my head while I was trying to write something else, and *would not shut up* until I wrote her story instead. She's pushy.

Q. According to Amazon, Big Fat Manifesto features "searing prose." What the heck is that?

A. I have absolutely no idea, but it sounds hot, doesn't it?

Q. Why did you choose to write for children?

A. This sort of chose me, too. My natural "voice" seems to emerge when I write a teen character. Perhaps my inner child doesn't want to get a real job and move out on its own

Q. Barbara Walters always asks people what kind of tree they would be if they were a tree. Would you like to answer that question? I hope not.

A. A Willow! No, wait, a dogwood. I would never want to be a Genko, though. Too stinky, if fertilized. The "fruit" smells a lot like rotten dog vomit.

Q. What is your favorite book? Are you sure?

A. All time favorite: The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom. Yep, positive. Current favorite: Who the heck knows. I'm reading Duma Key, though. You know something about Duma Key and that crazy writer fellow who produced it, right? Fellah named Stephen King--?

Q. Do you listen to music while you write? If so, what artists? I can't do it because it's too distracting but I heard that Stephen King guy likes to blast death metal or some such thing while he writes. Maybe that's why his books are so creepy.

A. I listen to music. I have 10 days of music stored on my computer. I couldn't begin to list all the songs. There are thousands of them. I can tell you that my family has applied for government intervention and relief because I will play the same song over and over during particular scene constructions. For days.

Q. What's next on your agenda? I don't mean something like "In an hour I'm going home to have dinner and scratch myself and watch season three of Charles In Charge." I mean, what's next on your writing agenda?

A. For young adult stuff, the book EXPOSED is next. Howzzat for a title? Charles In Charge-- jeez, I barely remember that show, but you have irrevocably and horribly reminded me of it now. Thank you so much.

Q. Dead mother books: cliche or not?

A. CLICHE.

Though I am preparing to write the dead mother story to *end all dead mother stories*, forever and ever amen because no one will be able to outdo this one. I shall dedicate it to you.

Q. Who is your favorite author?

A. Currently? Philip Pullman--though figuring out where to put the "l"'s in his name makes my brain collapse.

Q. There are rumors that you live in a fortified compound in the Smokey Mountains, where you keep herds of peacocks, sheep, cats, and lemurs. Also, there are rumors that you also keep a lot of henchmen with metal teeth around, and you make them all dress in orange jumpsuits. The whole thing sounds really creepy. How do you respond to these rumors?

A. I know nothing about any lemurs. Or sheep. And you forgot turkeys, guineas, pigeons, chickens, and a parrot who knows how to fart, bark, and meow.

Q. Ask yourself a question. Any question.

A. Why do I let my son make me watch Dr. Phil? Answer: I hope my new parrot will learn to say ARE YOU KIDDING ME? in Dr. Phil's voice and drive the entire family insane.

As a reward for being this week's interviewee, Susan will receive a case of Simoniz car wax. Simoniz sprays on clear, dries clear and gives your car a sleek-looking shine in just minutes! That's Simoniz!

Frozen Dead Guy Days are here again!

Bredo Morstoel is still dead and still frozen. He died in 1989 and ended up being stored in a Tuff Shed in Nederland, Colorado. The people of Nederland celebrate this with the annual Frozen Dead Guy Days, which this year includes an Afterlife Auction, live music by Cutie and the Beast, a screening of the international award winning documentary, "Grandpa's Still in the Tuff Shed" by the Beeck Sisters of Boulder, an Ice Queen contest, a pancake breakfast, and the Tuff Shed Coffin Race, to name but a few of the activities jammed into one incredible weekend.

More info at: http://www.nederlandchamber.org/FrozenDeadGuyDays/

Email of the Day:

Dear Dr. Missy,

There's somebody trying to get into my house and I think it's a vampire or a politician or somebody famous. Should I let them in? I don't think I should.

Bev C. (Possibly my real name)

Dear Bev,

What kind of letter is that? You're supposed to ask about children's writing! Oh well. We've gone this far...

So who are we not letting in? Oh wait, I know--it's Dracula, isn't it? Or George Gobel. He's famous. It could be George Gobel except I think he passed away a few years ago. What about Nixon? No, I think he's gone too, unless he turned out to be a zombie and came back to life or unlife or whatever they call it.

How about Mr. Whipple? He's famous but annoying. Please don't squeeze the Charmin, please don't squeeze the Charmin, blah blah blah. What the heck was wrong with that guy? I wouldn't take my children into any grocery store where some guy lurked around the toilet paper section spying on people. Creepy!

Speaking of creepy, I was standing in front of Max's Dog Bakery in Sarasota when a real weird specimen walked past me. He yelled at himself all the way down the street! Really angry stuff, and he waved his arms over his head, and he tried to spit on some people, and once he took a swing at a parking meter.

Once I told my kids that Max's was a bakery that made stuff out of dogs but they started crying so I said it was really a bakery for dogs, although some of the iced cookies looked pretty good to me.

Anyway, having eliminated everyone else, it must be Dracula after all. That's a good policy, I think, not letting him in, because he'd stare into your eyes and say stuff like "You must give your will over to me," and "Bend your head a little more so I can get a good angle on biting your neck and sucking out your blood," and "I hate the way you've done the bedroom--nothing in here harmonizes."

Sincerely,
Dr. Missy

Merry Christmas!

2008-01-06T22:58:00.000-06:00

Life Lessons from Jane Eyre

Okay, so the Resident Brit was watching Jane Eyre on television last night. I'm not a huge fan of this type of cinema, as the characters tend to wail and moan about every little thing, but I stopped for a moment when a guy cruised up to Jane Eyre. He's wearing an awful hat that looks like a giant black burrito shell curled up at the edges. Just seriously bad headgear, if you ask me. I mean, imagine if Zorro fell off an 80-story building and landed on his head. That's what that guy's hat looked like. (By the way, I'm pretty sure the hat guy is the one with the crazy wife locked up in the attic, unless that's another book.) In less time than it takes to tell, I took one look at that hat and covered up Jane Eyre's angst-filled dialogue with my own: "Hey Chester, what's the deal with your hat? Somebody sit on it or something?"

The Brit gave me the skunk eye for talking over the movie, but I think the dialogue would have been much richer if Jane Eyre had actually said that. Try it for yourself. Say it out loud: Hey Chester, what's the deal with your hat? Somebody sit on it or something?

Sounds good, eh? Now you are ready to use this phrase in everyday conversation. Let's say you've been pulled over by the state police. You roll down your window and wait calmly in your automobile, hands on the wheel so the officer can see that you aren't going for a gun. When the officer pokes his head in the window, now comes your chance. You smile and say: "Hey Chester, what's the deal with your hat? Somebody sit on it or something?"

What fun you and the officer will have as you share a hearty laugh! I'll bet you won't even get a ticket.

Don't think for a moment that this phrase only works with law enforcement representatives. Let's say that for some odd reason you've invited the Bishop of San Diego over for tea and for some even odder reason he shows up, and he's wearing the official bishop outfit, including that huge headpiece thingie. When the bishop walks in, what do you say? That's right. Say it loud and say it proud!

If people said more stuff like this, the world would be a much more peaceful place and fewer people would end up like Jane Eyre and hook up with weirdos who keep their crazy wives locked in the attic. If you ask me, that guy should have been the one locked up in the attic for wearing that stupid hat. What was he thinking when he saw himself in the mirror? "Lookin' good, Chester. You da man. Guess I'll go over and hit on that Jane Eyre chick next door."

Yeah, right.

The creamed corn that ruined Angela's Christmas

Hey, it's time for my annual Christmas story! I know, Christmas was a couple of weeks ago but I've been really busy, okay? Here it is:

Christmas was bearing down and I still had gifts to find. It was easy to find something for my niece Angela, as she devours books. Not literally, of course, but you know what I mean. I decided to order a book by an author I know, thinking I could get the book personally signed by said author. Angela would love it! (I won't name the author but her initials are RB.)

A few days later, the book arrived from Amazon. I stuffed it in a padded envelope, along with letter to the author asking for a personal inscription. Unfortunately, Christmas came and went and I never heard back from RB. I had to rush out and get Angela another present, one of those Fortune Teller books where ghosts and demons shoot out of the toilet or take over one of those awful Bratz dolls and make it say horrible things.

Three days after Christmas, Angela's book showed up, but the envelope was covered with odd stains. When I pulled the book out of the envelope, I found out why. It was covered with a substance that looked a lot like creamed corn. In fact, it was creamed corn. What a mess! The cover was mottled, the pages were mostly stuck together, and it smelled a little rank. When I looked at the title page, the author's incription was blurry. I'm not sure, but RB seems to have written "Rut in hall, you mothfarmer!" It's hard to tell.

Why would RB fill an envelope with creamed corn? I couldn't figure it out. Was it a message of some kind? Did it have something to do with the plot of her book? Perhaps she is the forgetful type and dumped the corn in while cooking dinner. My brain seethed with ideas but the creamed corn remained a mystery.

Later that day I received a visit from a couple of the guys at the local FBI office. It seemed that someone at the post office became concerned about the gooey envelope and sent out an alarm. As my readers well know, visits from federal authorities are nothing new, and I recognized the agents who turned up at my front door.

The bigger and more senior agent was James, but he likes me to call him Jimbo. James (Jimbo) has taken a liking to me, and he sends me a Christmas card every year. This time it was a picture card, with Jimbo, Mrs. Jimbo, and their three young children standing in front of their Christmas tree, pointing what appear to be Beretta Model 92B semi-automatic pistols at the camera. The picture was a little blurry, but if I was taking a picture with five Berettas aimed at me, I'd be in a hurry to get it done, blurry or not.

I showed Jimbo the envelope full of creamed corn and he took away a sample to test at the lab to see if it was anything heinous. I know creamed corn when I see it, so it seemed like a waste of time to me, but that's the government for you.

After Jimbo left, I started to throw away the envelope but then I spotted Mr. Bushida's cat in our back yard. Waste not, want not, I said, and took the envelope out back. The cat was playing with a squirrel's head, batting it back and forth, but stopped to look at me with its big blue eyes. I couldn't help but think that Mr. Bushida's cat, one of those big white fluffy specimens, looked a lot like the cat that Ernst Stavros Blofinger guy was always stroking in the James Bond movies. Blofinger would get Bond strapped down to a steel table and aim a laser beam at Bond's crotch, and then he'd say, "I don't expect you to talk, Mr. Bond. I expect you to be cut in half by my crotch laser." Then he'd turn the laser on and go back to his office to stroke the cat some more.

Mr. Bushida's cat went nuts when I dumped the corn on the grass. I guess he really liked creamed corn because it was gone in three bites. On the other hand, when you've been nibbling at a squirrel's head, I guess anything would taste good in comparison.

An hour later, I got a call from Mr. Bushida. He started yelling about the cat throwing up on their new white leather sofa, and in the background I heard Mrs. Bushida yelling in a foreign language, none of which I understood. Then there was a crash and Mr. Bushida started yelling in the same foreign language. I listened for a while, but aside from a few American words like "satan" and "horrible she-demon," I had no idea what he was babbling about, so I hung up the phone. I hate to be rude like that, but he was yelling at me, and I can't help it if his cat decided to yack on the furniture.

In the end, I decided not to give RB's book to Angela. I tried to get the creamed corn out but nothing worked, plus some of the pages fell out. Also, it started to stink even worse. I have to admit, I'm disappointed that RB decided to pour creamed corn all over Angela's book. I got to thinking about it, and I wondered if RB always pours food on books sent by fans. Then I wondered, does she always use creamed corn or does she switch off and use cream of asparagus soup or a can of navy beans? It's hard to tell with children's authors. They tend to be a little different, if you know what I mean. Most of them go around obsessing about dead mothers and hideous diseases all day, and that really messes up your head.

Hmmm. It looks like this story was a lot more about creamed corn and not so much about Christmas. Sorry about that. Next year, if I decide to get a book autographed for Angela, I'll send it to an author who just signs their name and leaves it at that. Angela will be happier, Mr. Bushida will be happier, and I won't have federal agents on my doorstep. At least not because of soiled envelopes.

The Holidays Approacheth

2007-12-09T01:13:00.000-06:00

My first loot

If you look to the right, you'll see that I'm reading a book about the National Lampoon, a once-great humor magazine. (Aside from MAD, do we even have humor magazines any more?) I have a soft spot for the NatLamp folks because I made my first money from any sort of media enterprise from them. I still have the check stub, all these years later. They didn't pay me much, but money didn't matter then. The fact that they were willing to give me money for something I did...woohoo! The greed came later, after I'd become a calloused veteran of radio and TV.

Creepy books for kids

Hey, it's easy to buy cutesy books for kids. They're everywhere! But what if you have a child who is...shall we say, different? Hah! You've come to the right place, and just in time for your holiday shopping.

For starters, we have Ryan Heshka's ABC SPOOKSHOW. Says Amazon, this alphabet book "brings together weird words and creepy characters to create one devilishly entertaining alphabet book. A Witch stirs her cauldron, casting evil spells, while a pig moans in pain from too much Yucky candy. A Quagmire monster rises from the dead while an Unlucky black cat lies squashed and still, the last of its nine lives gone.

What creepy youngster wouldn't want to have this book under the Christmas tree, or Festivus pole, or Voodoo candle, whatever you have. Come to think of it, I might get this book for myself.

How about this one: A COME RINOCERONTE/A IS FOR
RHINOCEROS by Harriett Russell. Last Gasp says this is the follow-up to Harriet's "utterly pointless counting book." That might be a good thing and it might not. Don't bother looking for this one is your local book store. It probably won't be there.

Also, I don't think there's an A in rhinoceros. If there is, it's very well hidden.

Here's one I read when I first became interested in children's literature: LIZARD MUSIC by D. Manus Pinkwater. I don't remember anything about the plot except I thought it was dumb. What I do remember is that the main character, a 12-year-old boy, was obsessed with Walter Cronkite, the old CBS News anchorman. He was often called "the most trusted man in America." Cronkite, that is, not the 12-year-old kid.

Thing is, it's pretty weird for a kid to be obsessed with Uncle Walter. Also, I don't remember that having anything to do with the plot. It's not Cronkite came in waving a couple of .357 Magnums and blew away the evil space lizards, or whatever they were.

The other thing I remember about this book was that it contains a single paragraph that spans three pages. Really.

I will leave off with a classic, THE GASHLYCRUMB TINIES by Edward Gorey. A is for Amy who fell down the stairs. B is for Basil assaulted by bears. C is for Clara who wasted away. D is for Desmond thrown out of a sleigh...well, you get the point.

Gorey is the master of creepiness, but it's a good kind of creepy, you know? All aspiring children's authors should read Gorey. You will not find one weird mention of Walter Cronkite in any of his books, nor will you find Chet Huntley, David Brinkley, John Cameron Swayze, or Wolf Blitzer for that matter.

If you know of any creepy children's books, send 'em in so we can add to the list. Don't be stingy.

Also, if a bookstore near you has an angel tree, I hope you'll think of children who might not have such a great Christmas. It doesn't have to cost much and it would mean a lot to the kids. It doesn't even have to be a Christmas thing. It's all about the spirit of the season, whatever you happen to be into.

And while we're on the subject of weird stuff, here's a picture of a goat on a trampoline. Just because.

Email of the day

Dear Dr. Missy,

I have been invited to attend a book signing in a woman's home. Isn't this unusual? I thought book signings were always in public places.

Linda (my real name is Sharon)

Dear Linda,

I was once invited to a booksigning in an alley in a bad section of town. I arrived at midnight as requested, a handful of books under my arm, only to find myself under attack by a quartet of ninjas. Dressed all in black, with only their hate-filled eyes showing from their hoods, they sprang from their perches along the alley walls, shrieking their ninja battle cry. I knew at once this could only be the work of my next door neighbor, Mr. Bushida, in retaliation for those unfortunate incidents that have occurred since I moved into the neighborhood.

It's not like I don't apologize. I said I was sorry for bringing home a panther from the zoo, and even sorrier that it got into Mr. Bushida's house and did those awful things to his aunt and uncle and his poodle or whatever it was. I'm sorry about blowing up his bird bath, and I'm sorry about the spear gun accident. What else can I say?

None of that mattered in the alley. Luckily, ninjas are nothing new to me. I dispatched the first one with a garbage can lid to the face. The second got a shot of mace up his nose. The third whizzed a throwing star past my ear; I responded with a cellphone to the temple. That left the fourth, brandishing a knife in each hand as we circled each other slowly in the blackness of that alley. He lunged, but I dodged the attack. He didn't know it, not yet, but he was mine.

As he danced around me, I grabbed one of my books. What the poor ninja didn't know was that I am a master of Bookku Hai, the art of books as weapons. I held the book in a certain way only a few people have mastered and flicked my wrist, sending the book on its mission of doom. The poor ninja could only watch as the pages made hundreds of paper cuts on his body. Bleeding badly, he dropped to his knees and screamed in agony.

I walked away whistling the theme from the Patty Duke Show, but I knew Mr. Bushida lurked nearby, anguishing over the failure of his plan. I also knew that we would meet again, and he would unleash something much more deadly than ninjas on me.

Since then, I don't go to book signings in alleys. I hope you'll do the same. Or not do the same, however that works out.

Your friend,
Dr. Missy

The Search for Meaning In an Existential Context

2007-10-21T20:58:00.000-06:00

Hunter S. Thompson book signing (of sorts)

Okay, in 1993 this college professor loads his students in two buses and they go on a literary tour of America. They read Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass and visited Whitman's grave in Camden, New Jersey. They read John Steinbeck and toured his museum in Salinas, Kansas. Then they made it to Colorado while reading Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas.

The professor decided to contact Thompson to see if he would meet with his students. Thompson agreed, and arrived at a bar in Woody Creek, where he drank and played pool with the students. Then Thompson took some of the students to his home, Owl Farm. There, he made the students line up, each clutching a copy of Fear and Loathing. Instead of autographing their books, Thompson pulled out a gun and shot a hole in each one.

Is that cool or what? I would love to have a Thompson book personally shot by the author. Alas, he is gone. Thompson's remains were loaded into fireworks canisters and exploded over Owl Farm. He is now probably working on Fear and Loathing In Heaven.

Murder

From Billboard Magazine: The rapper sometimes known as C-Murder will be tried a second time on a second-degree murder charge.

Here's my thinking. If you're going to be a rapper/murderer, you should probably pick a better name than C-Murder. It's a dead giveaway (pun intended). Makes things easier for the police, too.

Cop #1: Looks like we've got a rapper murder here. You think it was a DJ PuppyKisses?
Cop #2: Nah. What about MC FloralScent?
Cop #1: No way. Hey, what about that other guy, C-Murder?
Cop #2: That's our man. I'll get the warrant. You get the Taser.

Arcola

There's an author, Will Leitch, who wrote a pretty good YA book, Catch, about his hometown, Mattoon, Illinois. I enjoyed it, though I don't often read slice of life books. (I like stuff to blow up, you know?) Thing is, it was weird reading about Mattoon, since I grew up there too. Leitch put in all the streets I know, the local landmarks, even a couple of people I remember. There was something odd about reading a story about a place I know so well.

On the other hand, I can't think of anything interesting to say about Mattoon. U.S. Grant took command of his first troops there. Many sociology textbooks mention the Mad Gasser of Mattoon, who likely didn't exist but managed to cause mass hysteria during World War II anyway. And, um, dang. Not much else to talk about.

On the other, other hand, if you get on I-57 and drive 15 miles north, you run into Arcola, with a population around 2,700. It's a weird place. The locals call it "Amazing Arcola."

First, Arcola was, until fairly recently, home to the French Embassy, the only four-star French restaurant and bowling alley in the world. When I say four-star, I'm not kidding. Gourmands from everywhere came to eat at the French Embassy. Fantastic food, but très cher, as them French folk would say. Still, after eating a gourmet meal, what better way to burn a few calories by strolling across the hall and bowling a few lines?

Arcola also claims to be the "Broom Corn Capital of the World." This would appear to be a Good Thing, except I don't know what broom corn is for. Apparently they make brooms with it, but wouldn't any sort of corn do the job? Besides, I always thought brooms were made of straw. It looks like straw.

In addition to the broom corn thing, Arcola also has an Amish Interpretive Center. There are a lot of Amish near Arcola. You can tell because there's horse doody on the streets and sometimes on the sidewalk, so watch where you step!

I've talked to Amish people plenty of times and I don't need an interpreter. "Get thee off my land, spawn of satan," they tell me. I wish I had a nickel for every time I've heard that!

Hey, we're not done yet! Arcola is also the home of Johnny Gruelle. He's the guy who invented Raggedy Ann and Andy. Matter of fact, Raggedy Andy was installed in the Toy Hall of Fame last month. I don't know why he didn't go in with Raggedy Ann a few years ago. It's the same doll! Okay, they wore different clothes but that's about it. It's not like they are anatomically correct or anything.

I wonder if they had a pet dog, Raggedy Spot, or Raggedy Creepy Stepdad, or Raggedy Weird Uncle Lou. Nah. Too edgy. Anyway, there's a Raggedy Ann museum in Arcola, probably full of Raggedy stuff.

There can't possibly be any more going on in Arcola, you say. Hah! Arcola is home to the Lawn Rangers, the world's only precision lawn mower drill team, as far as they know. It's a bunch guys wearing cowboy hats and carrying brooms while pushing decrepit and oddly painted lawn mowers, and yet they've marched in the Holiday Bowl parade, the Fiesta Bowl parade, the Indianapolis 500 parade, and the NFL Hall of Fame Game parade. Author/columnist Dave Barry was so enthralled with the Lawn Rangers that he came up to march with them, and he's written several columns about them.

You think we're done, don't you? Arcola has only 2700 people. How could there be more? And yet, there is.

How about the world's only Hippie Memorial? Right in the middle of Arcola it sits. It was created by the Bob Moomaw, who was "Arcola's town crank" according to Roadside America. Bob walked a different path than most, and he created a monument sixty-two feet long to remember hippies and others who cherish freedom. Now Bob is gone but the Hippie Memorial remains.

Maybe Bob was a crank. After all, he decorated a building he owned with such messages as: "America you're turning into a nation of minimum-wage hamburger flippers. Rebel. Think for yourself. It works!" Crank or not, Bob was all about freedom, and that's a message too important to forget.

Remember, when you plan your next vacation, think Amazing Arcola!

Assorted fruits and nuts

2007-10-18T19:37:00.000-06:00

Well, I haven't been around for a while. Sometimes life gets in the way of writing, even if it's just scribbling stuff in a blog. Here's some bits and pieces of thoughts rattling around in my head.

Thing 2

I have two sons, otherwise known as Thing 1 and Thing 2. I found the caricature of myself and Thing 2 whilst cleaning out a closet. Lord knows how old it is. I'm pretty sure neither of us actually look like that. No one yells and faints when we go out in public. Not often, anyway.

The closet also produced a small mountain of board games, a half ton of sports equipment, a complete collection of Hogan's Heroes action figures, several RC vehicles, an ancient VHS camcorder, a huge reel of 2-inch quadruplex videotape that probably holds an old Mike Douglas Show, dozens of fast food toys still sealed in their bags, and a production cel from a 1942 Bugs Bunny cartoon, amongst millions of other items. I don't know how I got it all shoved back in there but I did. You never know when you'll need video of Mike Douglas or a Hello Kitty mini-hairbrush set.

S. King sells books

During one of the Red Sox playoff games a reporter found Stephen King sitting in a seat close to the field. The reporter pointed at a book King held on his lap, and King allowed as to how he reads a couple of pages between innings. Then the reporter asked one of the dumbest questions I've ever heard: "So, are you reading one of your own books?"

"Are you freakin' moron?" King yelled. He smashed the reporter in the face with the book and poured a cup of beer over the reporter's unconscious body. Then he tore off his shirt and launched into a jerky victory dance while the crowd roared in approval and showered the reporter with batteries, ice cubes, and a dead octopus thrown by a confused Philadelphia Flyers fan.

Okay, that didn't happen. Instead, King forced a grin at the stupid question and said it wouldn't be any fun to read one of his own books because he already knew how they ended. He then revealed that the book was The Ghost by Robert Harris. I immediately rushed to Amazon and found that the book ranked 3,987. Not for long, I told myself. An hour later, The Ghost had moved up 1,500 spots and stayed there for quite some time. Not bad for a brief mention during a baseball game.

Thing 1

Thing 1 is a high school senior and seems to have inherited some of my odder genes, which he demonstrates from time to time. Last week we walked past Jimmy John's, a rapidly growing sandwich chain that started here. The food is okay, nothing I'd go out of my way to eat, but my sons can't get enough of the place. Anyway, we had this conversation:

Me: There's your idol, Jimmy John.
Thing 1: Yes...I must kill Jimmy John and drain his essence. Then I will become Jimmy John.
Me: Uh, sweetie, are you feeling okay?
Thing 1: Bwahahahahaaaa!
Me: Well, okay then.

I blame those Lord of the Rings movies. The kid is obsessed with them. Or maybe it's video games. He was playing one the other day and someone kept yelling "The leg has been taken!" followed by a burst of gunfire. That's what it sounded like.

When I was his age, all I had was a Pong, and I had to walk uphill through a snowstorm in order to play it. When I tell my sons this story, they shudder in horror, and I when I go on to tell them we only had six TV channels, they turn white and start foaming at the mouth. "Who could live such a hellish existence?" they wail. If I'm in a particularly evil mood, I remind them that there were no personal computers and no iTunes either. "No! No! Stop the madness!" they scream, running in circles with their hands over their ears.

Today Thing 1 took my advice and went out to play in the fresh air. Two hours later he was in the emergency room with a broken arm. He may have to get surgery to repair the break--we won't know until Monday. In retrospect, I should probably have kept my mouth shut about the fresh air deal.

MLB

I received an invitation to join the Major League Baseball Players Alumni Association. It's got my name on it and everything. Trouble is, I'm pretty sure I was never a major league baseball player. Maybe the MLBPAA heard that I have a pink bat, one of the bats used by some players on Mother's Day in support of breast cancer research. My pink bat is leaning in a corner of my office, ready to use in case a horde of thugs break into the house. You never know.

Email of the day:

Dear Dr. Missy,

I'm writing an exciting middle-grade novel that takes place at Disneyland. (My husband read a few pages and said, "Honey, this is a thrillfest!") Well, I just finished an exciting scene that takes place in the It's a Small World ride. My main characters, a girl named Becky and a boy from some awful foreign country (my husband says I need a foreign kid to lock in good overseas sales) are being chased through It's a Small World by a group of exciting evil people and such--my heart beat a million times a minute just from writing it!

Well, imagine my surprise the next morning when a large group of Disney attorneys and several sheriff's deputies arrived with a cease-and-desist order. They said I can't mention It's a Small World in my exciting novel! Is that horrible or what?! (My husband said it stinks. Actually, he said something I can't repeat but you get the idea.)

What am I to do? How did the Disney people know what I had written?

Linda (not my real name)

Dear Linda,

I wouldn't fight Disney. Not unless you can unleash a strong artillery barrage to soften up the Disney forces and then send in a squadron of well-trained rangers to make the initial thrust into the enemy's right flank, making sure you keep an additional squadron in reserve in case the Disney troops prove to be resilient. You will also want to arrange for close air support, and if you have the resources, secure a battalion of paratroopers who will jump behind the Disney front lines and attack from the rear in a pincer movement with mortars and automatic weapons.

Hmm. Maybe I've been reading too many WWII books lately. You know, you don't have to use the It's a Small World ride in your story. How about:

It's a World of Vaguely Indefinable Yet Irritating Smells
It's a Slightly Smaller Than Normal World
It's an Eternally Long and Boring Ride World
It's a World with Disgusting Things Floating In the Water that Might Give Us Dysentary World

As far as how Disney knew about your story, I take it you haven't seen Tron yet. You know, the movie with the tiny people running around in computers? Get a copy now and study it thoroughly!

Dr. Missy

The Search for Guests Is On!

2007-05-22T19:43:00.000-06:00

Harsh review

I ran across this on Amazon. It's a review of the John Steinbeck novel The Pearl by a student forced to read it for class. Says she: "Dumb. Short. Kills off people. Retarded ending."

Well, at least it's short. Here's what the same student had to say about To Kill a Mockingbird: "Long. Boring. Kills off whole reason for book."

To sum up, if you want to be a successful author, don't write books that are long, short, boring, retarded, or kill off anything.

A Challenge

I know a fair number of children's authors and I thought it would be fun to have one or more of them make a guest appearance on this blog. Trouble is, I'm horribly sensitive. What if I asked an author and she said something like, "Stick it in your piehole, loser!"

That would make me feel very bad.

So, I'm going to be tricky. I'll guilt an author into appearing here. My first victim is Ruth Barshaw, author of the newly-released middle-grade novel, Ellie McDoodle, published by the fine folks at Bloomsbury. I ordered up a copy as soon as it came out and I have to say that it's terrific. Did I mention that Ruth is an artist? Okay, she is, so Ellie McDoodle not only contains a fair number of words, it contains many pictures, all of them drawn by Ruth herself. You knew that the book is an illustrated diary kept by Ellie, right? Okay, it is, so now you know.

In fact, if you happen to have spawn of both genders, you could buy Ellie McDoodle and Diary of a Wimpy Kid (mentioned here last week), and then you've got an illustrated diary from a boy perspective and one from a girl perspective. I'll let you figure out which is which because I don't want to take all the mystery out of your life or anything.

My spawn are both boys. My mother once gave them Barbies for some strange reason. An hour later, both Barbies had been decapitated and the heads buried somewhere on a golf course. The bodies were given to the family dog, which chewed them for a while and then threw up on the carpet.

Back to Ruth's book. Ellie McDoodle (played by the late David Janssen) is a pediatrician who gets in a horrible fight with her wife (played by Zsa Zsa Gabor or somebody) and storms out of the house. When Ellie returns, she sees a one-armed man (played by a guy whose name I can't remember) running out of her home. When Ellie goes inside, she finds that her wife is dead.

"Why, that rotten one-armed man killed my wife!" Ellie says. "Nuh uh," says Lt. Gerard (played by that one guy with wavy hair). "You did it. I'm taking you in."

"Nuts to that," Ellie says, but she is put on trial, found guilty, and sentenced to death. Then she's on a train on her way to get executed and the train crashes and Ellie gets away. All of the episodes that follow are about Ellie trying to find the one-armed man while staying out of the clutches of Lt. Gerard. At the end, Ellie finds the one-armed man on a roller coaster or Ferris wheel and is finally cleared of the murder charges.

Oh. I seem to have strayed into describing the plot of The Fugitive, which ran on TV for four seasons back in the sixties. Make no mistake, it was a great show, although I never watched it much since I was really little at the time. I liked cartoons and stuff. And Hogan's Heroes. Now that was an awesome show. Did you know that Robert Clary (who played LeBeau) was actually in a German concentration camp? I met him once and he showed me the numbers tattooed on his forearm. McHale's Navy was also great. I just bought the season one set. Can't wait to watch it!

Dang, I've strayed again. I guess Ruth Barshaw will have to make a guest appearance on the next issue of this blog and straighten it all out. Heh.

Email of the day

Dear Dr. Missy,

I want to write a Christmas story for children. Should I write it now or wait until it's really Christmastime?

Linda (not my real name)

Dear Linda,

Don't wait until Christmas! Even though it's nearly June, publishers are hard at work right now preparing holiday books. As a matter of fact, I'm working on a Christmas picture book. Check it out:

"There is time yet for you to be saved, Ebenezer Scrooge." Jacob Marley rattled the heavy chains that bound him. "You must not suffer my fate!"

"You know," Scrooge said, "I've been giving that some thought. I am a bloody creep. I'm going to do something good for a change."

"You will be visited by three spirits, Ebenezer--" Marley stopped and stared. "What did you just say?"

"I said, Jacob, my old friend, that I'm going to quit being such a relentless jerk. I'm going out first thing and donate a huge sack of money to the workhouse. Good idea, huh?"

"No. I mean, yes, The thing is, we've got these three spirits who are going to visit you this night, The ghost of Christmas Past, the ghost of Christmas Present--"

"Ah! Christmas present! Speaking of presents, I realize you're dead, Jacob, but how about a nice pair of bolt cutters to get rid of those idiotic chains? You shall have the finest pair of bolt cutters in London, silver plated with a knob on the handle!"

"Sounds wonderful, Ebenezer, but we've gone to a lot of trouble to have these spirits visit you. You don't know how much paperwork is involved. If they show up and you've already been redeemed, there will absolute hell to pay!"

"No problem, dear Jacob. Have your spirit friends come on over. We'll lay on a gigantic spread-- roast ham, sweet potatoes, a turkey or two, some stuffing..."

"It's a lovely thought, Ebenezer, really it is. But these spririts are dead as doornails. They can't eat."

"Hmmm. That is a problem. I say, Marley, what does it mean, anyway?"

"What does life mean?" Marley asked hopefully. "See, that's where the spirits would be very handy. They could explain--"

"No, not that rot. 'Dead as a doornail'. It really makes no sense. Doornails are inanimate objects, old boy. If they had been alive at one point and then died, it might make sense. I think I'll buy a doornail factory and donate all the profits to the poor. Splendid idea!"

"Um, before you do that, do you think you could go out and kick a few orphans around, just for old times sake? The spirits would like that, it would make them feel like they had a real rotter on their hands."

"Good heavens, no! Those poor children. Well, we will soon set things right for them. While I'm at it, I've heard tell of a wonderful new doctor. I'll bet he could cure Tiny Tim. If anyone deserves to live a long, healthy life, it's that boy!"

"It won't do! It's simply won't do!" Marley's face twisted in anger. "You bloody fool! I went to a lot of time and trouble to get those spirits here, and you decide to turn into some goody-goody before they even arrive! Where's the Ebenezer Scrooge I knew and feared? Where is that heartless old coot who was despised by all?"

"Gone forever, Jacob. You have shown me the light, and I thank you for it. From now on, the name of Ebenezer Scrooge will be synonymous with good deeds and generosity. I'll think I'll go out and--"

Marley brought down the fireplace poker savagely on Scrooge's head. "I'm not getting into trouble with those spirits just because you won't cooperate. I'll just tell them you died. And you just did." Dragging his chains behind him, Marley trudged to the door. "It would have been better if I'd gone straight to hell. Damned do-gooders...."

Letters, we get letters

2007-05-08T22:32:00.000-06:00

Wow

My last blog entry generated a lot of traffic. I'm fairly stunned. Unfortunately, I don't go leaping out of trees all that often (once so far) so I fear this one will be a letdown. I am working on a post recounting my adventure when I got into a fistfight with a Kodiak bear. That didn't happen, but I figure I have to keep the excitement level up.

In the meantime, since I haven't been talking that much about books lately, here's this:

Book I'm currently reading: Evil Genius by Catherine Jinks (No verdict yet from this reviewer.)

Book I'm reading because it will probably do me some good: Mastery: The Keys to Success and Long-Term Fulfillment by George Leonard (He makes a lot of good points so far.)

Book I just finished reading: Diary of a Wimpy Kid by Jeff Kinney (More middle grade books should be like this!)

Book I tried to find at B&N the other night but failed and had to order from Amazon: Ellie MacDoodle by Ruth Barshaw. (Ruth is a pal but she's awesome and a great artist, so check out this book and see if you don't agree.)

Book I didn't finish but will probably get to later: Martyn Pig by Kevin Brooks (Kinda morose for my taste.)

Book I bought because it has a really cool title: Dead Egotistical Morons by Mark Richard Zubro (Come on! It's a great title! Who cares what the book is about!)

Book with a cover featuring the author holding a bloody sand wedge: Alice Cooper...Golf Monster (Okay, I am a huge Alice fan and have been since forever.)

Book I'm saving because I know I'm going to love it: Moving Pictures by Terry Pratchett

I have fun playing with Amazon's "Recommended for you" function. I'm trying hard to teach it what I like but it still comes up with some weird suggestions, like this one author who I think is The Worst Author In the Whole World. I'd say her name but I'd probably get yelled at.

Anyway, Amazon keeps recommending Rules by Cynthia Lord, which was a recent Newbery Honor Book. Every time I saw Cynthia's name it rang a bell but I couldn't figure out why. Yesterday I couldn't stand it anymore and typed her name into my email search box. Up popped three emails from Cynthia in 2001, when I first joined the Children's Writers list. I had no idea if I could write fiction and felt terribly insecure hanging out with a lot of published authors, but Cynthia's emails were full of compliments and encouragement. She had been reading my weird and often lengthy posts to CW and could not have been nicer.

So, I am happy that Cynthia has gone on to bigger and better things. You rock, Cynthia!

Speaking of winners, Linda Sue Park was a CW member when she won the Newbery medal for A Single Shard. In honor of the occasion, I composed the following:

Top Ten Perks of Winning the Newbery Medal:

10. One free trip to the salad bar at participating Red Lobsters

9. A metric ton of bookmarks delivered to your front door

8. Able to trash hotel rooms on world book tour and get away with it

7. Make an appearance in a WWF match as "The Iron Scribe," and the script guarantees at least one opportunity to smash Stone Cold Steve Austin over the head with a folding chair

6. Can force publisher to release anything you've written, even if it's a five volume set on the life of your favorite Teletubby, Tinky Winky

5. A free t-shirt from the Gap with the Gap logo crossed out and "Newbery Winner" written underneath

4. Mattel releases a Newbery winner action figure. Okay, so it just sits there and stares at a computer--do you have your own action figure? Hah!

3. That kid in grade school who teased you about being a bookworm? Snap your fingers and he ends up in a Jersey landfill

2. Not one, not two, but THREE bags of peanuts on every airline flight

1. Free use of the Batmobile for one year

Despite her life being turned upside-down by the Newbery win, Linda Sue immediately wrote me a nice note, which was cool. I heard she has her own version of a Top Ten list that she does at personal appearances, which is even cooler.

If you are a Newbery winner and would like to write me a nice email, please respond to this blog. I will consider other award-winning authors but it's really the big-time awards that count.

Today's email:

Dear Dr. Missy,

Why does it take so darned long to hear back from editors? I hate this!

Linda (not my real name)

Dear Linda,

Truth is, the editors are hiding a horrible secret: the publishing industry is suffering from a terrible zombie problem. This problem manifests itself in several ways. For example, say you send a manuscript to an editor and never hear back. The chances are good that the editor has been attacked by zombies, who have eaten her spine. The zombies have also shown a penchant for stealing mail. What they do with it is not known, but over the past two years, there have been an alarming number of zombie attacks on the mailrooms of major publishers. Not only do they relieve the mailroom workers of their spines, they carry off huge piles of manuscripts, hiding them in the New York City sewer system, where they are shredded by mutant alligators.

If you are worried about your manuscript, I urge you to call the editor. "I know about the mail-stealing zombies!" you should yell into the phone. "I know they are eating spines and feeding manuscripts to sewer alligators! Stop this whitewash of a major problem! The public deserves to know what is going on! Act now before the zombie problem spirals completely out of control!"

The editor will, of course, hang up on you. They don't want this horrible news getting out, but if enough of you call, they will realize that it's time to come clean.

Sincerely,
Dr. Missy

Facing your fears

2007-05-02T18:50:00.000-06:00

The things we do...

I recently went out to Utah to visit my son at his school. It was a Parent's Weekend sort of thing and at one point they decided it would be nifty if we all went out and did dangerous stuff. Part of this included walking on wire, which is tough on the tootsies if you're wearing sneakers like I was. Also, walking on wire is hard!

The worst bit, however, was when my son climbed 55 feet up a tree, stood on a dinky platform, and jumped off. Oh, he had a harness on, but the harness was held by a woman who looked way too small for the job. Needless to say, my son, being a teenager, figures he's indestructible and loved every second.

Then it was my turn. My chance to bond with my son and show I could something that goes against my nature. Did I mention that I have vertigo? Did I mention I've never climbed a tree in my life? Heights are hard! As the picture of me and my butt clearly shows, I did make the climb:

And here's me hugging the hell out of the tree once I got on the platform:

What you don't see, just above the top center of the picture, is an iron ring. I was supposed to stand on the platform, think of a goal I wanted to accomplish, and then hurl myself out to grab the ring.

It's been more than two weeks now, and I still don't have the words to explain how I felt, standing there staring at that ring. I've never had that feeling before and I'm pretty sure I don't want to have it again. Maybe it was plain ol' raw fear. It was some kind of powerful, as they say around here.

Despite that, I lurched off the platform, flew for a dozen feet or so, and snagged the ring. Then the harness thing malfunctioned and I plummeted for a bit before it finally kicked in. I have a picture of that too, but I'm saving it for my autobiography.

The important bit was that my son and I shared a moment of magic, and once I hit the ground and got myself untangled from the harness, he gave me a big hug and said he was proud of me. It made me cry.

Oh, and the bruises are just now fading.

Shopping

On the way home from Utah, I did a little shopping. Here's the receipt:

If you don't see anything interesting, you're not looking hard enough.

Shameless plug

Sue Corbett's MG novel, Free Baseball, is now available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Buy.com and at your favorite local bookstore. Or even a local bookstore that you loathe, a bookstore so heinous that it keeps you up at night, lying in a cold sweat as you gnash your teeth and swear vengeance. A bookstore whose very existence drains the life force from your soul and--

Okay, you get the idea. Free Baseball is available darned near anywhere, and Sue writes real good, so if you love baseball, rush out now in a buying frenzy and get yourself some Free Baseball. Even if you hate baseball, and lie awake at night in a cold sweat as you gnash your teeth and swear vengeance--dangit, I'm doing it again. Okay, the thing is, you don't have to love baseball to love this story. It's not one of those gawdawful Chip Hilton things from the '60s where people are always spitting and adjusting their cups way too much if you know what I mean and I think you do. Corbett has written herself a real good story.

Look at these reviews:

“Corbett deftly weaves a moving coming-of-age story with a sweet, satisfying conclusion.” --Kirkus Reviews

“(A) solid and satisfying story . . . readers will want to stick with the tale till the last pitch is thrown.” --Publishers Weekly

"I'm gonna read it, and I'm still the only guy in the history of baseball named Mookie." --Mookie Wilson, coach for the NY Mets

"I'm gonna read it too, and I'm still the only guy in the history of baseball named Boog." --Boog Powell, former Baltimore Oriole

"Yeah, I know my name sounds like a stripper but I'm still gonna read Free Baseball." --Coco LaBoy, former Montreal Expo and not a stripper

So there you have it. Free Baseball has entered the building. Now I'm going to go lie in bed in a cold sweat and swear vengeance, etc. etc. because I'm bitter that my book, Discount Curling, has been rejected 213 times. The fools.

Missy

What is an author?

2007-03-17T16:55:00.002-06:00

Quick takes:

March Madness: It's on!
University of Illinois: Lost their first-round game!
My diet: Okay so far!

Why it's cool to order stuff from CD Baby

For one thing, you get this email:

Your CD has been gently taken from our CD Baby shelves with sterilized contamination-free gloves and placed onto a satin pillow.

A team of 50 employees inspected your CD and polished it to make sure it was in the best possible condition before mailing.

Our packing specialist from Japan lit a candle and a hush fell over the crowd as he put your CD into the finest gold-lined box that money can buy.

We all had a wonderful celebration afterwards and the whole party marched down the street to the post office where the entire town of Portland waved 'Bon Voyage!' to your package, on its way to you, in our private CD Baby jet on this day, Tuesday, February 6th.

I hope you had a wonderful time shopping at CD Baby. We sure did. Your picture is on our wall as 'Customer of the Year'. We're all exhausted but can't wait for you to come back to CDBABY.COM!!

Thank you once again,
Derek Sivers, president, CD Baby

I like a company with a sense of humor. The world would be a happier place if more companies were like CD Baby.

My son the fencer

No, he does not install fencing. He goes to a military prep school even though he doesn't have any real interest in the military. I think he realized that he needed more discipline in his life and a military school would be a good place for that. At some point in his first year, he discovered fencing, the kind where people poke at each other with swords.

The season is over now and my son is home for spring break. He has been teasing me about a surprise and today he handed it over: a plaque announcing that my youngest spawn has won the Coaches' Award for best freshman fencer.

I am thrilled he has found an interest that doesn't involve blowing up aliens or otherwise staring at a TV screen. I am touched that he gave his award to me. Trouble is, he demanded that I put the award in a place where I would be sure to see it every day. The result:

I hope my agent will understand if the last few lines of every page I write are a little garbled.

Author! Author!

What is an author? Is an author different from a writer? If so, is one better than the other?

Beats me. I used to hang out with a woman who wrote instruction manuals for John Deere. She composed such epic verbiage as "Be careful not to engage the driveshaft during this operation or serious injury will result."

Technically, she's a writer. In fact, she's a technical writer. But is she an author? When you get down to it, there's no reason why this woman couldn't put on black clothes and a beret and hang out in bars, telling beatniks that people all over the world read her work, omitting the part that her best effort was a 22-page treatise on setting the proper angle of the deflector plates in the intake chutes of the John Deere RD-566T combine.

What about the guy who writes the blurbs on the back of baseball cards? "In 1994, Jim Russell pitched a one-hitter against the Houston Astros while wearing his pants backward!" or "Before joining the Cardinals staff, Elroy liked to stalk actresses!" That's certainly writing.

Of course, there's the unknown but brilliant person who created this breathless passage: "Lather. Rinse. Repeat." Terse, and yet evocative. A strong voice at a time when strong voices are desperately needed. But there is tragedy here, in the form of those who felt compelled to keep repeating until they had to be forcibly removed from their showers, so locked into their Sisyphusian chore that they begged to be put out of their misery.

That, my friends, is powerful writing. If the unknown creator of those words isn't a author, then none of us are.

Ta.

The Orb of Doom/Flash Fiction

2007-03-07T16:27:00.000-06:00

Quick takes:

Spring: Almost here!
Barry Bonds: Jerk!
Gino's East frozen pizza: Awesome!

The Orb

The object to the right is a gift from a dear friend. At least I think she is. This thing has caused nothing but trouble.

At first I thought it might be a disco ball. I tested this theory by hanging it from the ceiling and blasting Bee Gees songs, but it didn't feel right. None of us wanted to put on doubleknit clothes and platform shoes and do the Hustle. Plus, my neighbor Mr. Bushida called the police because he didn't want to hear Bee Gees songs at three in the morning, so that experiment was a wash.

It could be a badly made soccer ball, but when I kicked it I hurt my foot and the orb made a dent in the ceiling. I then took it outside to kick it, but that only resulted in another visit by the police because Mr. Bushida got mad about the hole in his picture window.

A flash of inspiration gave me the idea that it might be a bowling ball. True, it had no finger holes, but I took it into the street and gave it a good roll. Unfortunately, Mr. Bushida came down his driveway at the same moment, riding his new (and expensive) crosstrainer bike. He freaked out when he saw the orb coming at him and didn't see his wife pulling into the driveway. I mean, I'm sorry they had a head-on collision but I could hardly be blamed for that, even though the policeman who arrived shortly afterward got pretty red in the face when he yelled at me.

Finally I decided it was an Orb of Doom. It looks like an Orb of Doom, especially if you shine a red light on it. Certainly it had caused a fair amount of trouble since its arrival, what with the visits by the police and Mr. Bushida screaming death threats.

So what to do with it? I was pretty sure the trash collector wouldn't take an Orb of Doom. (They won't even take lawn waste!) I didn't want to put it the garage sale stuff because I didn't want to feel responsible if it turned one of the neighbors into an evil fiend or a Republican.

So, I'm stuck with the Orb of Doom for now. I put it in the bathroom linen closet, under a pile of guest towels. Even though I can't see it, I can feel its evil presence, which makes going to the bathroom a tense situation. Who knows when the Orb will next decide to spread its evil?

Email of the day:

Dear Dr. Missy,

What is flash fiction?

Linda (not my real name)

Dear Linda,

That's an easy one. Flash fiction is written about Ed "Flash" Steinmetter, an independent insurance agent in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Using sophisticated instruments, the workings of which are a heavily guarded secret, scientists have determined that Ed is, without a doubt, the most boring person in the world.

Normally, this wouldn't be a problem, except that Ed's boringness is so profound that it began sucking "interest features," as the scientists call them, from other people. First, the people on Ed's street became uncommonly boring, then it spread to his neighborhood, and within a
short time, all of Cedar Rapids. Alarmed, the scientists pondered erecting an inpenetrable wall around the town to keep Ed's boringness under check, but no one took them seriously until it was too late.

With the effects of Ed's sheer lack of personality speading across the country, the scientists realized that the only way to stop the onslaught was to graft a personality onto Ed. This is done through the writing of short stories, in which Ed engages in such activities as wrestling polar
bears, making love to exotic Russian spies, traveling into space to fight two-headed extraterrestrials, surviving a knife fight with Martha Stewart, and so forth.

Of course, this method is highly unscientific, but the millions of flash fiction stories on the Interweb do seem to be working to keep Ed's dull aura at bay. Unfortunately, it's not a foolproof system. Just the other day, a man in Altamont, Illinois, screamed that his head had filled with images of horribly tedious insurance seminars. Then a woman in Flagstaff, Arizona had to be hospitalized when she began hearing the minutes from the Cedar Rapids city council meeting (the one where they voted on which color to paint the city fire hydrants).

It's too late to build a wall around Ed, as the genie is already out of the bottle, so to speak. Until scientists can create a laser of some kind that will keep Ed's boringness under control, the diligent people of the Interweb continue cranking out a vast amount of flash fiction. I have
contributed to the cause, with my story of how Ed went back in time and beat the snot out of Marshall Tito. We must all do our part! The consequences are too great to contemplate.

Ta.

Rejection Letters

2007-02-19T01:26:00.000-06:00

Quick takes:

Snow: Sucks!
Cold: Sucks!
Remodeling: Sucks!

The oddest board book ever!

That's a bit of a lie, actually. This book is just one of a series called Baby Be of Use, published by the fine folks at McSweeney's. They do nifty stuff.

The blurb from Amazon: Many people are parents, and many parents are thirsty. Yet too many parents allow their infant sons and daughters to lie about idly: napping, drinking milk, and whatnot. Why not put them to work? Observe how tots enjoy the shapes and colors, all the while learning how to mix a variety of basic cocktails. Thanks, Baby!

I never taught my sons to do anything weird when they were babies. My youngest son, when he was but a toddler, developed the weird habit of breaking into a butt-shaking dance whenever he heard "Bad Boys," the theme from Cops. For a long time I worried that he might become a Rastafarian, but instead he became enamored with Alice Cooper, which must go over great at his military school. We currently have a deal that if he makes the honor roll, I have to hire Alice Cooper to play a concert in our back yard. I'm not sure how Alice would feel about that. I'm pretty sure the neighbors would hate it.

Email of the day:

Dear Dr. Missy,

I get a lot of rejection letters. Where do they all come from?

Linda (not my real name)

Dear Linda,

You think you get a lot of rejection letters? Hah! I just talked to my agent and she said that in 2006 I received 944 rejections. That's bad enough right there, but 765 of those rejections were from publishers who hadn't been sent any of my stuff. It appears that they heard about my work and sent preemptive rejections in case my agent decided to send them something.

All rejections come from a large, low-slung black building on the outskirts of Shumway, Illinois. There's no signage on the building, and the few windows are blacked out and covered with bars. A 12-foot tall electrified steel fence topped with razor wire surrounds the property. The perimeter is patrolled by heavily armed guards and attack dogs. Three Apache helicopters armed with Hellfire heat seeking missiles and dual Gatling guns constantly hover over the building. There is only one entry gate, and anyone who wishes to pass through is strip searched and their cars examined with minute care. Sometimes the cars are completely dismantled right there at the gate. Sometimes the cars are set on fire.

Entry to the building itself is gained only by having one's retina patterns scanned and then inserting an electronic card impregnated with the user's DNA into a solid titanium lock. After that, there's a cavity search and the admittee is forced to sing a popular show tune in a minor key.

It's called the Black Hole. It's the place where all submissions go, no matter to whom they are sent. Every submission, large and small, good and bad, ends up in the Black Hole. No one knows what goes on inside. The only people seen entering and exiting the building are a few elderly women and a short, heavily-built man wearing one of those spiked German army helmets from WWI.

There are rumors that in 1998, an author managed to gain entry to the Black Hole. He was caught almost immediately. Soon after, the air around Shumway was filled with his agonized screams. Many residents say they can no longer sleep at night because they can't get those screams out of their heads.

They say the president wanted to visit the facility but was turned down. So was the vice president, and the governor of Illinois. Interestingly, David Hyde-Pierce, star of TV's "Frazier" was allowed inside, but no one knows what he did there. It was later reported that he was treated at a hospital in Funkhouser, Illinois for a badly infected paper cut.

All of the trees within fifty yards of the Black Hole have spontaneously burst into flame. A catfish was caught in a nearby pond that was normal in every way. This was a serious problem, as Shumway had long advertised itself as the "home of the three-eyed catfish pond."

Take my word, Linda. The Black Hole is an evil place.

Your friend,
Dr. Missy

A note about the CD of the Week. Every time I look at the cover, I hear this conversation in my head:

Man: Hello, Mr. Gibson, how are you getting along?
Mr. G: Just fine. How about you?
Man: Couldn't be better. Say, what's your son Harry doing these days?
Mr. G: He's a hipster.
Man: Ah. Is this a good thing to be?
Mr. G: Damned if I know.

Ta.

How to Write Dialogue

2007-02-09T14:57:00.000-06:00

Quick takes:

Belgian waffles: Hanging on at #1!
Cold weather: Stinks!
Going on a diet: Really stinks!

Many people write to me asking for advice and sometimes I don't think it through very well. I'm terribly sorry about the advice I recently gave to a woman wanting to save her marriage. Here's what you do, I wrote. Get yourself a wig, a bag of adult diapers, a couple of dozen garbage bags, fifty feet of rubber tubing, and a BB gun. Nature will take care of the rest.

Well, we all know how that turned out. Dang. I feel horrible.

Okay, writing stuff. More than anything, I love writing dialogue and I think I'm pretty good at it. Thing is, the dialogue in books is nothing like real life. Take, for example, this bit of typical conversation that happened at the breakfast table some years ago. It features my sons Sean and David, my partner, the Resident Brit, and myself. I was fooling around with a micro recorder that day and captured this:

Sean (singing): Bob the Builder, can we build it, Bob the Builder, yes we can...
David: Are you gonna eat that bagel?
Brit (fighting with Scooter the bull terrier, who's come inside muddy): Get down! You're not going to track mud eveywhere.
Sean: Go Scooter! Beat the British!
Me: Eat your cereal.
David: Are you gonna eat that bagel or not?
Sean: Bob the Builder, can we build it? Bob the Builder, yes we--
Brit: Dammit, Scooter! Quit biting me!
Me: Sean! Eat your cereal.
Sean: I didn't take my medicine until just now.
David: I'm gonna eat this bagel.
Brit: Scooter! Down!
Sean: Can we go to Chicago now?
David: I need to get on the computer to see the Rumble Robots website.
Me: Sean, eat your cereal or something horrible will happen to you.
Brit: Great. I've got mud all over me.
David (singing): Dave Letterman, your TV friend!
Sean: I need some paper to write a story.
Me: It better be about a little boy who eats his cereal.
David: Where's that CD with the Monkees concert on it?

If I wanted to a win a Newbery, that scene would go like this:

Brit: Boys, I have bad news. Your mother is dead.
David: I didn't do it.
Sean: Can we bury her in the back yard?
Brit: Now you'll have to live with your horrible relatives who will beat you and feed you scraps.
Sean: I'm not going to school anymore. I'm going to act out my anguish in antisocial ways.
David: Me, too. Plus, I'll become withdrawn and moody.
Sean: Hey, I said I was going to be antisocial first.
David: Did not.
Sean: Did too.
David: Can we play a Monkees CD at her funeral?
Brit: I suppose the dog will have to be put down. I never liked that dog anyway.
Sean: I just set fire to my Bob the Builder set. Now who's antisocial?
David: Hah! I'm going to eat all the bagels to repress my anger.
Brit: What's burning?
Sean: I threw my cereal against the wall.
David: Big deal. I got my bagel to stick to the ceiling.
Brit: I'm going off to a seedy bar to get drunk.
David (singing): Dave Letterman, your TV friend!

See how that works? Of course you do.

Website of the day: Kitty Goes Potty: Watch These Cats Poop

The name of the website pretty much says it all. I especially like the part where people rank the pictures of cats sitting on toilets doing their business: Oh yes, this is definitely a four-star picture. Much better than that other one.

Remember, I don't make these things, I just report.

Ta.

How to Get an Agent

2007-02-06T13:42:00.000-06:00

Quick takes:

Belgian waffles: Still tasty!
Chicago Bears: Still proud of you!
Mayor of Boston: Needs a brain transplant

It is snowing in central Illinois today. That just stinks. I should be in the warm climes of Florida throwing jellyfish at tourists. We don't have jellyfish here, nor tourists or warmth. There's nothing quite as satisfying as watching a drunken tourist run around in circles with a Man 'o War stuck to his face. "Yaaaah! Yaaaah! Yaaaah!" he screams. "That'll teach you to pee in my driveway," I tell him.

It is tourist season, after all. Be vewy, vewy quiet. I'm hunting tourwists. Hehheheheheh.

Just received a shipment from Amazon UK. It contained a Terry Pratchett book, THE CARPET PEOPLE, an MG book by Dominic Barker, BLART II: THE BOY WHO WAS WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE--OR BOTH, and a new and massive Michael Palin tome, DIARIES 1969-1979: THE PYTHON YEARS. The box got here faster from the UK than it took me to send one book to my son at his school in Indiana. He decided he couldn't live without his copy of THE LAST TEMPTATION OF ALICE COOPER by Neil Gaiman. Strange book. I was iffy about it but my son is a fiend for anything about Alice Cooper.

I am currently reading BORN TO ROCK, by Gordon Korman. I met him a couple of years ago at a book signing and we had a nice chat. He said that his books had sold over a million copies and I realized I had started to drool a bit. I like to read first person books when I'm writing in first person, as I am with SUPER! If anyone wants to recommend a first person MG or YA that isn't about dead mothers, please do so.

I just finished a nice scene where my hero has to run away, and so he flies to the top of the Ferris wheel at the Navy Pier in Chicago. He sits in the top gondola and broods because being a superhero has really screwed up his life. Later, my hero lands on the pier and meets an old man who gives him a Life Lesson and ten bucks.

Quite a pleasing scene, if I do say so myself. One of those quiet scenes my agent is after me to write, because I'd rather write about riots and chaos and stuff exploding.

And now, the email of the day:

Dear Dr. Missy,

I want an agent but it's so hard to get one! They're slippery and slimy and have glands located near the base of their tails that can emit a painful electrical shock. What can I do?

Linda (not my real name)

Dear Linda,

You are messed up. You're talking about electric eels, not a literary agent. What is wrong with you?

In reality, agents are shy creatures who can often be found in heavily wooded areas. It is possible to capture one, but only with the right bait. I recommend using a finely blended coffee and a pastry of some sort. It is important not to touch these items with your bare skin because you might leave a scent that could scare the agent away.

My technique for capturing an agent begins with walking softly through the woods, making cooing sounds so as not to appear threatening. This is key—most agents are afraid of loud noises and will skitter away in panic if you aren’t careful.

I remember the day I first spotted an agent. I’d been walking though a forest for quite some time and was nearly ready to give up and go home for a bottle of wine or two.

Then I saw her! She lurked a few meters away, her wide, white eyes staring at me through a gap in a hedgerow. I caught my breath, willing myself to remain calm. Moving slowly so as not to startle the agent, I removed a cup of fresh latte and a chocolate éclair from my backpack. I set them on the ground and then moved to a safe distance.

It is important to be patient and not make any sudden moves. I found a seat on a tree trunk and watched as the agent sniffed the air, and after a couple of false starts, warily approached my offering. She gave me a quick glance and then greedily consumed the éclair, washing it down with the latte. Then she scuttled back into the undergrowth.

I returned to that spot in the forest every day for two months, always leaving fresh bait. I discovered that the agent particularly liked iced pastries with cream fillings and double-shot espressos. I gave her what she wanted, slowly gaining her trust.

Over time, I was able to move a bit closer to her, little by little, until the glorious day came when I held out my hand so she could approach and get my scent. After another month, she allowed me to stroke her head as I made soothing sounds while she gulped down yet another espresso.

My patience paid off. Six months after I first encountered the agent, she approached without hesitation, prancing happily in a circle around me, nudging my backpack for the goodies she knew it contained.

Finally the right moment came. As the agent sat next to me, her mouth wrapped around a chocolate-filled Bavarian. I carefully reached into my pocket and withdrew a blowgun preloaded with a tranquilizer dart.

She never saw it coming. I bound her hands and feet with soft rope, and with the help of another author, we attached her to a pole and carried her back to my truck.

After a year in captivity the agent finally signed me on as a client. It took a great deal of dedication, not to mention a small fortune spent at Starbucks, but it was all worth it.

Your friend,
Dr. Missy

Now I have to go outside and shovel the (*&$(*!)(! snow.

Ta.

The Perils of Being a Writer

2007-02-03T15:24:00.000-06:00

Quick takes:

The mayor of Boston is an idiot.
Go Bears!
Belgian waffles are tasty.

You hear writers go on and on about the perils of their work:

"I have butt pimples from sitting in my chair too much!"
"I have writer's block and I've fallen into a deep clinical depression from which there is no escape!"
"I spend so much so time alone that I no longer know how to socialize! Yesterday I forgot how to shake hands and ended up licking a man's nose instead!"
"I can't sleep. I toss and turn in a cold sweat while my characters invade my mind, demanding that I include another dead mother in my story so I can win awards!"

Big deal. How many writers have to do deal with this:

The attractive beige thing in the lower left corner is my knee. The large black thing in the center is Scooter, a Staffordshire bull terrier. He weighs 95 pounds and has approximately 342 teeth. The thing is, bull terriers like to show affection by gnawing on their people. Not hard enough to draw blood. Well, not much. But it is difficult to write while a bull terrier happily chews on one body part or another.

It was worse when he was a puppy and had razor-sharp baby teeth. He was especially fond of biting toes, so we quickly learned to sit cross-legged to avoid the scourge of Scabby Toes. Not even Gold Bond medicated powder can help that.

Back to my original point. I don't want to hear your complaints about impacted butt pimples or crushing personal depression. You try writing a sensitive and potentially award-winning book about a mother being run down and mangled by a Zamboni machine while a large animal chews your flesh. Yeah, I thought so.

I'm still stuck in bed with a wonky back. This is payback from my body for those years when I stopped being responsible and quit my job to go to Hawaii and windsurf. Learning to windsurf involves a fair amount of heavy lifting, along with being thrashed by waves, stung by jellyfish, and running into the occasional yacht. They're all painful.

If you go to http://www.cso.org/main.taf?p=11,27 you can download a free copy of "Bear Down Chicago Bears" by the Chicago Symphony and Chrous, conducted by Sir Georg Solti. Whenever the Bears win, I blast this song at top volume and sing along. I have forced my children to learn the words so they can sing along as well. It's a stirring moment, let me tell you. Go Bears!

Ta.

Hello!

2007-02-01T17:57:00.000-06:00

Hey, that's original. Hello, indeed. I'm mostly doing this because I'm stuck in bed after wrecking my back again and I'm bored. I'm sure my hordes of fans would like to hear that I hurt myself while engaged in a fierce struggle with my next-door neighbor, Mr. Bushida, or that I started a riot at Barnes and Noble and hurt myself trying to escape, or that I had a terrible accident with the anti-tourist jellyfish launcher.

The truth is, I was doing housework. There, I said it. Plain old housework with no monsters, enraged editors, speara guns, or exploding baristas. But boy, is my office clean! I shall post a picture of it in all its glory soon.

Here's the brave part. Even though I am wracked with hideous pain, I have managed to do my day's quota of writing, five pages to be exact. My current project is called SUPER! and it's about a boy who gains the ability to turn into an adult with amazing powers. Except that nothing happens like he expects, and he finds his life complicated in ways he never imagined. In other words, it's quite dark, a theme that appeals to me right now. Also, it doesn't appear to be a common theme for middle grade superhero novels. I've read a few, and they seem to take a lighthearted and fantastic view of the whole thing. I, on the other hand, shall take the more sinister and realistic road.

In other news, my big people book (as ace book reviewer Sue Corbett calls it) has had a couple of nice months, sales-wise. I'm not sure why, but people are buying it and that makes my agent and me happy. Not happy to the point where we've ordered up solid gold Ferraris, but happier than we were. No, I'm not going to say what book it is. I didn't spend all that time thinking up a cool pen name just to give the whole thing away.

A good MG book that I recently read: GROOVES: A KIND OF MYSTERY by Kevin Brockmeier. Interesting characters, weird plot, and lots of dry humor that had me chuckling. There's moist humor, too. That would the opposite of dry humor, right?

Another good MG: LARKLIGHT, by Philip Reeve. Jolly fun, that one. Lots of space travel, lots of pirates. I suspect that some of the humor will go over the heads of the target audience, as Reeve likes to tweak the British empire-building attitudes of the 19th century, but still, lots of action and colorful characters.

And now, today's email:

Dear Dr. Missy,

Sometimes your posts really scare me. Why is that?

Linda (not my real name)

---

Dear Linda,

They don't call me the Hunter S. Thompson of children's literature for nothing. Ha ha! Seriously, I have no idea why you are afraid of my posts. It's not like I know where you live or anything. Well, actually I do, but I've got the bad back thing going on and I have to stay in bed, so you're safe. Unless you read this, and then you'll be even more scared. I don't know what to do about that.

Your friend,
Dr. Missy

Okay, that's it for today! If I can figure out how to post pictures, then we'll really have some fun!

Ta.