Dear Dairy,

I think the writer's retreat held by my agent starts today. I'm a little fuzzy on things like that right now. Matter of fact, it took ten minutes to figure out it was Sunday. And like always, ten seconds after my eyes opened, the flood of reality hit. Gwen is gone.

Last night I slept the most I have since...probably Wednesday night. I have only a few memories of Tuesday in the early morning when Gwen left me. I don't remember calling my son in hysterics, I don't remember him being here when they took Gwen away, or him driving me to the hospital. I don't remember talking to the coroner or any doctors. I do remember being shown to a room where Gwen was on a table. They must have cleaned up her face a lot since she fell. Her head was crooked, so I straightened it out and kissed her one last time. I squeezed her cold hand and told her I loved her.

God, people are going to hate me for saying all this stuff.

Mornings are the worst. I took my anti-anxiety meds but nothing yet. Still fear, loneliness, and the battle to make myself realize she isn't coming back. I'm crying now, writing about it, but it seems to be important to write. Yesterday a friend said I should write a book about this. I went nuclear on her because people always say that about tragedy and I think it's stupid. Right now, I want to be numb. I don't want to relive it all through ten revisions of a manuscript.

Tomorrow to the bank to raid my CD for the money to pay for Gwen's urn and cremation and whatnot. It's expensive but money is water right now. Maybe I'll try to get the neighbors together to speak about how they felt about her. Then the $900 urn will go in a closet so I don't see it all the time. We never made any mutual plans so I don't know what else to do.

She has a memorial page at http://www.mitchell-jerdan.com/   You can make comments, light a virtual candle, read the abbreviated obituary I had to write for reasons I can't share, at least not now.

Thursday the grief support group meets at the hospital. I will go but I don't know that it will help. What can they do about my horrible loneliness, my fears for the future?

Gwen and I have been living under a mountain of stress since 2008, when my father told he was being robbed and he wanted me to help him get it back. Shortly after, we started hearing I was disinherited. When he died, that turned out to be a lie. But a crooked accountant put two codicils in the will that basically take my inheritance and my sons'. Gwen dealt mostly with my attorneys to protect me from further harm and worry. And just when it seemed we were on the verge of final victory, Gwen left me all alone. We had just planned a new house in a new town, Gwen picked out a lot she wanted, and we hoped to build a new life, hopefully without so much stress.

Gwen had a minister friend who I think is going to school near my writer buddies' retreat. I told him I had killed Gwen by letting her get involved. But he said, very wisely, that Gwen chose to share my life, that she chose to share my burden, and she chose to take the lead in the legal matters. And that's true. Gwen's mother told me how happy she was to do things for me and try to keep me from harm.

Now my protector is gone. Sometimes I want to follow her, wherever she went, and be with her again.

Dear Dairy,

I haven't posted here since forever. I thought I'd try to work out my horrible grief by writing it down. It will probably come off whiny and selfish, not that I mean it that way.

My partner of 12 years, Gwendolyn McIntyre, died last Tuesday at 2:50am. The autopsy showed that not only had she had a major heart attack at age 29, she had suffered several smaller ones before the massive attack that took her from me. If she had gotten heart surgery and taken medication she likely would have lived many more years. I'm angry at her for not doing that.

It's Saturday morning for me. Gwen and I were night owls and I am up way too early. I have medication to slow down my brain and allow me to rest but I haven't anywhere near eight hours of sleep since Monday.

I ate a couple of chicken planks at Long John Silver's yesterday. It's the only food I've had since Gwen passed. I'm told this is normal but it worries my son for some reason.

I've talked to Gwen's mother, LaVerne, every day. Never had much contact with her before but when I called from the funeral home she told me she loved me. Didn't see that one coming. But now the urn is picked and the cremation will go forward. The whole thing will cost me about $5200. I had no idea how much these things cost, so I will have to raid my emergency fund again. Unfortunately, Gwen's mother was financially unable to help and so it fell to me.

When I think about what hurts so much, I might be a selfish ass. Yes, I miss Gwen dearly. I still ask my son if she's gone or I just think she is. At the same time, I worry about the future. I'm terrified of being alone. Gwen and I didn't socialize here in town--it was almost all on the Net. In fact, that's how we met. So, I miss Gwen but I want to have someone to love--real, tangible love--in the future. But I'm a klutz and shy so I can't see meeting anyone down the road.

I'm aware I will never replace Gwen. As so many people have said, we were like two puzzle pieces that fit together. Losing her scares me so much. She took care of me, she loved me, we did so many things together. Right now we should be at my writer's retreat. I am afraid to fly and afraid sometimes of crowds, so Gwen got the plane tickets and hotel room. She was looking forward to meeting my fellow writers and seeing new places.

Okay, that's enough self-pity for today.

In Which Dr. Missy Likes Some Things Better Than Others

I like a good sentence. Who doesn't? Well, probably creepy people who lurk in cemeteries and eat anchovies for fun. What was I saying? Oh, I like a good sentence, and here's one from a book called "The Brixton Brothers: The Case of the Case of Mistaken Identity," by Mac Barnett. Yes, that's the real title--I didn't hiccup or anything.

I enjoyed this book a lot, especially when I learned that the Brixton Brothers were only one person. But let's get to that sentence. "The inside of the Red Herring was shabby and dim and smell like beards."

There are other quite good sentences in the book, but I think this is the best. Even better, the book is free of any dead mother nonsense. Hah! Take that, you cliche users!

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

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

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!

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

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