This summer has been one in which “life” takes over from the usual routine of writing. Some of the events have been tough: Laurie’s dad passed away; Judy’s dad passed away. Others involved relocation: Cheryl moved. Steph’s house is for sale. And then there are family stages: Dawne has been hither and yon organizing kids. So rather than the usual individual maven post, this month we offer an olio (it’s a great crossword puzzle word) of thoughts, favorite quotes, and writing advice.

From Stephanie: You have got to love the book you are writing. If the plot doesn’t drive you and make you want to know what happens next, your reader can, and possibly will, put your book down and walk away. If you don’t love your characters, the good–the bad–the ugly, your reader won’t care what happens to them, either. If you are writing because you think it’s what will sell, what young readers need to know, or perhaps someone just made big bucks by writing the same kind of story, forget it!  Stories that come from inside you, that only you can write, are the stories that will get inside your reader and change them forever.

Cheryl shares some of her favorite advice:  “Never, never, never give up.” (Winston Churchill)  And paraphrasing beloved author Sid Fleischman: “A good villain is your story’s best friend.” i.e. You’ll have to have a strong hero to defeat a strong villain. Plus, it makes the story more interesting!

Judy says, Never assume that because a book is classified as an easy-reader that it was easy to write. There is nothing easy about them when it comes to finding the right blend of character, plot, theme, pacing, vocabulary, sentence length, page turns, and all the many details that go into these all-important first readers. (Guess what I’m working on right now?)

We hope your summer has been a bit more cheerful, a lot less hectic, and very productive writing-wise. See you next month!

The Kids Book Mavens

I am sitting across the table from 17 year-old Grace in a Vietnamese restaurant.
She’s chewing on a hangnail instead of digging into her pho chicken soup.
“Lets play the portrait game,” I say, hoping it might start her talking. “How about that guy in the corner. Think he’s having a text fight with his girl friend?” I ask.

Grace shifts her eyes over to the man then back to her hangnail. “I’m just glad he’s really there. I’m never sure about the guys lurking in the corners.”

“Still seeing things in the shadows?” I ask.

She drops her hand and her stealth blue eyes freeze in on me. “They don’t stay in the shadows anymore. I can hardly tell the difference unless I bang into them.” She snickers. “Which means I don’t bang into them ‘cause they’re really not there.”

“Have you talked to the doctor about it lately?”

“Yeah. You should be proud. He gave me some meds and I even took them.”

“No change?” I ask.

“They made me feel stunned and I think I slept 20 out of every 24 hours. Does that count as improvement?”

“That sucks.” I pick at my salad. I don’t know what else to say.

Grace picks up her spoon, digs into the broth and slurps up a long strand of the noodles. She’s turned her attention toward the guy in the corner and I am relieved. I learn more about her condition every time we sit down and chat but it’s never an entirely comfortable situation.

Grace is back to chewing her hang nail between furtive glances to the back of the restaurant. “That guy isn’t talking to anyone,” she finally says. “He doesn’t want to look like an idiot with no friends out having lunch by himself.”

“Hey,” I say. “If that’s self-referral then I don’t count for being here at all.”

“No,” she says and her mouth flips into an actual smile. “You’re just some uninteresting character from outside of this book…”

Grace is a character from an Unfinished novel by Mar-lou Elders and myself. Her environment along with her problems and challenges have changed numerous times as the story has evolved, but the nut of who Grace is, has always been there. The more I take her out into the world, the richer her character becomes in the story. Soooo—

Now it’s your turn. You need to know how your character will react in every situation you put him or her in, so take her out for coffee or lunch. Then tell us…What does he order? Does she care who’s around? Is he nervous in public? Have a conversation. I promise your character will take on a whole new depth and I can’t wait to hear what he or she is saying, so be sure to post a paragraph or two here.

by Stephanie Jacob Gordon

First thing you should know is that I never went to a summer camp as a kid. I did go at seventeen to Brandies, a kibbutz-like camp, in the wilds of Santa Susanna, CA. I did counsel at the adjacent kids camp, Alonim, two year later. I did send my kids to camp. And, my family has done a lot of camping—we still do.

Second thing you should know is I really know my way around a gold pan and a sluice box. Years ago Judy and I took a class on gold panning. We went with the teacher and our seven men classmates to pan for gold in Hungry Valley and…EUREKA! We discovered gold with our plastic pan and spoon. The seven guys with the sluice box didn’t. She who laughs last, laughs longest!

Third thing you should know is I never did any mining at any summer camp…ever.
So where did I mine and why did I do it?

The first book I wrote and sold was called WANTED: A LITTLE LOVE and it was set at a kid’s summer camp; Camp Big Thunder Of Eagles, or Camp Big Toe as my characters renamed it. This book took a lot of mining—in my brain and in my imagination.

When I was at Brandeis, the teen camp, I got a very bad cold and took Cheracol…when it still had codine in it. In no time at all, I passed out in my tent in my sleeping bag. So far, not too exciting. Until…I woke and saw the squirrel sleeping in my bag all cozy on my chest. I scream. The squirrel screamed (in squirrel of course) and headed for the hills. After a check-up from the nurse, I was declared flea and bite free. I do not know how the poor squirrel ended up.

That was an event that could have happened to any camper at any camp (well maybe not, weird things always happen to me). Into the book.

At Berkley Camp in Yosemite, while my boys went water rafting, an experience I knew I would not like to experience, my eight year old daughter and I went fishing in the Merced River. Fishing is something I am good at. We were going to catch the legendry old trout, Boris. After a few trout and a few falls in the river, I am happy to report that Boris still lived long after we went home. In to the book.

At Alonim, I was nineteen, engaged, and the counselor of twelve thirteen year old girls. It was One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, and they were driving me up the cuckoo’s tree. Don’t even ask me about the thirteen year old boy who was in love with me.

One day I was assigned life guard training. Ummmm…I swim with my face out of the water. How was I going to learn how to save someone when I was terrified of getting my face wet? The camper I was supposed to save jumped in the water and swam to the center of the pool. I walked down the stairs…I do not jump into water. I dog-paddled to the camper who was thrashing in the water like a very realistic drowning person, and tried to put my arm around his neck to dog- paddle him to the side of the pool where two other counselors could pull him out. Except the kid never stopped fighting me and he pushed me under and I panicked. Now I am the one who is really drowning, splashing around like a confused salmon who doesn’t know which way is up stream, and the two counselors (who already have their life guard certifications) have to jump in and save me. Guess who was the arts and crafts counselor that summer? Guess who never went into the pool when kids were in it. Into the book.

I like to write humor. Not everything that has happened to me is funny. At least it isn’t while it is happening. For me time and perspective are everything when it comes to funny. Sooner or later (usually later) I find the humor in everything. If I didn’t, there would no way I could write humor or stay calm and carry on. LOL

Where have you been? What have you done, seen, imagined doing? Who do you know? Mine other people’s mind.

For an historical, JACQULINE, that Judy and I wrote, I knew a waitress who, back in the 30’s, spilled soup on the big boss and had to hide in the broom closet whenever he came in the restaurant, because he fired her. The nice manager let her stay. It was my mom. Into the book.

In the same story, Judy’s aunt or a friend of her aunt or a friend of friend of her aunt told us about messing up the entire assembly line in box factory and was fired before she was even hired. Into the book.

Is your son the kid who came home from school one cold winter day, and when you took off his Jacket his shirt was missing. Why aren’t you wearing a shirt you asked him? I didn’t wear one to school because it was too hot when I ate breakfast.  Into the book.

Good things and bad things, funny things and serious things, happy things and sad things, real things and made-up things, all the little and all the big things go… INTO THE BOOK.

Unlike my fellow writers I was not a writer as a child, nor an avid reader. My childhood was consumed in imagination.  It was my safety net from the reality of not being an academic.

School was desperately hard for me.  My teachers found it far easier to send me out in the hall or to send me to the corner rather than to try to help me put the reading puzzle together.

My parents threw up their hands in trying to make me understand phonics and to this day spelling continues to elude me. (Thank God for spell check.)

So why become a writer?  It certainly isn’t a career for the sensitive soul—there is all that rejection, and waiting….for more rejection.

You have to have the patience of a snail crawling from one side of the road to the other and the skin of a dragon (not easily pierced by rejection) to handle this job. If someone asked me to describe myself as a dog, I would be a Golden Retriever: Loving, a pleaser, sensitive, a kissaholic, did I say a pleaser?

Any other career would be easier on my sensitive heart. So why indeed?

Because I can’t help myself.  My imagination is never quiet–neither am I. (Another one of my down falls as a child) It is constantly churning. Wherever I go, whatever I am doing my mind is wondering, questioning, seeing things that most people never notice.  Those things roll around, and around and the next thing I know I am at my computer typing as fast as I can trying to keep up with my mind.

How did I manage? Being a slow learner and all? I learned the writing rules—slowly. And I continue to educate myself through conferences, workshops, books, mentors, and SCBWI.

What about the rejection? It still kills me but like a Golden retriever I go back, trusting someone along the way will love my work. And I lick my wounds with my writing community that understands the sting of rejection. Their encouragement is like a band-aid.

What about the waiting? I’ve learned to send a manuscript off and get started on something else. The distraction helps the months go by.

So, here I am with all these brainy people, writing, and selling books that will be read by little people.  Who’d have thought this is where I’d be when I grew up?