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On 4/27/10, I spoke at Sarah Noble Intermediate School in New Milford, CT. My message was not "old" in the sense of outdated but rather in the sense that I've been sharing it since I began visiting schools.

The newspaper kindly covered my presentations there, including taking several photos. A correction: Boys of Steel: The Creators of Superman got 22 rejections and 2 interested publishers (not 26 and 4).

From 4/28 to 4/30/10, I set up camp in Simsbury, Connecticut, one town over from Avon, the town in which in spent my first seven years. I spoke at five Simsbury schools—and drove by the house in which my story (and storytelling) began:

(My dad will want me to note that he maintained the grounds much better when we lived there in the 1970s. The current owner—yes, I rang the doorbell—will want me to note that they were recently out of the country for several years, during which time they rented the house and could not easily keep tabs on the upkeep.)

During the Q&A portion of my presentation at the first Simsbury school, a boy asked what would turn out to be my favorite question of the trip: "May I go to the bathroom?"

To be clear, there were plenty of on-topic questions I also loved, but for its beautiful balance of courtesy and innocence, this one cried out for a spotlight. I posted it on Facebook and a friend commented "At least he didn’t say 'Can I…'"

I deferred to a teacher, who, of course, gave the boy permission to excuse himself. I don’t have that kind of authority.

At another Simsbury school, a sixth grader came up to me afterward to reveal that he is brilliant. He didn’t say that. What he said was in response to this cartoon, which I show during my presentation:

This astute young man said the caption does not need "I threw that"; it could end with "spill"�if italicized. Does he understand "trust your audience" or what? The cartoon editor of The New Yorker should keep an eye on this one.

I show that cartoon, and others, as part of an exercise on an

Today I had a wonderful visit at Sarah Noble Intermediate School in New Milford, CT.

Here's a sign of a district dedicated to literacy: the principal, PTA president, and a rep from the Board of Ed all attended.

Here's another sign—five, actually—that this school in particular is dedicated to literacy:

A close-up on that first one:

"One of these things is not like the other"...but very sweetly so.

Happenings during a recent round of speaking engagements in Rhode Island:

For the first time, a school had me sign in as a guest by computer. Prior to that, I’d signed in only by hand, either by writing my name in a log or filling out my own visitor nametag. But this way, the computer generated the label. I know—in the iPad Age, this should not surprise me, but I’m calibrated to record any first.

Speaking of which...

...at another school, I showed the cover of my first published title, The Felix Activity Book, which came out in 1996 and didn’t have a long shelf life. A teacher excitedly raised her hand to say she has it. After my talk, she proved it—and it looked like new. She insisted, however, that she uses it regularly. She just takes good care of her books.

At yet another school, I learned of not one but two inspiring events. The first is Quiet Week, during which all classes compete to see which can be the quietest in the hallways. The winning class (and in our PC climate, I’m always thrilled when I encounter a school that still allows for healthy competitions that yield winners) gets a pizza party. I was told the competition was (silently) fierce—the kids did a great job. I suspect this is an idea other schools will not need to be forced into adopting.

The second is a principal willing to go the distance for his kids and for a good cause. To kick off their “Blast Off Into Reading” campaign, the school’s principal (who I’ve got to name—Steve Ponte at Forest Avenue School in Middletown) went skydiving...while the student body watched.

So the distance he went is two miles, but it was two miles up. Rather down. I was majorly impressed with that. Plus, several other teachers signed on to join him. The lucky kids at that school surely got a memorable lesson not only in literacy but bravery.

And finally, at a fourth school, a student told us all that, at his house, he had found the most valuable comic book of all time.

Boys of Steel: The Creators of Superman includes an illustration of a man looking at Action Comics #1, the first appearance of Superman and therefore the most valuable comic book in history. (Of the 200,000 printed in 1938, only 100 are known to still exist.)

Whenever I speak to students (or any group, really), I show that scene followed by a picture of the actual cover:

Then I suggest that kids get permission to look through their grandparents’ attics and basements. If they find an original copy of it, I urge them to call a lawyer (if they don’t live with one) because that comic will pay for college.

On 4/1/10, I was honored to speak at Wheeler School in Providence, Rhode Island, for the second time in two months. It was a different presentation but at one point I did (re)show Action #1.

A boy who had seen me present the first time raised his hand.

He said he’d done what I’d suggested. He looked for that rare comic. And, he claimed, he’d found one.

It did not seem to be an April Fool’s joke.

The room itself suddenly felt adrenalized.

In front of the whole group, I asked him questions about it. He said he’d come across a pile of old comics and Action #1 was one of them. I asked if he was sure and he said yes.

After my presentation, I spoke privately with the student and the Head of the Lower School. I asked the Head if I could contact the family to find out just what they’ve got. If it was indeed this Holy Moley Grail of comics, I’d be happy to refer them to a trusted contact at a comics assessment company. The Head graciously put the family and me in touch.

The boy’s family had given the comics to his uncle but his mom kindly e-mailed me a photo of one of the issues, presumably representative of the bunch. I was not surprised to learn the reality. The comic is from 1969 and it’s generally worth between $5 and $20:

WAFF-TV in Huntsville covered my affecting school visit experience in Alabama. I learned a new way in which the South is more leisurely. They just let me ramble on, not urging me for 15-second sound bites. (Listening back to what I said, I wish they had! But the segment is still only two minutes total.)

(At first glance the image above may look like an error message or a botched Red Cross symbol, but it is the Alabama flag.)

On 3/24/10, I made my first trip to that state and spoke at two schools. But I'd booked only one. That school booked the other.

That school is Randolph School, in Huntsville. A college friend, Jon, is an administrator there. Randolph paid for three presentations but generously "donated" one of them to Madison Cross Roads Elementary, a nearby Title 1 school; that means it has a large number of students from low-income families. Jon even drove me to and from Madison Cross Roads and took photos for me while I was presenting there.

Back at Randolph, I signed copies of Boys of Steel: The Creators of Superman before and between presentations:

Huntsville is nicknamed Rocket City. What guy doesn't like rockets? So en route to the airport, I stopped at the U.S. Space & Rocket Center. That's where Space Camp is, as well as actual-size replica rockets:

I'm sure there is precedent for a school donating an author presentation to a less privileged school. But this was the first time it had happened with me in my six years of school visits. I was deeply honored to have a role in Randolph's selfless gesture. I'm hoping other schools will follow their lead.

One small step for one author, one giant leap for author visits?

School Visit Focuses on State Projects

A Celebration of States. Last week, right before Thanksgiving, I visited the El Dorado, AR school for a celebration of the states. The GT classes had been studying the US states: each student made a “suitcase” using a cardboard box the size of a boot box. They painted, collaged, and decorated it with images about and from their assigned state. Inside, they put pictures of famous people, flags, state bird, state flowers, selected items and puppets. In addition, each student had a short oral presentation on their state.

To support their hard work, I was there to talk about The Journey of Oliver K. Woodman, my story about a wooden man who crossed the US to connect a family. It was great fun to talk to these students because they knew the US map so intimately.

Congratulations to all the students who worked so hard on their state boxes!

Related posts:

1. 3 Keys to a Successful School Visit
2. Value of school visits
3. Oliver K. Woodman Needs Your Help

On 9/21/09, I kicked off the school (visit) year in Sherman, Connecticut. It was the first school where I announced the sad news of the end of Nickelodeon Magazine. Other than that, it was a spirited way to begin an aspect of my job that I love dearly.

The local paper, The (Danbury) News-Times, kindly covered it and this week finally got around to running the story (posted here with permission):

Yo-Yos v. Author

When I first started doing school visits, I was uncertain, trying to figure out what to do and why. That’s when I had a near encounter with a yo-yo.

I went to a rural elementary school a week after a yo-yo company had performed at the school. The yo-yo people had charged the school $1000 to perform, and then got to sell yo-yos, too. The school paid me nothing as an author to visit the school and present my children’s picture book. Author v. yo-yos and the Yo-yos won. Heck, I even had to pay for my lunch that day.

I thought about that many times since then.
Yo-yos educational value: entertainment.
The educational value of my presentation: literature, literacy, writing, reading.

Yesterday, I did a school visit and I’ll be doing another next week. When I go to schools, I’m aware that I must be entertaining, but I’ve also refined some of my goals

Goals for School Visits

Foster reading and writing by making it fun, easy, accessible. I often do small group writing sessions with students. My favorite is when the students are some of the most discouraged about writing.

This month, I got to teach a class of mostly discouraged writers. We drew a map, wrote specific name places, and imagined the setting. Then, students put a finger on the map and moved around the map while telling a partner a story. Then they put their finger on a different place on the map and told the story a different way (revision in the oral stage!). Finally, they wrote their story. At the last, I asked for a volunteer to read and one girl immediately responded and read a great story. Yes, there were misspellings and a few grammar mistakes she needed to correct later; but the story was great. Teachers later told me they were astounded that this particular girl volunteered to read, because she was so shy. Confidence and joy in her writing, that’s what the girl gained that day.

Yes, it’s easy for me to come in and do a one-shot boost for a kid like that. It’s harder to do the day-to-day grind of preparing her for testing. But maybe, that one day of confidence and joy will carry her through the testing.

Help teachers enjoy reading and writing with kids even more. Teachers enjoy the enthusiasm that students have for books in the preparation for my visit, during my visit and in the aftermath. It’s a time to break the mold and have fun.

Help school community celebrate literature, something too seldom done! Several years ago, I was asked to speak at a fall reading kick-off at an elementary school. The theme for the school’s fall reading was travel and my book, The Journey of Oliver K. Woodman was perfect way to start the excitement. The librarian was amazing! When I walked into the school auditorium, every kid was waving a tiny American flag. They sang patriotic songs and were already studying large US map displayed in the library.

Now, I’ve been to sports pep rallies and they are fun. But a pep rally for reading? This was fantastic. The entire school – led by a librarian, par excellence, supported by enthusiastic staff and administration – was building a culture around a celebration of literature, reading, writing, literacy. Amazing. And still too seldom seen.

I’m no longer bashful about charging for school visits. Yo-yos are fun for a day and quite entertaining, no doubt. But as a writing teacher and author, I remind myself that I also have something of value to bring to a school. I take it seriously and work harder during a school visit than I do any other time. Why? Because one shy girl volunteered

On 11/14/09, I was one of the authors benefitting from the great planning of the annual Connecticut Children’s Book Fair, held on the campus of the University of Connecticut. Attendance seemed brisk to me although apparently not as strong as last year’s.

Each author was assigned a kind helper and a dedicated table at which to sign:


It was at this table where I signed the smallest book I've ever signed, perhaps one of the smallest I've ever seen. And I was told this is volume 9:


We were also assigned a 30-minute speaking slot. Mine was at 4:30 p.m.—last of the day—so I feared a small audience, but the turnout was a pleasant surprise. It really shouldn’t surprise me. After all, I’m just the opening act for Superman.

The UConn Co-op bookstore asked me to sign an ambitious stack of books...

...most of which I did actually write.

The authors attended a lovely reception and dinner in a most authorly of settings—the Thomas J. Dodd Research Center. Literally right in the middle of it, amidst books and exhibits and other things that d

Today I ran my workshop "The Language of Cartoons: What's So Funny?" at the all-boys Browning School in New York City. The participants were a small group of 12th graders whose Spanish teacher assigned them to adapt a portion of a Spanish-language novel into a graphic novel(la).

They went in not realizing they speak Cartoon. I went in not speaking Spanish.

They left realizing they speak Cartoon. I left not speaking Spanish.

From October 8 to 10, I was in Nashville—first time in Tennessee. I spoke at a dream school called Ruby Major Elementary and appeared at the wonderfully run Southern Festival of Books.

Buzz Aldrin spoke there, too, and I reckon the awe I felt to be near him came close to rivaling the awe he must’ve felt to be the second man on the moon. Yes, it was that profound for me. Twelve humans in history have walked on a celestial body other than Earth whereas I haven't even been to Mexico, and now one of them stood a foot away from me in the hospitality room, deciding between a box of raisins or a granola bar. (I recommended the raisins. His wife recommended neither.)

Why was Ruby Major a dream school? For starters, they responded to my first e-mail within hours and booked me by the end of that school day. I wish they were all so fast!

It only went up from there. Here was my warm welcome:


The following photos are courtesy of the school:




After I spoke, my host was kind enough to mention I would be appearing at the festival over the weekend in case any kids wanted to bring their parents by. I found this so conscientious and considerate.

But what I found most revealing about the character of the school was a discussion the media specialist had with the kids before I arrived. She challenged them to distinguish between a hero and a superhero.

I’ve had this discussion myself—mostly with myself. I took notice when reviewers of Boys of Steel: The Creators of Superman referred to Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster as heroes. Anyone who’s been to this blog before knows the reverence I have for Jerry and Joe, but I don’t call them heroes.

Yes, they were persistent, and yes, they overcame intense hardship, which takes a level of strength many don’t have. But the more liberally we use the term “hero,” the less value it has. Jerry and Joe certainly created a heroic ideal, and they were pioneers of the imagination, but I generally reserve “hero” for a different order.

Boys of Steel has taken me to numerous schools, libraries, and conferences across ten states, but I believe the Southern Festival of Books was the first with no major connection to Superman, Siegel and Shuster, or me. (Ohio is where Jerry and Joe lived. Kansas is where a young Clark Kent lived. The Northeast is where I live. And so forth.)

As I was walking into my hotel, a woman was storming out. I heard her stop and tell the security guard/doorman/concierge/unsure “I can’t stay here.” He said something and she left. A few minutes later, I didn’t mind my own business and asked him what irked her so.

“No room service.”

The festival took place at War Memorial Plaza in downtown Nashville. Here I am zooming in on my books:



My first of two appearances was a panel about marketing books in the digital age. It was the first panel I've been on where I was the only writer. The other panelists were entrepreneurs and publisher executives and lordy lordy were they sharp.

This panel took place in Nashville's House of Representatives. It was by far the most, well, stately location I've spoken in. So just before the panel began, I had to take a photo of us on the political Jumbotron:



It turns out that my unassuming hotel thick with tourists was actually tourist-worthy in and of itself. It holds a distinction that no other site in the state can claim:


And typical me, I didn't get my photo taken in front of the 6th floor guest rooms.

Today was my first school visit of the 2009-2010 academic year, aptly coinciding with the first day of fall.

But first, my GPS had some fun at my expense, which has been happening more and more lately:

Time I was scheduled to start speaking: 9:10 a.m.
Time I started driving: 7:20 a.m.
Time GPS said I'd arrive: 8:29 a.m.
Time I arrived: 9:04 a.m.
Number of wrong turns it sent me on: who knows/too many

Arriving with only six minutes to spare was later than I think I've ever been for a school visit...yet for the record, I was not late.

And in any event all was good when I saw the welcome:

My host had converted the subject matter of Boys of Steel: The Creators of Superman into a "read power" message for the students.

While signing books after I spoke, a second grader gave me this charming drawing (her first comment refers to two drawings I had done during the presentation):

She also gave me permission to post it here. And she included Superman's distinctive spit curl! Yet she made it even more distinctive since this is how it usually curls (look carefully—it's a letter):

This visit also marked the first time I spoke to kindergartners since my older child became one. That was, not surprisingly, an emotional trampoline. For me. I don't think the kindergartners much cared!

They were more focused on telling me what their dads wear to work.

A first: Early on, one called out "Are you real?" I said yes but he looked unconvinced. So I let him pinch my arm.

He was still unconvinced.

Every school I've had the privilege of speaking at has given me a great experience. Some have given me a great story, too.

“The First Time Someone Got It Right”

year: 2008
state: Nevada






My first time in a Nevada city besides Las Vegas brought another first.

At a Reno middle school, I combined my standard presentation with another I do called "What’s So Funny? – The Language of Cartoons." It’s not a how-to-draw workshop—I don’t do those. Rather it’s a look at the (visual but also verbal) tricks cartoonists use that add up to a language we all learn without being formally taught—and without realizing it. Think of it as the special effects of the printed page—the PGI (pencil-generated imagery).

I show kids that when we read cartoons, we’re being detectives. The mystery, though always the same, is not always obvious: why is this funny? The clues are the words and the art. How do they work together to give meaning, but not quite all the meaning, letting the reader figure out some of it on his own?

In one segment of this presentation, I sketch various types of word bubbles one at a time and ask the kids what each means. They all know the standard oval speech bubble and the cloudlike thought bubble; many also know (or guess) the shout bubble:

Then I draw this:

And it stumps them. Of course they have guesses for that, too, some of which have been so clever I really should remember them. Yet I did remember that of the dozens of times I’d asked what that bubble means, no one (student or educator) had yet answered it correctly.

Until Nevada.

Jason (let's call him) knew that the slight difference from a shout bubble—the more angled points—makes it a static bubble. It is shown coming from devices that transmit sound electronically—a TV, loudspeaker, cell phone. I told Jason that he was the first ever to give me the right answer.

I went on, I finished, the students left. Then a teacher came up to me and said something to the effect of, "You have no idea how cool it was when you told Jason he was the first to know that type of word bubble." She explained: Jason kept to himself. When I praised him in front of his classmates, it was a huge boost for him.

The teacher was so moved by how this positively affected Jason that she said she was about to cry.

For that alone, yet another worthy nominee for Teacher of the Year.

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Every school I've had the privilege of speaking at has given me a great experience. Some have given me a great story, too.

“Underdogs Over Time”

year: 2008
state: Ohio





NOTE: This is a tweaked version of a post from September 2008. My first rerun! (But the last line is all-new.)

Two days after Election Day 2008, something happened in a small room at the Cleveland Public Library, Glenville branch, that made me more excited about politics than I think I'd ever been. Except it wasn't really about politics at all.

Glenville is the neighborhood where Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster lived when they created Superman in 1934. At the time, it was predominantly Jewish. Today it is predominantly black and poor.

Earlier that day I had spoken at the main branch, downtown. The audience was mostly young black people. I was expecting the same in Glenville. Instead I was ushered into a room where about 35 or 40 members of the adult community leadership organization were finishing up a meeting. They, too, were almost all black. Some of them were holding Obama signs—two days after the election. The purpose of the signs had switched from tool of persuasion to badge of honor.

I gave my presentation, hoping they would feel pride for the seminal event that had occurred in their neighborhood. They did seem moved by the story, which some had not known before.

Then my friend Tracey Kirksey, head of the Glenville Development Corp. and almost certainly one of the ten kindest people in the world, asked if she could say something. I said of course.

She proceeded to emphasize how Jerry and Joe were underdogs who had a vision and worked hard to see it come to pass. In succeeding, they bucked the odds and made history. Then she unexpectedly compared them to Barack Obama in spontaneous words so eloquent that I wish I had recorded them. The essence was that she felt she could tell her children that they could be president one day—only now, she finally fully believed it to be true. The others, of course, reacted with jubilation.

Of all the Boys of Steel: The Creators of Superman experiences I'd had since the book came out, that was by far the most profound. I felt so lucky to be in Ohio, in Glenville, for that moment.

It is interesting to note that the two colors in competition on Election Day are also the two most dominant colors of the American flag, the flag of Ohio, and Superman's costume.

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