I just got to see the illustrations for Book #2 in my upcoming SCARY TALES Series: I Scream, You Scream. Actually, what I saw was most of the art placed on the typeset pages, with some pages blank, art still-to-come. It’s exciting to see a book come together, especially one where the illustrations by Iacopo Bruno are such a big part of the overall appeal.

The good news, I’m in a sharing mood.

At about the middle of the story, after all hell has broken loose, two characters, Samantha and Andy, find themselves hiding in a cave. The way out was blocked. They had to explore the cave to find a new means of escape. Which gave me an idea — bats! As an aside, one thing I’ve noticed about myself as I’ve been writing this series (I’m finishing up Book #4 now), is that when I’m trying to imagine scary things, unsettling things, I’m drawn to the natural world (as opposed to the supernatural). A pack of wolves. A murder of crows. A moist, dark, foul-smelling cave filled with bats. Maybe that’s the limits of my own meager imagination. Or maybe just a sense that real things are scarier than imaginary ones. Probably some combination of the two.

Here’s the scene from the manuscript:

The tight passageway opened up to a large cavern, with a ceiling at least fifteen feet high. “Wow,” Sam said. “Look at this place.”

Andy looked, as requested.

“But what’s that disgusting smell?” Sam complained.

She moved the beam to the rock floor. It was covered in some kind of thick, greenish slime. It smelled rank. Sam worked hard not to gag.

A steady trickle of droplets hit the rock floor. Plink, plink, plink. “Do you hear that?” Sam asked. “Could it be water falling from a stalactite?”

“No, not water,” Andy said. “I think it is called ‘guano.’”

“‘Guano’?’

“Bat droppings.”

Sam gulped. Bats. She hated bats.

Sam aimed the flashlight at the ceiling and stepped back in horror. The ceiling was alive. The roof of the cave was writhing, squirming, crawling with hundreds — no, thousands upon thousands — of bats. The bodies of mice, with human faces. Sam felt woozy, on the edge of panic.

This was worse than homework.

Way worse.

Oh, I should say another thing about my writing process here. When I realized that I was going to include bats in the story, I remembered that classic scene when Indiana Jones remarks, “Snakes, why did it have to be snakes?”

Part of the genius behind that scene was the script had previously established Indy’s fear of snakes. We learned it early in the movie and promptly put it away. So when he confronts the snakes, we know this isn’t just another obstacle for our hero. He’s facing one of his deepest fears.

Now, admittedly, my little book is operating on a simpler level. And I want to be careful about how scary to make this for my readers. So I went back to the first chapter and, while talking about Sam’s bravery (in the context of a thrill ride in an adventure park), I planted a seed:

Nothing frightened Sam Carver. Nothing, that is, except for dentists, bats, and homework. The usual things. Dentists, of course, with their fat fingers fumbling in your mouth. But bats creeped Sam out the most, with their leathery wings and tiny teeth and weird human faces.

I’m sure ideas for the cave scenes came from the light research I did on the topic. And, look, “research” is far too strong a word, implying more rigor than I applied. It was more a matter of casting about for inspiration by sorting through source material. I read about cave explorations and the bats of Bracken Cave in Texas, and tried to learn a little about bats in general. I even wandered over to Youtube, which can often be a spectacular research tool. This short, one-minute video really inspired me:

After their first bat discovery, Sam and Andy had to overcome their fears to figure out a way that the bats could help them escape the cave. They wake ‘em up. Which led to this short paragraph:

It was amazing. Even beautiful, in a way. The bats flapped and flew to the far end of the cavern and spiraled up, and up, through a shaft of light.

I found another video that I particularly liked, this one a bit longer, which offered more information. I decided that Andy would be the character who knew something about bats. He was an expert, the way many boys his age can reel off facts about baseball, or trains, or most anything that’s captured their imagination. They absorb like sponges. After that, I had what I needed to write those brief scenes in the cave with Sam and Andy lost in the dark . . . with all those bats.

Next it was just a matter of waiting to see what Mr. Iacopo Bruno would do with it. Of course, in my imagination I saw something different, a tight shot on Samantha’s face as the bats whirled around her, that high-pitched chaos, hands covering her head. But that’s not what he ultimately rendered. And I’m more than okay with that, I’m thankful for his work, grateful for these gifts.

Authors don’t control everything. We just hope for the best.

Gosh, I hope readers find these books.

In Book #3 of my SCARY STORIES Series — launching this summer, so don’t make any plans — and I mean that, no plans whatsoever — I featured a whole mess of crows in the story. You know, when it comes to foreshadowing and a general air of ominousness, nothing beats a murder of crows.

We have Van Gogh to thank for that, his intimations of mortality in the great painting, “Wheat Field with Crows.”

And, of course, there’s Hitchcock. This is one of my favorite scenes in the history of film, the essence of suspense, the knot slowly tightening, the shots of the crows gathering, cut to Tippi Hedren smoking her cigarette unawares, and back and forth, back and forth, until we get that great shot of Tippi watching one crow in flight across the sky until it lands on the playground. And her eyes grow large. In the background all the while, children sing an American variation of a Scottish folktale, “Risseldy, Rosseldy.” Young, innocent voices. That’s cinematic perfection right there. I’ve watched it a dozen times.

So I stuck some crows into my story, black harbingers of doom!, and even included a small tribute to a scene from “The Birds.” (Kids these days are always clamoring for more allusions to 1960’s films. It’s just the kind of thing that young readers nowadays expect to find in their chapter books.)

Crows are basically gross, for the most part. But useful as nature’s trash collectors. They eat the road kill, smashed squirrels and flattened chipmunks, and I think we can all agree that we’re grateful for that. Thanks, crows!

Quick crow story:

My wife Lisa is the best mother in the world. She’s tied, actually, with a long list of other mothers, but she’s right there at the top, tied for first place. One Easter long ago, when Gavin (13) and Maggie (12) were probably 3 and 1 1/2, Lisa woke early in the morning to set up an Easter egg hunt. We had a nice, woodsy backyard at the time. Plastic eggs? What? Is that what you’re thinking? Oh, please. No, Lisa used actual hard-boiled eggs and hid them around the lawn. Under bushes and often right there in the middle of the lawn, since at the time the kids were young and not exactly the best Scotland Yard had to offer.

Later it was time for the egg hunt. And lo, there were no eggs. Or, at least, very few to be found.

What happened to them? Where’d they go? We didn’t know. So we set out an egg in the middle of the lawn, ducked back inside, and watched by the window. Within two minutes, a big black crow landed, grabbed the egg in its talons, and flew off for a hearty breakfast.

While thinking about crows, and researching them ever-so-slightly, I came across this, which is why I began this post in the first place.

Oh, and here’s the brief excerpt from SCARY TALES, Book #3. In this scene, three students are trapped inside a school, surrounded by zombies, or ghouls, or whatever creepy thing they are out there. It’s not good. For a variety of reasons — the best one being “for dramatic purposes” — Carter decides to go for help. He needs to quietly make his way two blocks through the night fog, avoid the zombies that seems to be aimlessly milling around, find his folks, get help, and save the day.

(I know, it’s sounds kind of dumb, but it’s a lot of fun.)

Here goes . . .

Carter stepped out into the mist with supreme calm. Cool as a lake. It was foggy, but he could still see about 30 feet in any direction. He gave a thumbs-up to the worried faces that stood vigil at the door.

It’s all good.

A crow landed near his foot, cawed noisily. Then another, and another. Carter stepped cautiously, not wishing to disturb the birds. He noticed a dark figure ahead and veered away from it.

CAW-CAW! Carter looked up to see a crow dive-bombing from above, talons out. The black bird hit Carter’s head at full force, wham, and tore into his scalp.

“Ow, shoot,” Carter cursed. He staggered a step, dazed, and waited for the dizziness to pass. Carter tenderly probed the injury with his fingers. His scalp was torn. Under a loose flap of skin, his flesh felt like raw hamburger. It was wet.

He checked his fingers. Blood. Lots of it.

Oooooaaaaannnn, oooooaaaaannnn.

The moans came, louder and louder, from every direction. As if the creatures were calling to each other. Now more shapes appeared in the distance, moving toward him. “It’s the blood,” Carter thought. “They smell it.”

Lisa had asked Maggie, grade 6, about her classes and received the above reply. Which at first struck me as a hilarious thing to say about science. It was like saying, I don’t know, math should funnier.

But then I realized she might be onto something. When we think of our science teachers, most of them are dry, dull, strict. This is science, this is important: this is serious business!

And in fairness, it often is, kids can get hurt, things might explode.

But then there are those rare science teachers — and scientists like Bill Nye, on television — who bring the joy of discovery into the process. Or should I say, keep the joy. The wonder.

They find the fun and the funny. Like a child with a new toy, figuring out what makes it go. Discovering the awesomeness of it all.

On Facebook I “liked” a site called, “I Love F***ing Science.” I’ve always regretted the F***ing in that title because it makes it harder for me to share with others, especially anyone who might read my books.

This post reflects a few things I’ve picked up from there, and other places.

Just trying to bring the fun, Maggie. I’m glad you like science.

I don’t think it matters if you are working or not. If the mail comes or it doesn’t. This is a day when, in your own time, you try to step back, reflect a moment, and appreciate Martin Luther King.

I’ve posted on Mr. King several times on this blog — here’s one — and for me his words continue to inspire me toward a better place.

Know this: Unemployment in Spain is at 26 percent. The country, and its people, are going through a very tough time. High taxes, plunging salaries, confusion, bitterness, anger, fear, desperation — with record numbers applying for jobless benefits.

So one recent day at the unemployment office in Madrid, a flash mob of musicians came along to brighten the day, at least for a few minutes. Watch, please.

My thanks to Lauren Frayer, at NPR, for first bringing the video to light.

Here’s a face no one could deny . . .

I replied:

Dear Jillian,

Okay, before you get mad, first let me explain. I’ve had a cold all week. Sneezing and sniffling. So when I opened your letter, before I even read a word, I saw that square of material and thought, “Oh goodie, somebody sent me a handkerchief!”

So I blew my nose in it.

Then I read your letter and got a sinking feeling. I looked at the (used, soggy) piece of material. I have to admit: I’m a really good nose-blower! I hope you don’t mind.

Just kidding, Jillian. I was happy to sign the material for your “author’s and illustrator’s quilt.” I even tried to draw a picture of Jigsaw Jones, though I am not an artist. It sort of looks like him! (Kind of.)

Hey, just a thought. Why don’t you forget about all those other crummy author’s and illustrator’s and instead make one, giant “James Preller” quilt? The whole thing could be like, I don’t know, my head — giant-sized. My great, big smiling gob! Listen, Jillian, I’m not an expert, and I don’t work at Bed, Bath, & Beyond, but that sounds like a pretty terrific-looking quilt, if you ask me. Don’t you agree?

It’s just an idea.

I’ll tell you this, Jillian. You are one lucky girl to have an awesome grandma like that. My grandmother just sat around, watched soap operas on television, sipped an afternoon glass of sherry, and challenged us to spell impossible words.

She’d suddenly announce, “Arachnophobia!”

“Huh? What was that, grandma?” I’d ask.

“Arachnophobia!”

Silence. Finally, I’d say something like, “Um, A-R-R-I . . .”

She’d dismiss me with a wave of her bony hand and proudly recite, rapid-fire, “A-R-A-C-H-N-O-P-H-O-B-I-A! The fear of spiders.”

I’ll telling you, Jillian, this happened all the time.

Granny didn’t make any quilts, I’ll tell you that much.

So be sure to give your granny a big hug of thanks. I bet your grandmother thinks she’s the lucky one to have you!

And she’d be right!

Well, I guess you’re both pretty lucky. Me, too.

Ah-choo! No problem, I’ve got a hanky right here — oh, darn. Sorry about that!

My best,

JP

P.S.: Thanks for helping me remember my own Grandma Bridgie. We called her Granny Good Witch. And she always, always had a little dish of hard candy — butterscotch, mostly — at her house in Queens Village, NY.

There’s really not a whole lot to like about writers, frankly. We tend to self-obsess. For example, try as I might to avoid it, I’ll sometimes wander over to Amazon.com to check out how James Preller, Inc., is making out in the sales ranks.

Then I look for Kentucky’s finest and tell myself that it’s never been about sales. It’s about writing from the heart, it’s about doing good work, it’s about . . . (and around that time I usually push aside the glass and just grab the stinking bottle).

I’m kidding folks!

But on a recent sojourn to the land of Amazonians, I discovered this:

What is it? It’s the German-language, ebook edition of Before You Go. And I have to say: I add NO IDEA there was a German anything for this book. Some people might assume that authors know about this stuff — that we’re consulted — but, nope, that’s not how the world works for most (if not all?) authors.

Mostly I’m just happy there’s an ebook German edition in the first place. That’s the sum total of my emotions on the topic: I’m cool with it.

Also, it’s interesting to see a different cover design. One early idea that I floated for the cover of Before You Go was to do something with real models, very loosely based on the classic Bruce Springsteen cover shot for “Born to Run.” Remember that? It was a groovy, wrap-around, gate-fold deal, and one of the great rock covers ever, in my opinion. Just look:

I saw Jude and Corey filling in for Bruce and Clarence. The black and white thing, the dynamic of friendship, the comfortable leaning on each other relationship, in a phrase: best buds. Another obvious approach for the cover was something with a beach setting. (Supposedly when the designer looked at that approach, it was deemed “too girl” for this book, though I never saw those treatments, and they were probably right, since “too girl” was not what we were going for.) Instead my publisher created something dark and moody with a traffic light, which was pretty arresting, too, and totally unexpected. Then they informed me that it was going to be the cover. The decision had been made. Thinking fast, I said, “Okay!”

I tell you this, Dear Reader, not at all in complaint. I’ve always maintained that this blog was about pulling back the curtain in the land of Oz, showing how it really works for a guy exactly (precisely) like me. There’s not a whole lot of consulting going on. You write the book. And the inside of the book, I think, is yours. But the cover, that’s the publisher’s. And you must trust that everyone working on the book — and there are many smart, dedicated people working on “our” book —  will do the best job they can in publishing it. So you say, “Thank you very much,” and in my case, you mean it. You truly are thankful, grateful, happy.

It doesn’t mean that I love everything all the time. It’s not in my nature to love everything all the time. That sounds awful. Making a book is a collaborative process, with the editor as the central person who touches on every aspect. I just write the damn thing.

Today I concluded a presentation to a group of students, grades 4-6, with this quote (because the kids are always clamoring for more Henry James):

I don’t write many poems these days — and no one has complained about that. But lately I’ve been reading a lot of poetry. I’ve been drawn to plain-spoken poems of late, not the dense, compressed, intellectual type I used to favor. Actually, it’s not either/or or neither/nor, it’s everything, arms open wide.

Anyway, I wrote this on a Sunday morning before anyone else awoke.

That’s my new strategy for my 50’s, btw. It used to be that I could outwit, outplay, and outlast everyone. I’d stay up late and it would be: JIMMY TIME!

You know, those few hours when it’s just you and whatever it is you want to do. Eat ice cream, listen to music, watch a late movie, drink bourbon, try on the wife’s shoes, prance around, whatever.

Wait, what?

But nowadays, my rotten kids stay up forever. I can’t outlast ‘em anymore. But I find that I’m waking up earlier, in the morning quiet, and love it: THE RETURN OF JIMMY TIME!

So I wrote this little poem. It’s nothing, but I was glad to send it to my mom today. Another thing about my dad: after he died, I grabbed his gray wool, button-down coat. Then I didn’t wear it for about five years, but I’m wearing it this winter and it always keeps me warm. I feel good walking around in it. So that’s my advice, kids: when Daddy kicks, check the closets and grab something, anything, you’ll be glad you did.

As for the poem, I just wrote the thing. Three minutes, done. Weird. Then I tinkered a little a few weeks later, today, but I didn’t want to get too fussy and ruin the thing. (Meanwhile you’re thinking, maybe you should have tinkered a little longer.)

-

Rescue on the Southern State

I was 19, we’ll call it that,

19 or 22, it doesn’t matter,

but a boy at a certain phase

of eclipse, when my father called

and said his car broke down

off the Southern State, near Mineola.

He needed me

……………………..to come get him.

He gave me directions, and I drove

Out, hoping not to screw it up.

I found him there by the side

of the crowded highway, looking

a little lost, a man out of place,

high and dry. But he knew

I’d make it.

-

Why that occurs to me after all these

years I don’t know, except that

It’s a quiet morning and I have not

Leaped into activity just yet, sitting

With my coffee, my book, these

Thoughts –- remembering the day

My father called and how I went,

As if it were nothing, as if I would never

give it a second thought.

I might be going back to the same well too often here, but this brief follow-up from a recent Skype session cracked me up. There’s no reply from me worth reading, just the letter.

I occurs to me: maybe I’m doing the “just a regular guy” thing a little too convincingly? Could I be too regular?

I think I’m going to have to reverse direction and cultivate an aura of “specialness.” Talk about how my books are like my children (no, they are not), how they write themselves (no, I do all the work, thank you very much), and various other quasi-mystical notions about sitting in a chair and doing a job.

Next Skype, I’ll wear a cape and hold a live ferret on my lap.

-

Dear Mr. Preller,

I am a 6th grade Language Arts teacher at PVMS. We recently watched you Skype live with our school. It was amazing! The kids loved your personality and said things like, “He’s just a regular guy.” This lead to a discussion about how ANYONE can be an author, including them! Of course I’ve been trying to tell them this forever, but apparently they didn’t believe it until meeting you!  The book is great, and we really enjoyed it. It brings the bystander into the spotlight, which these kids needed. However, the best part for me, as a writing teacher, and avid reader, was that moment when they realized they could do it too. So thank you for that! The real reason for my email is that my students all signed a thank you card for you, and I need an address to send it to. Do you have a P.O. Box perhaps? Thank you again for taking the time to inspire future authors!

Sincerely,

Chrissy

Here’s one . . .

Hi!  I work in a library, and I JUST finished “Before You Go” - I realize you may be hoping for actual young adult readers instead of one who is, ummm, still emotionally at the teen level, but I have to tell you I thought the book was very, very good.  It was both poetic and philosophical, yet fast-moving and interesting; loved all the little touches and references to song lyrics.  I also have to say, having already lost both my parents, the book made me cry… you did a great job describing grief.  I also appreciated, as an agnostic (a militant one - “I don’t know and you don’t either!”, as the joke goes), the difficulty but truthfulness of living with doubt, versus the calming yet false sense of religious certainty — though still keeping oneself open to light, love, and growth. I hope one of these days I’ll write as well, although I don’t have children and won’t be able to write well about ‘modern youth’ — and back when I was a youth, I wasn’t modern for the times either

Anyway, I don’t do a good job of my wish to tell authors “good job!” and I’m wanting to change that, so here I am - “good job!”

Bibi
Our Library’s “oldest teenager”

My reply:

Bibi,

Thanks for that great note. I appreciate your resolution to tell authors, “Good job!” It’s something I don’t do enough of, either. Lately I’ve been on fire reading books, thrilled from one book to the next, excited and energized. But do I send a nice note like Bibi, saying “Good job”?

No, I don’t. I do not. But I sure am glad I got one from you.

I’m glad you picked up on the spiritual questions in the book. As a kid, raised Catholic, I did so much of that kind of thinking, questioning, wondering. I tried to write this book as honestly as I could, full of doubt, and yet — as you said so eloquently — open to light, love, and growth. I’m glad that part shined through, to you at least.

My oldest son, age 19, is a two-time cancer survivor. He was diagnosed with leukemia at 26 months. I remember how I felt when some people would say to me, “He’ll be fine, I just know it.” Empty assurances, platitudes. As if they knew anything. At times I  wanted to punch those well-meaning people right in the nose. Grab them by the shoulders, shake them hard, and say, “You don‘t know. No one does. We don’t know. That’s the deal here. It’s the essence of this experience, he could die, he could live, we don’t know. And you can’t take that away from me or my family. We have to live with that unknowing. Which, to me, is everything. Where do you go from there? How do you live a good life on this earth, here, today?

Thanks for writing,

JP

Here’s a clip I like of Richard Feynman, sharing his thoughts on the subject.

“You see, I can live with doubt, and uncertainty, and not knowing. I think it’s much more interesting to live not knowing than to have answers that might be wrong.”

I’m one of those people who doesn’t feel particularly proud or accomplished, much more aware of what I haven’t done — and maybe can’t ever do — than what’s already past. I know, I know. But that’s just how I’m built, so you’ll have to write a letter to the manufacturer.

The truth is, I got a few great letters recently. I haven’t been sharing them of late, or been particularly tuned into the “James Preller” franchise — this business of being “James Preller” — just generally weary of this Industry of Self. Not the writing, not the books, not the real work: that stuff is great.

Anyway, here’s a letter from someone I met long ago . . .

Hi Mr. Preller,

I’m sure you wouldn’t recognize my name, but my name is Katie F. and I was in Ms. Goeke’s 2nd grade class when you visited back in ‘98. Now I am 22 and about to graduate with my MBA, my how time flies! I still own the first couple of Jigsaw Jones books, and while reorganizing my bookshelf to make room for some textbooks I came across the second book, The Case of the Secret Valentine. I remember vaguely having a visitor in the class who Ms. Goeke had explained was an author. However, I had completely forgotten that my name is on the second page! You have clearly had great success with this series, I see there have been many more books published since I left that target age group; congratulations!

My question is, what inspired the main idea of the series? The characters? Did you already have a kids detective series in your head when you came to observe my class?

I used to jokingly tell people I inspired a kid’s series in elementary school because I used to play detective on the playground all of the time back then. I doubt I was actually the true inspiration, so I was wondering if you didn’t mind sharing that with me? I’ve been very curious!

Apologies if you have already answered this question on your blog somewhere!

Katie (Kathryn) F.

The author mumbles to himself: “I am only as young as I feel, I am only as young as I feel, I am only as young . . .“

-

Oh, hey, Katie, I didn’t see you standing there!

-

Thank you so much for that remarkable letter. I remember that time well, though you are correct, the names of the individual students in that class have long since slipped away.

-

Back then, fifteen or sixteen years ago, I was given a four-book contract to write a mystery series. This was based on something I generated myself, gave to an editor, and Scholastic decided, “Let’s see if he can do it.”

-

It was important to me to write accurately about the school life of children. Fortunately, I knew your teacher, Jen Goeke, and she welcomed me into her classroom. I visited many times, actually. In fact, I loosely modeled Jigsaw’s teacher, Ms. Gleason, after your (our!) Ms. Goeke. I admired so many of the little things so did with her students, the affection, the calm, the deft way of balancing the needs of individuals with the pedagogical objectives of the classroom. I’m sure you’ll agree, mostly she was really, really nice. There’s a lot of Ms. Goeke in those books.

-

-

I love this illustration by R. W. Alley from the first book in the series, The Case of Hermie the Missing Hamster.

-

Here’s a snatch of dialogue from that scene:

-

“Ms. Gleason,” I said.

Ms. Gleason looked up and smiled. “Yes, what can I do for you two?”

“We really, really need to learn about snakes and hamsters,” I said.

Ms. Gleason put down her blue pencil. “This sounds serious.”

“It is,” Mila answered.

“Very serious,” I whispered. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

Ms. Gleason put her hand over her mouth. Her eyes got wide. “Oh, goodness,” she said.

-

Yes, I see that you are right. I dedicated book #3, The Case of the Secret Valentine, to the students in your 2nd-grade class. One other thing I tried to put into those books, and that I re-learned partly from those visits with Ms. Goeke, was how a child can truly and deeply fall in love with his or her teacher. She was beautiful and lovely and most of all she was kind. I wanted to pay tribute to that.

-

I am sorry to say that you were not the inspiration for the series. (Actually, my team of lawyers has advised me to say that, in fear you will be seeking a claim on royalties earned.) I already had the basics in mind before I walked into your classroom. But I did get inspired there, and I’m sure you played a part in that.

-

I wonder: Do you have a class picture? Could you send a file to me? I’d love to see one, if that isn’t too much to ask.

-

Thank you for taking the time to write. I was nice for me to find an excuse to revisit those times and that place. Congratulations on your MBA. Now go out there and fix the world! That was one of the things I learned, you know. Hopefulness. Belief in a better future. I’d sit in that classroom, surrounded by kids exactly like you, who were being taught by a young woman like Jen Goeke, and I knew that somehow we’d make it through, that it would all be all right somehow.

-

My best,

-

JP

“All I know is that first you’ve got to get mad. You’ve got to say, ‘I’m a human being . . . My life has value!’”

Let’s start with the horror:

Run for the hills, people.

On a Thursday morning in late November, I Skyped with students in Pine View Middle School, somewhere in Florida. The basic setup was that a small number of students gathered in the media room (I’m making that detail up, actually) to ask The Great Oz Head a variety of excellent questions. Once it was established that no, in fact I had no idea how to return them to Kansas, we talked for about 30 minutes about writing and my book, Bystander, which was read by all the language arts classes in the school, grades 6-8.

The program — that is, my enormous Oz Head — was televised live into 80% of the classrooms. The rest, I’m told, viewed the recorded presentation. In all, the Skype reached a population of 900 students. Crazy, I know.

At the risk of blowing my own horn, the reviews were good. Martha Ann Winterroth, who helped pull it all together, wrote to me with a curious follow-up question:

“Awesome!!!” “I LOVED it!!” Those are a couple of comments from the students as we disconnected from you!! It truly was an extremely successful Skype with you. However, there was one question that did not get asked that we would LOVE for you to (briefly) answer for us:

In chapter 27, did you intentionally have Mr. Scofield direct Eric to page 116 so that the reader would go back to that page and read about the quote from MLK (“In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies but the silence of our friends.”)?

Thanks again.  We appreciate your time and knowledge and words of wisdom.  It is something that these kids will remember for a long, long time!

-

-

My interrogators. Not sure if the word “enthralled” leaps to mind.

“What’s this got to do with us?” a boy asked.

“Everything,” the teacher answered. “It’s about having the courage to do the right thing.”

The bell rang. Eric grabbed his books and headed for the door. Mr. Scofield pointed to a photograph of Martin Luther King Jr. that had been tacked to the bulletin board. “King called it ‘the appaling silence.’”

-

Scofield was on his feet now, still teaching even after the bell, still declaiming quotes. “In the end we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”

-

Strange guy, that Scofield. A little hyper sometimes. But the image stuck in Eric’s head like a dart to a wall: a man attached to wires, pounding on walls, pleading, “Stop, somebody please, make them stop.” It was hard to pretend that the wires were not, in some strange inexplicable way, connected to him.

-

-

The famous Milgram Experiment, which is discussed

in the book during Mr. Scofield’s English class.

I received another note, this one from Jamie, who first contacted me for a potential school visit.

Thanks so much for taking the time to Skype with us. The kids loved it! Not only were the students talking to you enthralled, but so was the entire school while they watched it! We now have a celebrity among us! Also, thank you for writing the book! As you know it was a school-wide initiative to have students become more aware of that bystander role. I, as an English teacher, loved how you showed them your “sloppy copy” of your books! You were fantastic!

Jamie

For more on the Milgram experiment . . .

. . . click here.

This is just lovely . . .

Seriously, how lucky can a guy get? To open an envelope and find something as pure and kind and good as this?

Plus — it came with a drawing. Be careful, it’s a little spooky. . .

I replied to Juan this way, knowing that my letter could never be as good as his:

Dear Juan:

Thank you for your kind letter. I am always pleased when someone (finally!) notices that I’m cool.

Do not worry, Juan, because I am happy. I am fantastically, terrifically happy. I have three great kids, an awesome wife, two black cats, and a dog that barks and barks and barks. I think she’s insane! Perra loca!

Guess what? I just read a beautiful letter – from YOU! And it came with the coolest, spookiest picture! And guess what else? Now it’s hanging up on my office wall!

Thanks, also, for saying that I am a nice person. I try, every day. I bet you try, too, because writing that letter to me was a very, very, VERY nice thing to do.

I hope you can find plenty of Jigsaw Jones books in the library. Free books to read! What could be better? (Okay, free chocolate, sure. That’s tough to beat. But books are pretty tasty, too.)

The good news is that I’ve been writing a new series for readers your age. Every book will be a scary story. The series will be called –- are you ready for this? are you holding onto your hat? – SCARY TALES. The first book is called Home, Sweet Horror and it will be available in July. I’m most excited about Book #3, though. It has zombies in it!

My best,

James Preller

Before I rubbed the sand from my eyes, before I drank a cup of coffee, before I got dressed, I read this poem by William Stafford. Then I read it again, out loud, to my wife, before she rose from bed. Then I went downstairs, saw that the day was sunny and crisp, and that a dusting of snow covered the lawn.

I promised myself to be awake to the day.

Isn’t that something?

“the signals we give — yes or no, or maybe –

should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.”

Later I found this reading of the poem by a guy named Dale Biron. Not exactly how I hear it, but a pleasure nonetheless, because it’s always best when the words are heard, familiar units of speech floating on meaningful sound. Have a great day, people. Recognize the fact!

I suppose I should get to work, stop wasting time, eh? But here’s Stafford himself, 46 seconds long, reading “Scars.” Ah, poetry.

Question #1: If your friend writes a review of your book, does that negate it as an objective critical assessment?

Question #2: What is friendship, anyway?

I first “met” Franki Sibberson through her blog, A Year of Reading, co-written with Mary Lee Hahn. (You can read about them here, from a nice piece at possibly the world’s greatest children’s literature blog, Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast.)  If I recall correctly, Franki suggested that a character in one of my books, Miss Lobel in Along Came Spider, might be included in her ever-evolving list of 100 Cool Teachers in Children’s Literature.

In response to that, I believe that I bought Franki a car. Or maybe commented favorably on her blog. Something like that. Time passed, as time does, and last year I was given the opportunity of attending the fabulous 2012 Dublin Literacy Conference. You know, the one that’s not in Ireland. On that happy sojourn, I arrived at Franki’s school as a visiting author and we had a great day.

I always say that authors don’t do school visits — schools do author visits. So if that day was indeed a success, I owe 90% of that to Franki, the teachers, administrators, and students who put so much effort into the visit before I even arrived with my loud demands for more fluffy pillows, oscillating fans, belly dancers and blue M & M’s (and only blue M & M’s)

So, yes, I confess: We became friends. But not the hugging kind, mind you, since . . . Franki Don’t Hug. Got it? Okay. So just back it up, fella. One more step, good. Our friendship is on a firm handshake basis. Anyway, we are friends. That sometimes happens when librarians and authors meet and get a chance to hang out. Today, of course, I deeply wish that I wasn‘t friends with Franki. Wouldn’t her kind review of my new series be more valuable if, say, we hated each other? If only we were mortal enemies somehow — a long enmity passed down through generations! — and Franki Sibberson despised everything about me! — and yet still, even so, felt compelled (reluctantly, bitterly) to write a nice review of my book?

That, my friends and neighbors, would be a review worth chirping out!

Anyway, I’m rambling & my stomach is rumbling & I’m afraid I’m not making sense.

So, there’s this: Thank you, Franki, for your kindness.

Here: a fist-bump across cyberspace.

To read the review in full glory, click like a maniac on this link. If not, here’s the intro:

I felt like I won the lottery when I was handed an ARC of James Preller’s new book (the first in a new series–HOME SWEET HORROR (SCARY TALES SERIES).  I had heard about this series as I am a huge James Preller fan  (because he is one of the best author visits ever). But I didn’t know the arcs were available yet.  So I was thrilled to get one when I had asked for books appropriate for 4th grade at his publisher’s booth at NCTE.  This was the first on my stack that I read when returning from NCTE.  I actually took it out of a child’s hands so that I could read it over Thanksgiving break.  And I loved it.

Come back next week for another impartial review . . . from my mom!

Sent to me by a friend . . . I wrote this book 19 years ago.

Some days are hard. Some days I don’t feel at all like a success. And other days I just want to give thanks, be grateful, and try not to be such an idiot. Happy Thanksgiving, folks.

It’s exciting to see a series come together. It’s this long process that involves a lot of different folks all pulling on the same oar. But, like, we’re on different boats. Or something like that.

I just got my first peek at the rough cover for book #2, I Scream, You Scream. This is not final art; it’s basically a very tight sketch with all the design elements in place. First, let’s look at the covers for the first two books together — that’s a eureka moment right there, when finally you see that it’s a series.

……………….

The art and design are critically important for these books because we made a decision that each book would be completely different. New characters, new setting, and sometimes new genre. Over time, if we are lucky enough to find readers, this series could include not only “horror,” but also science fiction, thrillers, historic fiction, and more. We’re trying to paint on a very large canvas, rather than limit ourselves to a rigid formula. Each book its own unique story. And yet, they are held together by certain qualities: for starters, each book delivers a dependable kind of reading experience, a twist, an elevated heart rate. Some storytelling techniques will be consistent from book to book, the use of the intro and outro, the length, the illustrations. I believe the brilliant work of illustrator Iacopo Bruno truly holds the series together. And it’s awesome, too.

Here’s a larger shot of the rough cover, designed by Rich Deas, where you can really see the unfinished quality. Below you’ll find the one-page introduction. Can you hear that I’m channeling my inner Rod Serling?

Fun, isn’t it?

Enter the world of Samantha Carver. An ordinary kid who loves amusement parks, the smell of popcorn, and the joyful terror of a heart-pounding ride.

Sam’s got a ticket in her pocket for a very special ride. Soon this ticket, ripped in half, will signal the beginning of a most unusual adventure –- and leave Sam, along with a boy named Andy, screaming for their lives.

So, come along. Take a seat. Buckle up, nice and tight. It’s sure to be bumpy ride. And if you need anything –- anything at all — just scream.

The intro page will look something like this:

Naomi Bates is a librarian in Texas, and she has quietly kept up a nice blog, YA Books and More, where she reviews current books and digital media. She was recently kind enough to read my book, Before You Go, and give it a review.

Naomi concluded:

Preller begins this book with a powerful scene and ends it with one as well.  What makes this book a recommended read is not necessarily the characters or the style of writing but the book itself.  With short chapters, it’s easy to digest and an excellent pick for a reluctant reader.  Jude’s character is one that guy readers will relate to, from the video games to music to his conversations and interactions with his friends.   This, too, makes it the perfect book for a guy.  I could relate well with the characters and the plot without becoming overwhelmed with intentional theme.  This is a book that could be read in a day or two…quick, fast and pretty tasty.

Thanks, Naomi. I’m grateful for that.

I used to experience a disconnect of sorts when I read reviews from librarians. They just didn’t read the same way that I did. As an extremely slow reader, I couldn’t understand how some librarians could consume so many books rapid-fire. I am friendly with one librarian who reads more than 300 books a year — next, next, next, next, next. That sounds awful to me. I need the empty spaces, the pauses, the reflection time. But it dawned on me that librarians often read with another ultimate reader in mind. “Oh, this will be good for Tamara, she loves adventures,” or “This might be the book for Lars, he’s got the same sort of deadpan sense of humor,” and so on. Whereas I read for myself, and often I read to feed the writer within me. It’s not better or worse, just very different. What I’m also trying to say is that I appreciate the librarian’s perspective, and the essential role she plays — of match-maker! — the person who helps bring books and readers together.

One other aside: While some might consider this “a guy book,” I don’t believe I’ve seen one review written by a guy. Such is the YA world. Honestly, I don’t think this is a title with huge, across-the-board appeal to girls or guys. Hopefully there’s the right reader out there for it, one here, one there, though I can’t say with any certainty who that kid might or might not be. I’m grateful for any librarian, or bookseller, or parent, who helps lead a reader to it, puts my book in some kid’s hands, and says, “I think you might like this one. Somebody dies.”

There’s a kid somewhere in America named Daniel Van Ness. I don’t know him from a hole in the head. But on November 7th, Daniel started a very important petition:

Please have the 20th Century Fox company make a new movie called ‘The Case of Hermie the Missing Hamster: A Jigsaw Jones Mystery’ starring Bryan Suchey as Jigsaw Jones, Sierra Jade Gerban as Mila Yeh, Ethan Scheid as Ralphie Jordan, Yara Shahidi as Danika Starling, Charlene Geisler as Lucy Hiller, Michael May as Joey Pignattano, Alan Aisenberg as Charlie “Bigs” Maloney, Ingrid Rubio as Miss Gleason, Jeff Daniels as Mr. Copabianco, Noah Ryan Scott as Jaspar “Stringbean” Noonan, Rachael Harris as Mrs. Jones, Steve Zahn as Mr. Jones, Steve Martin as Principal Rogers, Devon Tucker as Billy, 1 of Jigsaw’s older brothers, Zachary Gordon as Daniel, another 1 of Jigsaw’s older brothers, Robert Capron as Nick, another 1 of Jigsaw’s older brothers, Oliver (puppy dog actor) as Rags, Jigsaw’s puppy dog, Parris Mosteller as Bobby Solofsky, Preston Bailey as Timothy “Wingnut” O’brien, Selena Gomez as Hillary, Jigsaw’s older sister, Dakota Fanning as Kimmy Lewis and Elle Fanning as Kayla Lewis.

Daniel Van Ness, if you are out there, I just want to say . . . THANK YOU FOR BEING THE COOLEST KID ON THE PLANET! Seriously, nice job. I appreciate it.

People, we must get behind this. Daniel’s expressed goal is a modest 18 signatures. I signed it the other day, so now Daniel has 5. So, um, top of my head, that means he only needs 13 more signatures. One of them should be YOURS!

Come on, folks, click the link, sign the petition, spread the word, and make this brilliant young man’s dream come true!

By the way, I love Daniel’s cast suggestions:

Bryan Suchey as JIGSAW:

Sierra Jade Gerban as MILA:

And Steve Martin as PRINCIPAL ROGERS:

Daniel did not suggest a director, but the choice is obvious:

No one else can be trusted. The job must go to Martin Scorsese!

UPDATE, 11/14, 8:27 AM: Currently at 19 signatures. Thanks, everybody. I’d type more but I think I should sit by the phone. I’m expecting a call from Hollywood!

I am sitting in the living room in early evening, reading Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami. Maggie, my 6th-grader, is doing handstands not five feet away — because that is what Maggie does these days, continual handstands. Every day, all day.

Maggie: “When I’m 18, I want to get a tattoo of a cat on my stomach.”

Dad: “Oh?”

Maggie: “Yeah, except I want my belly button to be the cat’s butt.”

Dad: “Is that so?”

Maggie: “Wait, I’ll draw you a picture!”

And she does.

Burt Lancaster starred in a literate little 1968 film called “The Swimmer,” based on a short story by John Cheever. I’m certain that I watched the movie as a kid, probably on The 4:30 Movie during Burt Lancaster week. Growing up, I don’t have many memories of Mom ever telling me to turn off the TV, except when dinner was ready, so I saw pretty much everything. Unlike much of it that never left an imprint, “The Swimmer” always stuck with me (btw, it’s currently available on the cinematic wasteland known as Netflix Instant).

Here, check out the trailer.

That inspired device — swimming home by pool-hopping across the neighborhood — initiates a journey into the past for Ned Merrill, a journey of self-realization and heartbreak. The movie did not make much of a splash at the box office, though some critics liked it and, from what I can gather, it still has it’s devotees. According to Variety: “A lot of people are not going to understand this film; many will loathe it; others will be moved deeply.”

I’m telling you this because I gave the movie a subtle nod in Before You Go. In this scene, Corey and Jude are hanging out on the roof of Jude’s house, which was something I used to do as a teenager, just get on that roof, look down on suburban Long Island, and dream of my escape.

“Check out that sweet swimming pool behind Ansari’s house, all lit up with floodlights.” Corey whistled. “Man, that water is calling my name. We should grab Vinnie and the guys, sneak out, and go pool-hopping some night. I wonder how many we could do. What do you think, Jude, if we swam our way across town? Hopping from pool to pool. That would be a trip.”

In the book, they don’t make that journey. The idea begins and dies right there on the roof. But I got it from the old 4:30 Movie, and can still hear that great theme song today, because it’s from the soundtrack of my life.

It’s that time of year when our local, weekly farmers’ market moves indoors and, obviously, the product changes. These markets really are a summertime thing. I’ll be sad to see the empty parking lot on Saturdays outside the middle school where the market used to be.

My wife, Lisa, who is often a few years ahead of me in all things Cool & Progressive, was an early adopter. She valued local foods, loved our farmers’ market, and loathed to miss it. And I was like, “Okay, sure, I’ll tag along.” All cynical and whatever. But I learned over time that I enjoyed being there, running into folks, seeing my neighbors, goofing around, buying things . . . or not.

In a passage from his devastating, essential, must-read book, Eaarth: Making a Life on a Tough New Planet, Bill McKibben helped clarify for me what it was that I was experiencing at these markets, and maybe why I liked going so much:

Often a farmers’ market is the catalyst — not just because people find that they like local produce, but because they actually meet each other again. This is not sentiment talking; this is data. A team of sociologists recently followed shoppers around supermarkets and then farmers’ markets. You know the drill at the Stop’n'Shop: you come in the automatic door, fall into a light fluorescent trance, visit the stations of the cross around the perimeter of the store, exit after a discussion of credit or debit, paper or plastic. But that’s not what happens at farmers’ markets. On average, the sociologists found, people were having ten times as many conversations per visit. They were starting to rebuild the withered network that we call a community. So it shouldn’t surprise us that farmers’ markets are the fastest-growing part of our food economy; they are simply the way that humans have always shopped, acquiring gossip and good cheer along with calories.

Of course, McKibben has bigger things on his mind, and rightfully so. He recognizes this local, strengthening network as a catalyst, a foundation for political expression & action, for coordinated effort, and, yes, justice. In short, when people get together, it’s a good thing. So I want to thank all those folks who have worked so hard to bring the market to my little ‘burb in Delmar, NY, and the thousands like them around the country. You done good.