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I wrote a new picture book yesterday. It rocks. Or so I thought, until...

JACQUI: I want to read you this story.
TINK: Did you write it?
JACQUI: Yeah, but pretend I didn't, okay?
TINK: Okay.
JACQUI: (reads story)...The End
TINK:
JACQUI: Hello?
TINK:
JACQUI: What do you think? Is it good?
TINK: Sure (plays with stuffed raccoon).
JACQUI: Honest opinion. What did you like or not like?
TINK: It needs more action.
JACQUI: Okay. I can do that. What did you like?
TINK:
JACQUI: Were there any funny parts?
TINK: No.

And there you have it. Not funny AND dull, all at once.

Back to the drawing board.

Ever have days when ALL of the world's problems weigh on you? Like you're trying to write your cute middle grade mystery/adventure novel and the evil writer-hating voices in your head say things like, "There are children starving all over the world and this is what you're doing?!" or "How long are you going to stick your head in the sand while Michigan's economy tanks? Go ahead! Fiddle around with words while Rome burns."

"Shut it," I tell the voice. "Gabriel Garcia Marquez said the best thing a writer can do for the world is write."

"Oh did he? When? In what book?"

"HE SAID IT! See? It's copied neatly here above my desk."

"He never said that."

"HE DID TOO!"

Why don't you Google it and prove it?"

"Fine!" I yell. "I will."

Thirty minutes later, I hear giggling.

"Shut up," I say. "What's so funny?"

"Google Google Google. You got nothing. And meanwhile, the polar ice caps are melting."

I put down my pen and weep. "I know. And I love polar bears! But what can I do?"

"Nothing. You're useless. Put away the laptop and go get a donut or a bag of chips."

And she is right. And I have to obey.

What? That never happens to you? Oh. Well. Me neither. I was just speculating. Nobody crazy talking to herself around here.

Munch munch munch.

In which I recreate a conversation with Tinkerbell.

JACQUI: So, what did you like or not like about camp today?

TINK: I didn't like Ursula.*

JACQUI: That seems a little harsh. Poor Ursula. I hope you were nice to her. Why not?

TINK: She's mean.

JACQUI: Uh-oh. How so?

TINK: She made fun of me and another girl on the bus because we were sitting next to a boy. Then he moved his seat.

JACQUI: Hmm, that does sound kind of mean.

TINK: Yeah, and she called me a name.

JACQUI: Oh?

TINK: She called me a baby when I was sucking my thumb.

JACQUI:Oh no, she didn't! (mother bear fur standing on end). What?

TINK: She said only babies suck their thumbs and she pointed at me and said (singing), "You are a baby."

JACQUI: Which one is Ursula? Because I am going to kill the little twit I don't know if I know her. And I need to know her, so I can kill her.

TINK: She was there this morning, with the blue shirt**?

JACQUI: In the pink shirt? With the tiny mom in the three-inch Prada*** heels? I think I can totally take them both I remember her.

TINK: Yeah.

JACQUI: So, (takes calming breaths) what did you say when she said that?

TINK: Nothing. I ignored her, like you told me when people are mean.

JACQUI: (doing internal "I rule and my daughter does too" dance) That's good. I mean, it's kind of funny, Tink. What's less grown up: sucking your thumb or being mean to people?

TINK: (giggles) Being mean to people. But she probably thinks that's grown up.

JACQUI: Well, then you should just grab a chair and rearrange the brat's face ignore her, like you did. It sounds like this Ursula is someone you should tell the other kids you saw picking her nose and eating it stay away from.

TINK: I do.

JACQUI: Good. Because when the grenade hits her house, I don't want you there.

* Names have been changed to protect the innocent, and to leave no trail that could lead beaver police investigating injuries to "Ursula" and her family back to Jacqui's Room
** She was not really wearing a blue shirt.
*** Let's be honest: I have no idea if they were Prada heels. But it sounds good, eh?

In which I reveal why it is probably best that I gave up my theater career.

And yes, there are spoilers, though it's not like you can't guess how the book ends, really.

Also, this took me a million years and a snabblefrug* to upload, so you had better laugh. Hard.




* snabblefrug: a small temper tantrum caused by failure of Blogger to upload video properly. Now deleted.

In which I explore the theory that if you can't throw it or eat it, you may as well bash yourself in the head with it.

You've met my daughter, Tinkerbell, through the story of her trip to the principal's office. Now meet my son, Captain Destructo. Captain Destructo is nineteen months old and he is missing the gene that evolved in most humans that is responsible for regulating the self-preservation instinct. If you need a visual aid, he looks something like Max.

An actual conversation with Captain Destructo, a one act play:

[Jacqui and Captain Destructo play outside on the lawn on a lovely Saturday afternoon. Captain Destructo runs through plants and falls, getting back upright with one hand full of something.]

JACQUI: Oh! What did you find?

DESTRUCTO: Rock.

JACQUI: Oh, it's a big rock.

DESTRUCTO: Rock? (puts rock in mouth)

JACQUI: Oh no, honey, we don't eat the rock.

DESTRUCTO: Rock. (aims to throw rock at mother)

JACQUI: No, no, honey. Don't throw the rock. Someone could get hurt. Let's go play with the tennis racket again. Do you want a turn with the tennis racket?

DESTRUCTO: Rock.

JACQUI: Yes, it's a great rock.

DESTRUCTO: Mine.

JACQUI: Yes, it's yours. I am not going to take your rock. What are you going to do with the rock?

DESTRUCTO: (puts rock in mouth)

JACQUI: No, we're not going to eat it.

DESTRUCTO: (aims to throw rock again)

JACQUI: No, we're not going to throw it.

DESTRUCTO: (ponders, brows furrowed, then smiles.) Aah. (Bashes himself in the head with the rock hard enough to make an audible thump)

JACQUI: Ow! What are you doing? (tries to take rock)

DESTRUCTO: Hah hah hah. (runs away, hitting self with rock multiple times)

JACQUI: (chasing son) Stop! Ow! No hit.

DESTRUCTO: (stopping) Rock. (puts rock behind back)

JACQUI: Give Mama the rock.

DESTRUCTO: Mine. (puts rock in mouth)

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Don Quixote read too much.
Thought he was a knight.
Grabbed his squire, Sancho Panza
And set off to fight.






Declared his love for Dulcinea,
Fought giants in her name.
Got mocked, pinched, butted, robbed and kidnapped.
She shunned him all the same.






Stayed deluded 1,000 pages,
Ended up beaten and bleeding.
Realized he'd been mad, then died.
Such are the perils of reading.

In which I discuss Helen Hunt, Salman Rushdie, and epidermolysis bullosa.

So I was paging through Elle a very serious literary journal this week and saw that Helen Hunt has produced, directed, and starred in a new movie. And her OB, in the movie, is played by Salman Rushdie. Yes, Sir Salman Rushdie of Satanic Verses, fatwa, and Booker Prize/literary genius fame. And yes, that Helen Hunt, of, uh, Mad About You.

In the interview I skimmed while waiting for an appointment and don't totally remember read, Ms. Hunt stated that in the most important scene in which Sir Rushdie appears, her character is praying. She wanted "someone Indian" to give audiences the idea that it wasn't just the Judeo-Christian god to whom one can pray. She thought of Salman Rushdie and so, more or less, she called him up and asked him to audition.

Forget the implications of that statement for cultural awareness. Forget that Rushdie's own religious beliefs are not clear cut. Forget how strange it would be to watch Salman Rushdie give someone a sonogram. And I know he's been in movies before, always playing himself. What got me is the last part. She called him up? Who knew you could just call Salman Rushdie up?!

So I did it. I called him. And I asked him to come have a seat here on the rug in Jacqui's Room...
And I now present to you:

The Jacqui's Room Interview with Salman Rushdie*

JACQUI: Mr. Rushdie, sir, welcome to our rug. It's so good of you to come.

SALMAN: Please, call me Salman.

JACQUI: Okay, Salman (giggles). Frankly, I can't believe you took my call.

SALMAN: Nonsense. I took Helen Hunt's call, didn't I? Besides, I've been smitten with you ever since I signed that copy of Shalimar the Clown for your husband. And your writing! The New Girl...And Me? Genius. I've read it, like, 80 times.

JACQUI: Wow. Thanks. I've read almost all of your books, too. Would you like me to send you a signed bookplate?

SALMAN: No.

JACQUI: Oh. Okay. Um, I guess we should start by discussing your role in Then She Found Me. I was surprised to hear you were interested in something like that. What made you decide to do it?

SALMAN: If you'd been following my career as closely as you say you have, you'd remember that I was already in Bridget Jones' Diary. If you had a chance to be in a major Hollywood movie, wouldn't you do it?

JACQUI: I guess so. But aren't you worried it will make people take you less seriously as a writer?

SALMAN: Jacqui. Honey. Lighten up. I've been knighted. I've won the Booker Prize. I wrote a book so powerful it made an entire country vow to kill me. I could plagiarize Robert Munsch for the rest of my career and nobody'd say a word.

JACQUI:

SALMAN: Hello?

JACQUI: You aren't going to, are you?

SALMAN: Aren't going to what?

JACQUI: Plagiarize Robert Munsch?

SALMAN: God no. Sappy stuff, that. But you get the point.

JACQUI: Sort of. Speaking of your writing, I can't wait to read The Enchantress of Florence. Can you discuss why you were drawn to the character of Akbar?

SALMAN: No. I'd rather discuss how gaunt Courteney Cox looked in that picture opposite me in Elle.

JACQUI: You mean the one of her and Jennifer Aniston and Orlando Bloom at that gala to benefit epidermolysis bullosa research?

SALMAN: Yeah. Does she need a cheeseburger or what?

JACQUI: Totally. You know what's weird? My husband the scientist worked on epidermolysis bullosa and made some discoveries that were very important to the field.

SALMAN: Shut up! And you didn't get invited to the gala? Ridiculous.

JACQUI: I know!

SALMAN: (gasps) OMG! I just had the greatest idea for my next book! I have to go write it now.

JACQUI: Wait! Before you go, any parting words of advice for the writers who come to Jacqui's Room?

SALMAN: Yes. It helps if your characters are haunting, your plots mesmerizing, your writing magical, and your settings historically and culturally fascinating.

JACQUI: Okay, we'll all work on that. Thanks, Salman.

SALMAN: No, Jacqui. Thank you.

* Note: Actual conversation with Salman Rushdie went more like this:
ME: I'd like Mr. Rushdie to sign this book for my husband's birthday.
BORED BORDERS EMPLOYEE: He's not personalizing anything.
ME: Oh, well can I just ask him to sign it?
BORED BORDERS EMPLOYEE: No. Leave it here and he'll sign it when he's done. Now get out.