If you’ve been reading my deep travel tales, you’ll know how un-smart I am.

Count the times I’ve been run down on the road less traveled!

I was barely home from my travels in Africa and Asia when the gods pulled a U-turn and made roadkill of me yet again.

I was filming in the Canadian Rockies

I was shooting a film on the geomorphology of the high country. Think erosion. Even solid granite breaks up over time and washes to the sea. Everything disintegrates, including the human psyche.

Especially mine.

After an exhausting day filming on scree slopes above a chain of turquoise lakes and then debriefing the tapes over dinner with the sound tech we drove to Lake Louise to be closer to our next location. It was midnight by the time we found a tent site on the perimeter of a campground.

We pitched our tent and fell asleep.

I woke at dawn with rain drubbing softly on the sagging canvas.

I heard something else.

I crawled half out to peer around the tent—

Grizzly! Not six feet away from me.

Front paws on the picnic table, she sniffed our cooler, our food supply. Last night we had unloaded the jeep and then hastily secured one end of our pup tent to the table before passing out.

I’m sorry! I told you, I’m not that smart!

The bear took a second to fix me in the cross-hairs of her cold gaze.

I nudged Ken and whispered, “Grizzly.” He wanted to see. I shook my head furiously. He stuck his head out, withdrew, looked at me: “Three cubs.”

Worst case scenario. Now what?

Now what?

The tent collapsed.

The weight of the cooler and everything spilling out—bacon and steaks and yogurt, and bread, coffee, apples, raisins, nuts and milk and a week’s supply of Snickers Bars—it flattened the tent with us beneath it.

Four bears were sitting on us, eating. And not quietly, I might add.

While we lay still as death.

I thought of Fred.

Fred and I had played hockey at university. He was 6-3 and damned good-looking before he met the grizzly who left him minus one hip, a broken back, no scalp, half a face, and a chewed elbow, and those were just the physical injuries.

I was eroding inside, already.

I’d been here before, my life stopped dead in its tracks. (The cheetah comes to mind, remember?) My granite sense of self becoming “Fred,” I couldn’t muster the necessary thoughts to convince myself that life had meaning.

There was nothing left to obscure the fact that life has no meaning.

There was nothing left.

Hold that thought.

If you’ve read Story Structure Expedition, you’re familiar with how I recruited authors more eloquent than myself to do the heavy explaining through moments like this. Well, here we go again:

John Gray (The Silence of Animals), he sounds like he’s been under a grizzly’s picnic tablecloth:

“Accepting that the world is without meaning, we are liberated from confinement in the meaning we have made. Knowing there is nothing of substance in our world may seem to rob that world of value. But this nothingness may be our most precious possession, since it opens to us the inexhaustible world that exists beyond ourselves.”

That’s it! What every crisis has taught me.

If Mr. Gray moves over we can squeeze physicist, Alan Lightman, into this dilemma:

“In our constant search for meaning in this baffling and temporary existence, trapped as we are within our three pounds of neurons, it is sometimes hard to tell what is real. We often invent what isn’t there. Or ignore what is. We try to impose order, both in our minds and in our conceptions of external reality. We try to connect. We try to find truth. We dream and we hope. Underneath all of these strivings, we are haunted by the suspicion that what we see and understand of the world is only a tiny piece of the whole.”

Lightman is describing the fictional protagonist waking up in the Act II Crisis.

At the heart of the story, heroes see the world as it really is.

Un-smart like me

I’m not saying I’m a hero, but I certainly have been serially un-smart. My talent for not being too smart for my own good has earned me the moral authority to enter the Act III of my life.

And now, writing from the perspective of the final act, I want to share with you some of my discoveries (however arguable they might be):

1. The meaning of a human life is to realize—by whatever means possible—that nothingness is our most precious possession 
2. The best fictional protagonists do just that
3. Which aids and abets our own struggle to see the world as it really is
4. And that’s why we read fiction
5. And perhaps why we write it.

CUT BACK TO ACTION:

Behind the falling rain, low voices. The canvas was suddenly snapped back to reveal a uniformed park official standing over me with a rifle. He shook his head in dismay, or disdain.

I know, I’m an idiot, I’m sorry.

Mama lay in a heap, tranquilized, while her three cubs found refuge up a tree. Campers, soggy in the early morning rain, watched in disbelief.

I know, I know,  I’m sorry! It’ll happen again, I assure you.

Because:

Good writers—like good protagonists—are never too smart for their own good.

[POST SCRIPT: All this “meaning” business notwithstanding, I didn’t sleep well in a tent for a few years after that.]

A good story is often inspired by a powerful experience.

One that changed the author’s mind, their very way of looking at the world.

A great story may change the reader’s life as well.

I’m stealing that opening—and the title—from Dr. John Yeoman over at Writers’ Village. John is re-running one of my recent blog posts and reframing it as a lesson for writers.

I wish I was better at addressing writers’ issues. I might have more subscribers.

Most likely, though, I’ll continue to issue my inscrutable Reece’s pieces and defer to Writers’ Village as the forum for writers looking for mentorship and encouragement.

John has recently launched Story PenPal, which is proving to be a spirited venue for writers to post their  fiction and receive feedback from peers and story experts.

I’ll get back on track in a few days with a post titled:

“How to Catch an Idea Virus.”

Or, “The Virus that Ate my Brain.”

Or, I’ll ask Dr. John what he would call it.

People do die.

We die of heat exhaustion on the train from Bombay to Delhi.

We die in a taxi cab short of making it to a hotel where we die of despair.

We die of a broken heart. Betrayed. By ourselves. By our stupidity!

I lay on some deluxe deathbed in some beige hotel room somewhere in that suffocating gray limbo called New Delhi and for two or three days I drank blood red orange juice. Where did I find the money for a 3-star hotel? I thought I was broke.

As empty as I was—or perhaps because I was so empty—the image of the beggar in Bombay haunted me. No arms, no legs, not much left of him at all, he was beyond defeat.

The scene won’t quit my head even now. Not sure what I’m seeing as I remember him nudging his begging bowl with his forehead through a thicket of legs, a gauntlet of feet and fumes and cattle and cart wheels and spokes and grime and dogs and shit and broken asphalt. There is no Bombay for me above the knees of that miraculous city. I am down there with him getting trampled and I can’t escape.

At some point it occurred to me—I’m not taking a trip, this trip is taking me.

I was no less curious than the fly on the wall of that hotel room about what would happen next, and how far a person could run on empty.

I’m sweating again on a Delhi street so thick with smog you would be excused for thinking the city had exploded. I’m looking for the offices of British Overseas Airways (BOAC) because I have to escape this blessed country. Where did I get the money to buy an airline ticket? I must have held a few traveler’s cheques in reserve. I can’t remember.

Who can remember everything that happened so long ago? And yet I sometimes remember things I’m not sure I ever saw. The beggar, for instance, whom I saw for only a minute, what I remember about him changed my life.

As the 707 lifted off and banked on a trajectory for Hong Kong I would have been thinking of that beggar. Even as I swore to never ever ever ever set foot in India again, I was carrying him with me. Oaths notwithstanding, I would return to India four more times over the next 20 years.

Why? Because I was looking for answers?

How far can you run on empty? And what happens when you get there?

Hong Kong. What a relief. Clean, efficient, sensible, and above all polite. They were very, very sorry. The Immigration official, he was sorry to tell me that I could not enter Hong Kong. No onward ticket, it hadn’t occurred to me. “Very sorry you come to Hong Kong with no money, so sorry.”

He sent me to the BOAC agent who looked at me as if I might have had a begging bowl protruding from my forehead. He was manufacturing a ticket before I’d finished my sob story. A ticket entirely bogus. Immigration stamped my passport, they were perfectly happy.

I applied to the Canadian High Commission for a loan to see me home. After all, two-years of volunteer work on Zambia’s rivers had left me with schistosomes cavorting in my blood stream, and what’s more my funds had been “stolen” in Bombay, so that here I was running so precariously on empty that by this time tomorrow I would be begging for my supper.

You have to admit, that’s not a bad pitch.

But the High Commissioner wasn’t buying scripts for TV movies. “You have parents,” she explained. “They’ll wire you money.”

While my SOS telegram did its nasty work, I retreated to an offshore monastery.

I didn’t know much about Buddhism or Zen except that the philosophy was Stoic and the life was Spartan. You enter a monastery, you leave everything behind. Fine by me, there wasn’t much left of me. A bamboo mat on a slab in a stone alcove, fine by me. Small log for a pillow, why not?

Oh, yeah, and next to the pillow—a wooden bowl.

The universe was working overtime trying to tell me something.

It’s pretty obvious what the purpose of a monastery is. The silence and simplicity presents a challenge to the monkey-mind. Thinking soon proves pointless, in the aftermath of which things just are. Three bowls of rice a day were a miracle. If they were trying to empty me out, well, I was already losing my urgency to get anywhere.

My final destination might not be a place, after all. Maybe it’s a new way of seeing things.

After a week I returned to Hong Kong to discover that my telegram had not been delivered. “Recipient not home.” I returned to the High Commission and was told to “get a job.”

One Hong Kong dollar—I remember this detail—it was all I had to underwrite my next move. I entered a bar. Was I seeking darkness? Or to speak with someone. I can’t remember.

I found myself gabbing with a friendly face, another Canadian, a round-faced farmer from a small community not far from my home town, as it turned out. I told him of my African sojourn and of my blunder in Bombay and the gift of the beggar and the monastery and being told to get a job, and as we were laughing he ordered us another round, and he slapped some dollars on the table and kept on slapping to the tune of 600 US dollars. I didn’t know him from Adam.

“Pay me back when you can,” he said.

I never saw him again.

I’ve heard it said that the gift seeks the empty place. I suppose emptiness ensures that the gift will be used, consumed, not hoarded but spent. The giver by giving becomes empty and is now in a position to receive. And around it goes like that.

Arriving in Vancouver, I needed $35 dollars to fly over the Rockies to Alberta. A friend from university came to the rescue.

What do you make of all that?

Have you ever survived on empty? WRITE A STORY ABOUT IT! We love stories about people getting run over on the road less traveled. It seems you have to almost die to hear the heart of the world beating.

From Africa I flew to India.

I would return home through Asia, circumnavigate the globe, prove the world was round, see it with my own two eyes.

Bombay. Wow! The smells. The crush of humanity! A beggar with no arms or legs.

My god, he had no face, either.

His begging bowl—if you can picture this—he nudged it along the street with his forehead. I couldn’t look, I couldn’t not look.

For a second I couldn’t breathe.

Have you ever been so far from home that your brain wouldn’t compute?

I don’t know how many rupees I dropped in his bowl, probably a lot, because suddenly and inexplicably I felt more alive. I swore to never again bitch about anything, and isn’t that what travel is about?

Travel puts distance between us and our tired old way of seeing things.

What if you could travel twice as far from home?

What if someone approached you in the lobby of your Bombay hotel with a promise to take you twice as far from home? Would you listen to his pitch?

He is tall and impeccable and impossibly smooth-talking as he invites you to sit down so he can make his case. You’re all ears. Where is this place? How do I get there?

“Very easy, my friend,” he says. “Firstly, you allow me to con you out of all your money.” He is joking, of course, this Mr. Patel. “You have traveler’s cheques, yes? Very good. May I see them? No? All right, later perhaps.”

He hails a waiter and orders wine. “In any case, once you have been fleeced, my goodness, you look in the mirror—are you sick?”

“Depressed, I would think, for sure.”

“No, no, I mean sick, sick. You most certainly need a doctor. Here, I can give you his phone number. He confirms that a parasite infects your blood stream. Perhaps you have been exposed to stagnant water. In Africa? That explains everything. I’m afraid it can be fatal. You must be treated soon. But without money you are going nowhere.”

The wine arrives, a Bordeaux, for goodness sake. Who is this Mr. Patel?

“You cannot escape the heatwave we are having here in Bombay. The humidity in advance of the monsoon is unspeakable. But a cheap hostel is all you can afford, a bare mattress upon which you are lying spread-eagle. You are clinging to it for dear life. Otherwise you would run to the window and hurl yourself onto the street below. Such is your despair. Such is your remorse. You have been such a fool! You no longer trust the thoughts that arise to resolve this calamity. I’m afraid to say, sir, that you thoroughly hate yourself.”

Patel raises a glass in a toast. “You cannot travel farther from home than that, my friend.”

I take what must look like an unsophisticated glub of wine.

“But I can see you are not sold on this expedition. And I understand perfectly. It is not part and parcel of the human condition to collude with one’s own demise. We must go unwittingly. Kicking and screaming as it were. Ha, ha! So be it.”

I have no memory of Patel saying any such things, although I do recall the Bordeaux and that he was a businessman in need of foreign currency for an overseas trip, more than bank regulations allow. He offered me a handsome premium on the face value of my traveler’s cheques, leaving me with cash to convert to currencies for my onward journey.

“We will transact this business over a meal at the Taj Mahal Hotel, yes?”

How to travel too far—be gullible, be greedy, be an idiot!

The Bombay Taj, like most 5-star hotels, smells of money. Money having been spent and money being squandered everywhere you look.

Patel threw a heap of rupees at martinis there in the posh mezzanine lounge—and at various kebabs and little lamb chops and chicken tikka—so it didn’t seem inappropriate for me to hand over my traveler’s cheques for his inspection. It seemed appropriate that his uncle, the hotel’s comptroller, should want to verify the cheques. That Patel should confer with his uncle alone sounded suspicious, so I tagged along as far as the elevator where I lost him!

He slipped into an elevator behind doors that closed in my face.

I bolted down the grand marble staircase of the Taj Mahal Hotel to Reception where I learned that no such money manager existed. Three Patels were registered at the Taj and I hammered on each of their doors in vain.

Deep travel—are we there yet?

I applied for a refund at the American Express Office and was told to check back in a week, by which time I would have examined the mug shots of every criminal known to the Bombay Police. By then I could no longer ignore strange fluids leaking from my body. A doctor prescribed antibiotics and a flight home.

Broke but for the cash in my pocket, I downgraded to a hotel without air-conditioning. I remember lying on my bed naked and sweating under a feeble fan and gripping the mattress in mortal fear of having traveled far too far.

I decided to escape Bombay—to Delhi by train.

If Bombay was a sauna, the Rajasthan desert was a furnace. You opened a window at the very real risk of burning yourself. Every whistle stop along the way provided an opportunity to rehydrate, but instead I gorged on ice cream thinking it would cool me down, and I was right. I began to shiver feverishly. And vomit and retch until my muscles seized and I lay on the wooden floor of the 3^rd-class carriage as hopeless as a leper.

A leper without arms or legs!

How far from home was I? I had passed self-loathing hours ago. I was going to die and the sooner the better. I was Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. “Go ahead and shoot me,” he tells Ingrid Bergman. “You’ll be doing me a favor.”

This is where the fictional hero bottoms out. If only! If I were a fictional character, my writer would save me here at the heart of my story. But this is a true story and I have no one to blame but myself. What do they call this in India—karma? How much more was I supposed to suffer? How much more could I take?

What was I supposed to do—push my begging bowl with my forehead?

If that’s what it takes, okay!

I heard someone mention the Taj. We were passing through Agra, home of the real fucking Taj Mahal, one of the so-called Wonders of the World. I didn’t have the wherewithal to throw up. There was nothing left. There wasn’t much left of me. I didn’t think I would survive till Delhi.

I had never felt—and I have never felt since—so far gone.

To be continued…

Have you ever gone too far? WRITE A STORY ABOUT IT!

We are all starving for stories about people who are greedy for life.

[NOTE: If you don’t want to miss any posts in this travel series, please SUBSCRIBE at the top of the page.]

It’s a mega-watt moon shining down on western Tanzania.

That ragged ribbon of moonlight you see is a rough-and-tumble highway known in south-central Africa as the Hell Run. From Dar es Salaam on the Indian Ocean, this 1500-mile lifeline serves the heart of the continent.

A 5-ton truck speeds westward with its load of car tires in a metal cage. At the wheel, a hungry-looking Tanzanian, and beside him an over-stuffed Sikh bending a tire iron just for the hell of it.

Ten miles ahead, beyond a sleeping village, three youths are running along the road. What are children doing up at midnight? The boys stop where the road descends into a wooded valley and shout to someone on the verge of the gloom. That someone is a mzungu, a white boy. Me.

“Habari gani?” I say. I have no idea what they want.

I’m returning to Zambia after traveling north to Uganda, then hitchhiking south-eastward through Kenya and into Tanzania. Now it’s westward as quickly as possible to resume my duties as a hydrologist in Zambezi country. I’ve been gone too long, six weeks, so I choose to keep moving by the light of this impossible moon. I don’t get far. Those boys are waving excitedly.

“What’s up?” I shout. “Unitaka nini?”

“Simba!”

Everybody talks about simba but how many have seen a lion with their own two eyes? Exactly. But I appreciate their concern.

“You saw the simba?” I ask.

“Simba eat man!” the oldest kid shouts.

“Yeah? Where?” I ask, skeptically.

“Just here!” He jogs down the hill to join me and points loosely, vaguely, into the near distance.

“When?” I ask.

“Yesterday, Bwana.”

While still not convinced, neither am I a fool.

The boys are brothers, children of the farmer who dropped me roughly in the middle of nowhere. As we approach the village I hear someone calling “Tobias!” The boys bound toward the village like jackrabbits. A vehicle is approaching. They’re waving it down, bless their hearts. The truck is stopping.

The older kid leaps onto the running board to negotiate the terms of this hijacking. The truckers step down to examine Tobias’ bribe, a tire, which the Sikh inspects in the light of the headlamps. He kicks it and growls and spits on it and tells me to climb aboard, not in the cab but in the cage, which he locks once I’m in, and I wonder if my odds of survival weren’t better with Simba.

Tobias and I shake hands through the bars as the truck moves ahead. It’s a mental snapshot that hasn’t faded all these years later—those boys as my guardian angels. It’s a romantic notion, isn’t it—angels. I don’t honestly do angels, and it’s just as well, or my life story would soon become tedious for its endless interventions of a divine nature.

Down into the valley we go. That laughing hyena at the wheel is targeting every pothole in the road. I’m safer the higher I clamber within that jungle of tires where I hang on like a monkey in a cage. Why do I get myself into these situations? Seriously, what is wrong with me? Let it never be said that I’m too smart for my own good. I’m just that little bit stupid, blessed with the essential naiveté that marks a fictional protagonist. Otherwise those angels I don’t quite believe in would have no cause to show up in my life. Not that I’m looking for trouble—who looks for trouble?—but if you were to accuse me of harbouring an urge to escape the gravity field of the known world, I would plead guilty without hesitation.

By the time we rise out of the valley I’ve made peace with the tires. They cradle me now. Peace is open savannah country by night, moonlit mile after magical mile. The earth is unearthly. I doubt heaven compares with this. Giant leafless baobab trees resemble elephants, mute herds standing guard on the grasslands, benign and protective. I have never felt so far from home.

The truck slows then stops for no apparent reason. The Sikh unlocks the cage and I reckon this for the scene where I’m murdered and robbed. Instead, he crosses the road to exercise his tire iron on a Mercedes abandoned in the ditch, stripping it of its tires in minutes. Welcome to the Hell Run. The African heaves each Michelin into the cage and off they go unaware that I’ve slipped away without a word of thanks.

The back seat of the Mercedes makes a perfect bed for the night.

I’m woken by the sound of a motorcycle, not the guttural rumble of a Harley but the unforgivable racket of a two-stroke Kawasaki. The sun is up and so is the hood of the Mercedes behind which someone is having a go at the engine. Someone dressed from head to toe in black. Father Manon, he calls himself.

“God helps those who help themselves,” he says, as he stashes a handful of electrical leads his saddle bags. He sets his goggles in place and says, “Allons-y! Let’s go, my son!” Saved again! This time by a priest from Chicoutimi, Quebec.

Father Manon drives as if he were immortal. He drives that Kawasaki with one hand so he can bless passers-by without slowing down. He blesses the chickens and the cows and the baobab trees. He blesses the ant hills! We speed along roads cluttered with people who lack the road-wise flow of urban traffic. Cyclists packing enormous sacks of charcoal waver and wobble within a spoke of death, and women balancing colourful bundles half again as large as themselves lead children-in-tow aside to allow us through.

I’m not sure if I’m being saved or not. Or if I want to be saved. I mean, why do I leave home in the first place if not to become lost? Think about it—doesn’t the human condition seem to demand our own undoing? The sages have been telling us since forever to risk everything, to leave everything behind.

I know, I know, easier said than done.

You’re reading this, you tell me—isn’t there something compelling about this picture of a young mzungu hanging onto the robes of a fake priest as he vanishes over the horizon deeper into the heart of Africa? To what end we can only imagine.

Maybe the real angels save us by leading us deeper and deeper into the heart of our own story. I don’t know, I don’t do angels.

But I seem to run into a hell of a lot of them.

(An earlier version of this story appeared here almost two years ago. In response to readers who have asked for more of these road stories, this will be an ongoing series. It’s time I got them all written down. But I don’t want to waste your time, so, please let me know if they speak to you.)

I was tearing up a Zambian highway on my white Honda “Dream” when it hit me.

I thought it was mud.

A convoy of trucks thundering past in the opposite direction was kicking up debris. Even after the last tanker had passed, the flak was stinging my hands and face.

What the hell—that mud?—bees! I was plastered in bees.

I’m telling you this story because I love the road and the dire straits into which a journey often leads. If you’re like me you love to hop aboard a good road story and be taken for a ride.

Bees! I was riding headlong into a swarm. They were inside my shirt. They were up my nose and in my ears and stinging my skull. How could they be biting my skill? I was wearing a helmet. I yanked the clasp and jettisoned the thing before I came to a stop.

Where they came from, I have no idea, but I was immediately surrounded by children.

They didn’t ask permission to debug me, just began pulling them out of my hair, out of my ears. They pulled one off my eye, which was swelling. These kids swatted bees off my back and off my thighs. They were inside my khaki shorts, for god’s sake. They were inside my mouth. My lips were swelling. I had to do something, and quickly.

Africans have a saying: If the snake bites you within sight of your village rooftops, you will die. The victim dashes home, I guess, pumping the venom to the heart. You get bitten far from home, however, and you have nowhere to run. You will stay put and do the right thing.

Though my heart was racing, I could feasibly ride the motorcycle without making things worse. I thanked the kids and sped back toward the city. At home I slathered calamine lotion over the worst swelling before lying on my bed. Calm down, I told myself, just breathe. I felt no panic, no sense of tragedy at the prospect of dying. No regrets.

Here I was in Africa living a dream. I worked the rivers, measured their flow when hippos would allow it. For two years I crisscrossed that high dry plateau by Land Rover, camping out most nights lulled to sleep by the sounds of deep nature on the prowl. I earned my pilot’s licence flying a Cessna 172, shot my 8 mm movies, and rode that Honda almost to death. I was 22 years old.

I lay as still as death. Is this what the Sufis advocate—to die before you die?

I’ve been lucky for the “still as death” moments that life has forced upon me. I’ve learned how to cultivate such moments but back then I was dependent upon bad luck to trip me up and pin me down. I hope you know what I’m talking about.

We normally operate from a sense of being a physical-emotional-thinking entity. That’s us, the subject of our everyday lives. Then we’re brought suddenly and against our will to a full stop and an amazing thing happens. I’m lying there fully aware of “myself” in all its physical-emotional-thinking-ness. But if I can see it, then what is this subjectivity that’s aware of it?

Who am “I,” really?

The question creates a vast space in which time seems not to exist, but the clock on the wall showed that an hour had passed while my condition had not worsened, so I checked my physical self in the mirror. I would be okay. I remember starting to laugh.

I’m telling you this story because I have a vault full of road stories that might add up to a travel book one day. I was mentioning this publishing possibility to an old friend and without hesitation he instructed me to begin with the bees. It’s a short story which not only doesn’t get very far but then I hurry home. What kind of travel story is that?

Long or short, the key to a good road story is that it distances the protagonist from who he or she mistakenly thinks they are. That would be the point of a story, wouldn’t it? We leave home in the hope that we might reach closer to who we really are.

I recently riffed on “road stories” for Patrick Ross over on his The Artist’s Road website. “Road Stories—Why We Like to Be Taken for a Ride.” Check it out.

And let me know in the comments below if you’re the kind of reader who is willing to be taken for a ride. I promise you that my next story will take us miles beyond sight of our village rooftops.

The Birth Of a Book Trailer

I knew I needed a book trailer to help promote my debut YA novel Winnemucca. First of all, I love movies. Heck, I live in Los Angeles. And, I worked in the entertainment industry. I knew the power of the trailer. Plus, how much fun would making my own trailer be?

But still, I didn’t know how to make one. Hmmm. I’d incorporated videos in my designs for years at E! Entertainment Television and at The Los Angeles Times. But they were provided to me by amazing teams of award winning videographers. And the photos I worked with were shot by Pulitzer Prize winning photographers. Who did I think I was trying to do this all on my own?

Well, that’s the best part. We aren’t on our own! Writers are some of the most generous people. And so I kept my eye open for trailers that I loved. Enter the wonderful writer Rebecca Rasmussen [@birdsisters] author of The Bird Sisterspublished by Crown/Random House. I was surprised to find out she made her own trailer. Rebecca was very generous with her support and advise. Thanks Rebecca!

So after a load of conversations I managed to conjure up a recipe for book trailers:

• iMovie application.
• A killer soundtrack.
• stock videos.
• stock photography.

and WaaaaLaaa! You have your book trailer.

A Recipe For Book Trailers

iMovie is a very easy application to work with. It’s drag and drop so no worries there. And it comes with every Mac.

A killer soundtrack is so important. I don’t mind book trailers where the author reads their work. There is something very pure about that. But, like I said, I love movies. Music that evokes your story is compelling and can draw a viewer into the trailer in a unique way. I used www.productiontrax.com. Most of the audio clips are very reasonable priced. [I splurged on this and purchased sound for $60 because I loved it and am a music junkie.]

Stock Videos. I’ve seen a lot of trailers that try to tell the story with static images and scrolling or rolling text. It’s a great effect. But, the medium is meant for video. And, if you don’t have any that you’ve shot yourself, stock video sites are great ways to add some punch to your trailer. Sites I like include istockphoto.com andpond5.com. Both have great selections and great ways to save multiple videos for your consideration so if you are busy, like who isn’t, you can come back later and make your final cut. Again, most videos are very reasonably priced, but watch it, some aren’t. And don’t worry if your video has a soundtrack with it. iMovie let’s you separate the audio channel out and you can use whatever audio you want with any video. My average purchase for a video was $15.

Stock Photography. I use the same sites I recommended above to find images for book covers and for book trailers. Again, stock photography is reasonably priced. But be sure you check prices.

As always, have a budget in mind and stick to it, mine was under $90. It’s really important to get the word out about your book, but what’s more important is how much fun you have doing it!

The Book Trailer

Winnemucca is a young-adult small-town fairy tale about a teenage girl awakening to her own intuition on an enchanted road trip. One lie will change Ginny’s life forever. The truth will will set her free.

Over To You

Did I miss anything? Do you have any tips or tricks from making your own book trailers? If you have anything to add to this article, or even just want to share your own book trailers, then please add it to the comments below…

What is SFINE, you say? Well, I’ll be a total fan girl in five days when I get to sign books at The Sheraton Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco! Get all the deets here: http://www.sfine.net/

I’ve been so blessed to visit schools and do book signings for the past two years with some incredible authors like Michelle Leighton, Fisher Amelie, Courtney Cole, Tiffany King, Nichole Chase, & Carol & Adam Kunz…just to name a few! But this time, I’m staying closer to home, which is a big thrill for me. Last year I stayed close to home too and was blessed to meet the amazing Killian McRea at the San Rosa Book Festival last September. The amazing Ms. M is the brains behind SFINE and I’m thrilled to be a part of it. So this Saturday will find me in fan girl mode as I sign books, chat with readers, eat lots of clam chowder at pier 39, buy an outrageous amount of cheese and bread and olive oil at the Ferry Building, and well…maybe I’ll have time to sip a little bit of wine. Be sure to swing by my booth if you’re attending and let me know you read my love letter, I’ll have something special for you

It seems everyone has a tale about falling in love with or in San Francisco. As I’m packing up my books and swag to go to SFINE, I thought I’d share mine with you.

My love letter to San Francisco:

I flew to California for the first time and landed at SFO nearly thirty years ago. My boyfriend, my husband now, picked me up at the airport and couldn’t wait to show me the city. We would eventually wind our way down the coast to make our way to meet his parents in his small hometown in the San Joaquin Valley, one of the settings of Winnemucca, a small-town fairy tale. Not before doing San Francisco, Napa, Bodega Bay & San Simeon first The city was something of a dream for me. I’d heard about San Francisco all my life growing up in Chicago. And of course I’d seen its unique vistas in movies. My family were big travelers, but the furthest west we’d gotten was Colorado on Boy Scout camping trips–I was the little sister of two eagle scouts, so I went on a lot of camping trips My brother would attend Berkeley on a full fellowship, but it was too expensive for me to travel to see him while he got his masters. The mythology continued in the stories he’d tell about living in a turret and about Muir Woods. Mom and Dad were equally enchanted. It was after Christmas that I left the gray, snowy world of The Windy City and landed in paradise. Everything was so incredibly green in San Francisco and the bay was the kind of gorgeous it can only be when you see it for the first time in full sun when sailboats hug Alcatraz and tack toward the Golden Gate into the great beyond. Joe would buy me the most romantic present I’d ever received until then. The most expensive gift I’d ever received until then. It was a jewelry box and I felt so incredibly cherished when he bought it for me. The extravagance took my breath away as did our whirlwind romance with each other in the city. I will always love San Francisco. It was where my husband and I became sweethearts.

By David Sterritt

Jack Kerouac, the novelist and poet who gave the Beat Generation its name, died 43 years ago on 21 October 1969 at the age of 47. This Friday, the long-delayed movie version of Kerouac’s autobiographical novel about crisscrossing the United States with his hipster friend Neal Cassady in the 1940s, On the Road releases. When the novel was published in 1957, six years after he finished writing it, Kerouac dreamed up his own screen adaptation, hoping to play himself (called Sal Paradise in the novel) opposite Marlon Brando as Dean Moriarty, the Cassady character. He wrote to Brando but Brando didn’t write back, so the dream production remained a dream. Now that it’s reaching the screen with Sam Riley and Garrett Hedlund as Sal and Dean, we can only guess what Kerouac would have made of it.

On the Road remains Kerouac’s most widely acclaimed novel, partly for its literary merits — boundless energy, quicksilver prose, an almost mystical view of the American landscape — and partly because of the legendary way he created it, typing it on a 120-foot scroll so he wouldn’t have to interrupt the flow of words by changing paper. Kerouac wrote many other works, including several novels, a great deal of poetry, two books about Buddhism, a compendium of his nightly dreams, and a play that inspired the 1959 movie Pull My Daisy, a mostly playful glance at the mercurial Beat lifestyle. But his most prolific period was limited to the 1950s, when he wrote nearly of his significant works.

Weighed down and ultimately defeated by alcoholism and depression, Kerouac produced little of note after 1960 except the novels Big Sur and Vanity of Duluoz: An Adventurous Education, 1935-46, published in 1962 and 1968 respectively. He felt badly misunderstood by the American public, and although he was right, he was also to blame. His footloose characters and propulsive writing style had convinced admirers and detractors alike that being Beat meant disdaining the ordinary social rules — which was true as far as it went, but far less important to Kerouac than the need to be both “beat” and “beatific,” meaning saintly in a literal sense. Appearing on William F. Buckley Jr.’s conservative TV show a year before his death, Kerouac said he rejected the “mutiny” and “insurrection” that the Beats had come to connote; instead he favored “order, tenderness and piety.” By this time, however, the Beats had given way to the flower children as the American gadflies par excellence, and few were interested in the profoundly religious sensibility — oscillating between Catholicism and Buddhism but always deeply felt — of a once-blazing rebel now seen as a soggy old complainer.

Sam Riley and Garrett Hedlund in On the Road. Photo © Gregory Smith. Source: ontheroad-themovie.com

Although the original Beats were a loosely knit crew, its key members were unquestionably Kerouac, fiercely committed to the spontaneous writing he pioneered; Allen Ginsberg, a modernist poet inspired by everything from 19th-century verse to late-night radio patter; and William S. Burroughs, a storyteller with a schizoid style and a hearty appetite for sex, drugs, and metaphysics. Their rebellious values have stayed in the social imagination ever since their early days as friends and fellow travelers, influencing the cyberpunks of the 2000s no less than the hippies of the 60s and the punks of the 70s.

Two ideas united them: a shared rejection of consumerism and regimentation, and a collective desire to purge their lives of spiritually deadening dross. Their rallying cry was a call for remaking consciousness on a deeply inward-looking basis — revitalizing society by revolutionizing thought, rather than the other way around, through cultivation of “the unspeakable visions of the individual,” in Kerouac’s unforgettable phrase. They had different ways of accomplishing this. Kerouac became a self-described “great rememberer redeeming life from darkness” in the many novels he wrote; Ginsberg invented a new variety of incantatory, almost shamanistic verse; Burroughs cut, folded, and shuffled his pages to bypass his ego and extract fresh, outlandish truths. The ultimate goal for them and their followers is what Kerouac called “eyeball kicks,” the jolts of cosmic energy that divide everyday diversions from visionary art.

The new movie version of On the Road was written by Jose Rivera and directed by the respected Brazilian filmmaker Walter Salles, who deserves an Oscar for just getting the picture finished. A number of writers, including major ones like Russell Banks and Michael Herr, have tried and failed to complete satisfactory screenplays during the 33 years that producer Francis Ford Coppola has owned the adaptation rights. Rivera’s effort finally captured the tone that Coppola was looking for, and Salles allowed the actors to improvise at times, which is very much in the Beat spirit. Reviews were mixed when the picture premiered at the Cannes International Film Festival last spring, but its American distributors, IFC Films and Sundance Selects, have expressed their optimism by scheduling its theatrical debut for December 21st, a popular timeslot for films with award possibilities. Kerouac loved movies, and one hopes he would have smiled on this big-screen reincarnation of his profoundly personal tale.

David Sterritt is a film professor at Columbia University and the Maryland Institute College of Art, and professor emeritus at Long Island University. A noted critic, author, and scholar, he is chair of the National Society of Film Critics and chief book critic of Film Quarterly, and was for many years the film critic for The Christian Science Monitor. His books include The Beats: A Very Short Introduction, Mad to Be Saved: The Beats, the ’50s, and Film and Screening the Beats: Media Culture and the Beat Sensibility, and he serves on the editorial board of the Journal of Beat Studies. His writings have appeared in the New York Times, Huffington Post, Journal of American History, Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, Beliefnet, Chronicle of Higher Education, and many other publications. Sterritt has appeared as a guest on CBS Morning News, Nightline, Charlie Rose, CNN Live Today, Countdown with Keith Olbermann and The O’Reilly Factor, among many other television and radio shows.

The Very Short Introductions (VSI) series combines a small format with authoritative analysis and big ideas for hundreds of topic areas. Written by our expert authors, these books can change the way you think about the things that interest you and are the perfect introduction to subjects you previously knew nothing about. Grow your knowledge with OUPblog and the VSI series every Friday!

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Image credit: Sam Riley and Garrett Hedlund in On the Road. Photo © Gregory Smith. Source: ontheroad-themovie.com. Used for the purposes of illustration.

The post Jack Kerouac: On and Off the Road appeared first on OUPblog.

A teaser trailer has been released for the film adaptation of Jack Kerouac‘s beloved book, On the Road. Much of the plot featured in this novel was derived from Kerouac’s true life road trip adventures.

We’ve embedded the trailer above–what do you think? The movie will hit theaters in New York City and Los Angeles on December 21st. A national release will follow in January 2013.

Filmmaker Walter Salles cast actors Tom Sturridge and Garrett Hedlund to play the lead characters. Other cast members include Twilight actress Kristen Stewart, Doubt actress Amy Adams, and Lord of the Rings actor Viggo Mortensen.

New Career Opportunities Daily: The best jobs in media.

Millennials are growing up in a time of uncertainty. They aren’t sure when (or if) they’ll find a job after high school or college, how they’ll pay their bills, or where they’ll be in five years. Looking to the future is scary, so instead,... Read the rest of this post

In this special edition of YALSA’s App of the Week, our app reviewers bring you their selections (listed in alphabetical order) of apps that make great gifts for teens. If YALSA Blog readers have ideas of great apps to give to teens during the holiday season, feel free to add them to the comments on this post.

Title: Biophilia
Cost: Free initial download, $9.99 to download all song apps.
Platform: iPhone, iPad, iPod (requires iOS 4.1 or later)

Bjork’s latest offering is part album, part exploration of music theory, and part audiovisual playground. Every part of this app is meticulously designed. From the font you see throughout, which was created especially for Bjork, to the sound and motion in the menu screen. Put on your headphones, and arrive in a galaxy of nine stars, one for each track. When you navigate to each song star, you have options to watch an animation, follow along with the score, read a narrative about the inspiration for the song or a musical analysis, and to play. In this case, play does not mean simply to listen to the song, but offers an option to explore an interactive piece, to play with the song, rather than just to play it. The music itself is as sensual and strange as Bjork’s other albums; the songs are conceptually connected by a love of nature and feeling of interconnectedness (hence Biophilia). I particularly enjoyed the ability to see the lyrics as the song plays in each animation. It can be hard to understand Bjork, but this app provides enough details that we might know more of her art than ever before.

A great gift for a teen who is fascinated by music, visual media, or the intersection of the two.

-Erin Daly

Title: Comic Life
Cost: $4.99
Platform: iPad

Comic Life is a great app for teens who like to write and for those who like to develop comics. Teens start their creation by selecting a template – there are a wide variety available including a traditional comic layout and a blank template that gives teens the chance to add and organize content from scratch. Once a template is selected teens add text and images, select styles of bubbles for the placement of text, and select fonts and colors. Images can be imported from iTunes for use in Comic Life. Everything can be manipulated from within the app including sizes of text bubbles, panels, images, and font. Multiple pages can be added to one project so a teen can easily create a graphic novel or comic. Works created in Comic Life can be printed, emailed, and posted on Facebook.

Anyone looking for the perfect gift for teen writers and comic creators will definitely want to consider Comic Life

- Linda W. Braun

Title: Lonely Planet Phrasebooks
Cost: $5.99
Platform: Nook Color, Nook Tablet, Android (OS 1.0 and up), iPhone, iPad

What better way to welcome in a new year than learning a language? Designed with travelers in mind, the Lonely Planet Phrasebooks provide a fun introduction to several foreign languages, including French, Italian, German, Spanish, Mexican Spanish, Japanese, Mandarin, Korean, Greek, Portuguese, Polish, Swahili, Canton

I was at the Northwoods Children's Book Conference in northern Wisconsin last week and had a wonderful time! I hope more people attend next year. It's a terrific opportunity for writers, librarians, and educators to connect.

I went a day early and worked on That Freaking Goldilocks Chapter Book, which was good. But then I realized just before I headed home that I had totally missed a huge element in the world-making of this book. So now--lots more plot/setting changes before I can progress to looking at the actual words and sentences I used.

The whole day I worked on the book, I also stared out my window at this lovely view from my balcony:

OK, you're probably tired of hearing about ALA, especially if you haven't gone or don't have plans to. But I want to finish up this series and then do a round-up post tomorrow, so that this'll be available as a resource when you DO need it for ALA or another large conference.

#8: Mind Your Manners

Remember, you're representing yourself (and your publisher) professionally. And you're going to be around thousands of wonderful booklovers. So of course you want to be on your best behavior. A few reminders:

1) Introduce people. If you're booth-browsing with one friend and another one walks up, introduce them to each other! This gets tricky if you're like me and terrible with names. I meet people at conferences that I've known through blogging, through my online classes, because they're local, because I like their work, or for many other reasons. And I have a terrible time keeping them straight. It's embarrassing, but the best thing to do is just to admit, "I'm so sorry, but I've blanked on your name." Smile, laugh at yourself, and get on with the introduction.

2) When you make a faux pas, apologize and move on. It's a long, embarrassing story that I won't bore you with, but at the dinner after the Poetry Blast, I told fabulous poet Eloise Greenfield that I loved this particular book she wrote--but she didn't write it. This was AFTER I had double-checked with other people that she did write that book. I wanted to sink through the floorboards. She was very gracious and lovely, however, and we had a nice chat. Luckily, I had also told her how I enjoyed Honey, I Love. One out of two isn't bad, right? OK, it's terrible. But what are you going to do? That's right--smile, apologize, move on. Oi.

3) Stay out of the drama. At the ALA Banquet, we had major drama at our table related to who was sitting where and who had seats saved and so on. It was really important to me that I stay at the same table with Tanita Davis, her husband, and Sara Lewis Holmes. Two of those are Poetry Princesses (can you guess which two), and that Banquet was one of the very few times I would see either one. So I wanted to jump into the seating fray, but I didn't. When someone else has organized things for you (our seats were obtained as part of a large group that bought seven tables' worth of tickets!), you need to be a good guest and just go with the flow.

4) Say thank you. A lot. And maybe excuse me, too. It's a hot, crowded, busy, intense several days. Use common manners to make everything more enjoyable. This also helps you stay out of the drama!

#9: Don't Forget to Pack...

* Comfortable walking shoes

* Extra box or suitcase for books, if you're driving

* Business cards or other small promo items to hand out freely

* Cell phone numbers of people you're hoping to meet up with (And note whether they text or not --says the person who texted Nikki Grimes, who doesn't text)

* Listing of which manuscripts have been seen by which editors, so if you chat with editors, you can remind them of previous contact you've had

* Listing of manuscripts/projects you have in progress -- I usually don't use this, but IF you end up in a great discussion with an editor who asks what you're working on now, it comes in handy

* Lanyard/badge holder so you don't have to clip your nametag to your clothes

* A copy of your book (even if you have no signings set up)

And I think that's it! I'm going to add a few things to previous posts based on the comments. If you have any tips to add to this post or any of the previous ones, please leave them in the comments for me! Tomorrow will be the wrap-up post, and then we'll be done with ALA 101. Thanks for all your good ideas and appreciation for this series.

One of the first things that comes up when I'm getting ready for a writing-related trip is, What am I going to wear? I'm not a fashionable person. I just go for whatever's easy and handy and comfortable. And that's my conference strategy, too. Here are a few general clothing tips:

1) Wear comfortable shoes. Seriously. This is not the place to break out a funky new shoe. Even the intrepid Betsy Bird has done herself in with the wrong shoes. By comfortable, I mean flat except for a little bump in the middle for some arch support. I wore the same bronze flats for four straight days, only changing to sneakers to work out or heels for the dressy banquet. Don't mess with fashion for your feet except for a couple of specific events. The exhibit hall demands comfort.

2) Dress for heat. ALA is usually hot. It's held in hot cities in the summer (to keep costs down), and the exhibit hall is crowded. So I'm usually hot whether I'm inside or out. I took one pair of khaki pants, a khaki skirt, and a couple of cool cotton sundresses. I only wore the khakis for flying. It's probably smart to stuff a light sweater in your tote bag in case a session you attend is highly air conditioned.


Five of the seven Poetry Princesses (top: Kelly Fineman, me, Sara Lewis Holmes; bottom: Tricia Stohr-Hunt, Liz Garton Scanlon) at Jaleo for a wonderful tapas dinner. We're a mix of pants and casual dresses, and we're almost all going sleeveless. I'm telling you, it was hot in D.C.!

3) Follow your own style. I wouldn't recommend jeans, usually, though there are some authors who can look more stylish in jeans than I can all dressed up. That's so annoying. Anyway, casual, cute skirts and tops or simple dresses are what work for me. Throw on a necklace and I'm good to go. That's my uniform for pretty much everything at ALA, and it goes easily from the exhibit hall to an event without much changing. 


Here I am at one of my signings--simple brown sundress, cami, necklace, and my comfy bronze flats. That's Amy Thomas with me, who took my class on Writing Children's Nonfiction Books for the Educational Market and who's now a published author. She came by to say hi and give me a lovely found poem thank you note!

You want to look nice enough that you're not thinking, "What was I thinking?" when a librarian wants her picture taken with you. But you don't want to overdress and look and feel awkward. And you don't want to mess with falling straps, dresses that come unwrapped, or any other wardrobe malfunctions. Keep it simple and not too far out of your comfort zone. Whatever you wear, try to look confident.

4) For the ALA Newbery Banquet, let it shine. They call it librarian prom for a reason. The outfits range from stylish pants to (mostly) cocktail dresses, with a couple of bridesmaid dresses thrown in for fun.


Here's me and Kelly Fineman ready for the Banquet. The only time I wore heels all four days.

Stockings--no. Bling--sure. Last year, I wore an OK

What Do I Say?

A lot of connecting with people at giant conferences starts with going up to someone I have never met, seen, or heard of before and saying hi and starting a conversation. Some people are naturally good at this. Then there's me. But with practice, I'm getting better. Here are a few general lines to get and keep conversations going. (Start each one with hi and a smile.)


At a Publisher's Booth:

Can you show me the new poetry/chapter books/vampire books you have coming out? (I heard Kelly Fineman say something like this many times at ALA, and it engaged the booth staff immediately.)

What's your favorite book in the booth? (Thanks, Susan Taylor Brown, for this one!)

What's a book here that has no buzz but you think deserves it?

What are your favorite new books for 6-9-year-olds (or whatever age you write for)?

Are you having a good conference?

Keep in mind at booths that you, as a writer, are not their audience. Marketers are generally happy to talk with you for a few minutes, but don't monopolize them, especially when the exhibit hall is crowded. They really need to connect with librarians, reading specialists, etc.


At a Breakfast, Drinks Night, Awards Banquet, etc.:

Are you a librarian?

Where do you work/teach/write?

What kind of writing do you do? (Not "Are you published?", which always sounds kind of condescending to me.)

What are you working on right now?

What was your choice to win the Newbery this year?

What books were the favorites at your library/school this past year?

What's the best thing about being a librarian/reading specialist/teacher?

What's the hardest thing?

Have you gone to any really great sessions so far?

Have you ever been to ALA/IRA/BEA before?

Have you ever been to DC/Chicago/New Orleans before?


The one thing all these lines have in common is they're about the other person, not you. Keeping the focus off of myself makes chatting easier for me. And as the conversation progresses, that librarian or marketer or whoever will ask what you do, and you'll have your chance to mention your book. But if you charge up to each person with your business card out, and the first words out of your mouth are, "Hi, I'm a writer, and here's my book," you'll see people looking trapped and trying to slink away. That's selling, not connecting.

Do you have any dependable lines that work well in social/professional situations for you? Please share them! I'd love to add some to this list! 

I have a couple of tips topics left (what to wear and when you say the wrong thing), and that will wrap up the ALA series. Any burning questions you'd like to see addressed?

Attend Things!

A room full of people I don't know is fairly intimidating. A big crowded room, even with some people I know thrown in there, is pretty terrifying. As an introvert, I'd much rather stay in my hotel room by myself and read or write. But I keep reminding myself that I could do that a lot more cheaply closer to home. I'm at ALA (or IRA or whatever big conference I'm at) in order to connect with OTHER people. So that means I have to go where those other people are.

So go. Go to that publisher's breakfast, if a friend of a friend asks you along. Go to the ALA Banquet. Go to the KidLit Drinks Night. Say yes, take a deep breath, and go.

But going isn't enough. You can go and stand in the corner and not talk to anyone (been there), and then you might as well be back in your hotel room. Instead, put a small stack of your business cards in your wallet or card holder, paste a smile on your nervous face, and talk to people. Remember, you're not a car salesman trying to get everyone in the room to buy your book. Don't put that kind of pressure on yourself, and don't annoy everyone by being pushy. Instead, make it your goal to find out about them. It takes the spotlight off you but still gives you opportunities to connect with people who might want to buy your book or come to your signing or whatever.

A few basic rules for attending events:

1) Thank the host/hostess/organizer for their hospitality.

2) Don't try to steal the spotlight from whomever is being honored. If you go to a publisher's breakfast featuring several of their authors, for instance, don't run around handing out your business cards. Instead, focus on talking with attendees and saying nice (true) things about the people and books being featured.

3) Smile for the camera. I don't like me in pictures, but you'll make a bigger scene by making a fuss about it. Just shut up and smile. There are cameras everywhere, so don't wear anything embarrassing (hey, it happens), and don't be the one trying to slink away when it's picture time. It will just draw more, not less, attention to you. And the pictures will be taken regardless. Even an unflattering smiley shot is usually better than an awkward candid shot. 

4) Don't drink too much. I see it at every conference (hmm, especially at writers' conferences). It's always memorable. It's never pretty. 

Here are pix from three events I went to while at ALA:

It's Jama from Alphabet Soup! I went to the Katherine Paterson tea in DC. It was held in Tami Lewis-Brown's (whom I don't know) gorgeous Georgetown home, which was jam-packed with people (I didn't know). The whole event was absolutely lovely, but also terrifying. So many people I didn't know, all so close together. Ack! I did chat with lots of them, and then I retreated inside to hang out with Jama. Relief!		At the ALA Banquet where the Newbery and Caldecott Awards are accepted, it's a huge banquet hall full of dressed up people on their best behavior--mostly. My table was a mix of people I knew and people I didn't. That was nice. I could talk with the people I didn't know, who were extremely nice, and then I could relax with the folks I knew. And Elaine Magliaro of Wild Rose Reader came over to say Add a Comment More from this Blog | Email This | Add a Tag 21. Back Home, Still Behind Add/View Comments | Previous | Top | Next By: Laura Purdie Salas, on 7/12/2010 Blog: laurasalas (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap) JacketFlap tags:  on the road, Add a tag Summer madness is in full swing! I've been on a trip to the Minnesota North Shore of Lake Superior this past week--one of my favorite places in the world (what little I've seen of the world). I thought I'd have internet access, but didn't. Thought I'd have cell phone service--didn't. I was planning to be mostly unplugged anyway, but I wasn't prepared for total unpluggedness. And hadn't prepared other people, work contacts, etc. Oops. But when we went to Grand Marais, there was Wi-Fi in front of the tourist office so I could check email a few times over the week. Sorry to be AWOL without notice! Anyway, I had a great time with my family and my sister Patty's family, and I found lots of material for poems, reading passages, and a chapter book I'm outlining. Here are some of my favorite pics--you can see more here, if you want.   My nephew and daughter jump off an old destroyed crib in Duluth Harbor. That Lake Superior water is cold!     Split Rock Lighthouse   Me on the rocks below Split Rock Lighthouse     Do you ever feel like you're just not yourself on vacation?   Alpine sliding was a highlight (though my brother-in-law and nephew both ended up all scraped up from separate incidents)     4th of July in Grand Marais, MN   Sea kayaking on Lake Superior     Sunset on the lake   Add a Comment More from this Blog | Email This | Add a Tag 22. ALA Adventures and 15 Words or Less: Cycling in Circles Add/View Comments | Previous | Top | Next By: Laura Purdie Salas, on 7/1/2010 Blog: laurasalas (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap) JacketFlap tags:  ala, 15 words or less, on the road, Add a tag I'm short on time this next coupla weeks, so this is a twofer: an ALA tip and 15 Words or Less prompt all in one! ALA Tip 1: Enjoy the city you're in. Large conferences (ALA, IRA, BEA, etc.) are held in large cities, with lots to see and do. If you can eke out the money, stay an extra day before or after the conference to do a little sightseeing. Remembering Love Park and the architectural tour in Chicago, the Alamo and the Riverwalk in San Antonio, and the Museums of Natural History and American History in Washington, DC always makes me appreciate how lucky I am to get to do a bit of traveling and it makes me feel like I actually saw tiny parts of the cities themselves, not just their convention centers. If a publisher is sending you, politely ask if you can extend your stay on your own dime for one day. Your airfare is already covered, so you'll just pay the hotel and your meals/expenses for the extra day. It's so worth it. And whether you can swing an extra day or not, at least enjoy what's unique about each city's conference. Try nearby restaurants that AREN'T chains, keep your ears open for local sayings and pronunciations, and look around to see what makes that conference center or your hotel room unique. At the Washington Convention Center, for instance, I liked the art installations they had, especially the huge circles of bicycles, guitars, kayaks, and more over one of the giant staircases. And now, smooth seque to 15 Words or Less Poetry! If you've never played or want a reminder on the rules, please check out the guidelines! This image makes me think of my sister's bicycle accident, all the pants I had as a kid that had chain-grease stains on them, and slow-motion shots in how-stupid-can-this-person-be video shows. What does it make you think of? Take one of your answers and write a quick 15 Words or Less poem. It doesn't have to describe this picture. Just get into poetry gear and see what comes out!  Feel free to offer each other encouragement and feedback (see the guidelines link above), and I'll be back later today to see what you've got!  Add a Comment More from this Blog | Email This | Add a Tag 23. What Do You Do at ALA When You're Not a Big-Name Writer? Add/View Comments | Previous | Top | Next By: Laura Purdie Salas, on 6/30/2010 Blog: laurasalas (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap) JacketFlap tags:  ala, on the road, Add a tag You have a great time! At least, I did. I got to meet the Poetry 7, aka the Poetry Princesses, all in person. I touched base with tons of writers, met librarians, signed books, heard amazing speeches, cheered on award-winning friends, and ate lots of food. I came away exhausted, inspired, and feeling more a part of the kids' lit community than ever. I have an awful lot of work to catch up on, plus I've got family in town visiting (yay!), but over the next couple of weeks, I'll be blogging little stories and pictures about ALA. I'm hoping if you're a writer or illustrator who's not world-famous but who thinks you might like to go to ALA someday, these posts will give you some idea of what to expect, things you can do, and things NOT to do. And they'll give me an excuse to relive some of the highlights of my trip:>) Add a Comment More from this Blog | Email This | Add a Tag 24. Three Days With Fourth Graders: The Bad Add/View Comments | Previous | Top | Next By: Laura Purdie Salas, on 5/5/2010 Blog: laurasalas (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap) JacketFlap tags:  school visits, on the road, Add a tag Yesterday I shared what worked well in my recent poetry residency. Today, I'll share a few things that I want to improve before next time. 1. I tried to cram too much in. Now, I like kind of hopping from one activity to another. I like keeping the kids a bit off-kilter, not knowing what's coming next. It's fun and keeps them engaged and excited. But...I still tried to do too many activities. What we sped through in three days probably needed a whole week. I fight this with my large-group presentations, too. Because I want to give the kids as much information, as much writing practice, and as much physical stuff to leave with, I sometimes forget about the need to pause, catch our breath, and clear our minds--just for a minute. Plus, it's always a matter of practice. Every time I try a new lesson plan, I pack in too much. And then I start winnowing it down. 2. I didn't share my own work enough. Because the kids were so eager to share, I didn't really take the time to share my own poems very much. And because they had requested that I focus on free verse, I didn't even have very many published examples to show, since my own published poetry books are almost exclusively rhyming or poetic forms. Still, I should have shared more of my own examples, published or not. 3. The main poem we worked on was a bit too abstract for some of the kids. If we had had a week and had more time to prewrite, to brainstorm together, and to get feedback as we went along, it could have worked really well. And for some kids, it did work really well. But for others, it wasn't enough time to dig deep enough to figure out this particular kind of poem. We used C. Drew Lamm's "Night" as our mentor text, which takes an abstract noun and gives it actual physical things to do. I loved the activity and what the kids came up with, but it would have worked better with more time or slightly older kids. So...all of my issues kind of come back to the not enough time. I think that's my biggest goal in writing workshops is to remember to basically double my estimate of how long I think each activity will take. Then have a few short, fun extras on hand in case we finish early (though if that ever happens, I'll probably be huddled in the corner in shock!). Maybe what I've shared will help you plan your own writing workshops with kids, and at any rate, before creating my next workshop lesson plan, I'll be rereading these posts to remind me of what I need to work on and what elements I really think work in my own workshops. Now I'm off to another school visit (just large groups today) with K-3. Yesterday's school visit was great! School was well-prepared, kids were fun, tech stuff all cooperated--perfect! P.S. I'll share some poetry examples from the fourth graders soon! Add a Comment More from this Blog | Email This | Add a Tag 25. Three Days With Fourth Graders Add/View Comments | Previous | Top | By: Laura Purdie Salas, on 5/4/2010 Blog: laurasalas (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap) JacketFlap tags:  school visits, on the road, Add a tag Back in April, my first trip was a three-day poetry residency with fourth graders. Four classes, an hour per day with each class. Most of my school visits are large-group presentations, so I hadn't worked with classroom-sized groups on multi-day projects in ages. I had a great time with the kids, but afterward, I wondered whether my approach was "poetic" enough. Was it thoughtful enough? But then I chatted with an illustrator at a luncheon Sunday and realized (again) that I can only share my approach to poetry, not anybody else's. Here's what I think worked really well in my poetry residency, and I think these are things that could be incorporated into any kind of writing workshop--IF the approach fits your own personality and writing style. 1. My goal was to make poetry fun, accessible, and not scary at all! That was mostly for the kids, but for the teachers as well, to try to lessen the "poetry intimidation factor." I worked on this goal mostly by being fun and casual and not putting a lot of pressure on them. We were working mainly on first drafts, and the idea was to start writing and see what comes out. Find out what's in your brain by checking out what you just put down on paper. I tried to create a really encouraging, supportive, risk-taking atmosphere. I talked a little about the bad poems I write. I gave them numbers (like 9 out of every 10 first drafts I write totally stink--but that's ok!). I gave them time to share their work, but sharing was always optional, and I told them that up front. 2. We did a ton of short, varied exercises. We did book spine poems, 15 Words or Less poems, paint chip poems, and more. I used little timers and we wrote FAST! That also helped take the pressure off. If you have 15 minutes to write 15 words, the pressure is on to produce something good. If you have 3 minutes, you have to just dive in and see what happens. They were SO good at this. I would say, "Ready, go!" and start the timer, and by the third exercise, the only sound you could instantly hear was pencils scratching on paper. 3. I made the project physically interesting. Dominoes Pizza donated pizza boxes, and we taped all our poems in there. We wrote on different kinds of paper: scrapbook paper, post-it notes, colored index cards, die-cut shapes, all sorts of stuff. When all the paper didn't match, I would hold a Silent Switch, where the kids had 30 seconds to trade papers if they wanted, but all without talking. They loved that, and they also loved having a nifty poetry/pizza box display of their work at the end of the three days. So those were the things that I liked and that worked, I think! Tomorrow: things that I'll need to rethink for next time... I'm off to a school visit today, and I can't do more photos right now, but here are three 30-second videos I created from my 4th-grade residency. Check them out!  http://animoto.com/play/MaO0fmhXGdBKNp5WLRjT4w http://animoto.com/play/0kzMX7GTRTQiFl9zs0CLLw http://animoto.com/play/misy9x5R0qp7CjTcb8N4Ew   Add a Comment More from this Blog | Email This | Add a Tag View Next 6 Posts © 2017 Jacketflap.com                         About Us   FAQ   Advertise on JacketFlap   About our Widgets program for Publishers   Privacy   Terms