One of these things is not like the others

In 2010, filmmaker George Clarke discovered an anomaly in Charlie Chaplin's 1928 film The Circus. Something seemed strikingly out of place in the '20s milieu: a woman passerby appeared to be talking on a cell phone.

Whether or not this mysterious character was actually adjusting a General Electric hearing aid is not as interesting to me as the possibility that she was a time traveler somehow getting a signal from the Sprint network. And I'm not alone. A legend was born of "Charlie Chaplin's time traveler."

I defy anyone with a creative imagination to look at this snippet of Chaplin's footage and not come away bursting with story ideas, simply because something is so out of place.

When putting their stories together, writers take such pains to make sure everything fits. But imagining something that doesn't fit just may be a key to unlocking a treasure trove of creative ideas!

Consider these odd items:

A golden ticket inside an ordinary candy bar.

A curious gathering of long-robed individuals on a city street.

A message written on a spiderweb.

A rabbit with a pocket watch.

Add to them ...

A woman talking on a cell phone on a street in Hollywood, California in 1928.

I would definitely want to read that story, if not write it!

—posted by Timothy Power

Dear Lisa: Keep reading! Love, Me

Doonesbury's B.D. is a football fanatic. Schroeder from Peanuts is a piano virtuoso. Which cartoon character do you think is most associated with book reading?

You have two seconds to think about it.

The answer is The Simpsons' own Lisa Simpson! And the proof can be found at The Lisa Simpson Book Club, a website that celebrates the brainy eight-year-old's unrelenting love affair with the written word. The Lisa Simpson Book Club solicits images of Lisa reading books from all and sundry. Here are some choice examples.

Lisa is a self-made bookaholic. As she once famously told her brother, "Bart, having never received any words of encouragement myself, I'm not sure how they're supposed to sound. But here goes: I believe in you."

When Lisa's friend Artie asked her, "Doesn't your dad ever read to you?" Lisa answered, "He tried once, but he got confused and thought the book was real. He's still looking for that chocolate factory ... it consumes him."

On one dark occasion Lisa imagined being in jail.
"Bookmobile," announced the guard.
"Got any Joyce Carol Oates?" Lisa asked.
"Nothing but Danielle Steel," replied the guard.
Lisa's reaction: "NOOOOOO!"

Remember this notorious exchange between Lisa and literary supernova J.K. Rowling?

Lisa Simpson: Ms. Rowling, I love your books. You've turned an entire generation on to reading.
J.K. Rowling: Thank you, young Muggle.
Lisa Simpson: Could you tell me what happens at the end of the series?
J.K. Rowling: [exasperated] He grows up and he marries you! Is that what you want to hear?
Lisa Simpson: [dreamily] Yes.

I was going to try to make this blog post into a discussion of book clubs and what they mean to us writer folk, but honestly. What's the point? This is just a big love letter of encouragement and support to Lisa Simpson. Nothing more, nothing less!

—posted by Timothy Power

Girls Can Throw!

Most of the time that I spend reading MG books or watching movies and TV shows, I am happily racking up all the things I like about them. Every now and then, however, I come across something I HATE, HATE, HATE.

Anyone who has read my blog posts here at Project Middle Grade Mayhem knows what a nitpicker I am. But this is not a NIT. Or if it is, it is a MOUNTAINOUS one.

The thing I hate is this:

ANY VERB USED BEFORE THE PHRASE "LIKE A GIRL" THAT IS MEANT TO BE DISPARAGING. (Yes, I sometimes DO need all caps!)

This includes CRIES like a girl, THROWS like a girl, and RUNS like a girl.

When I see a sentence like "the big, strong jock cried like a girl," I wonder why it seems strange to say "the girl cried like a big, strong jock." Big, strong jocks DO cry, after all. And when they do, they are crying like BIG, STRONG JOCKS, not GIRLS.

This bee has popped up in my bonnet because I just read a popular MG novel (which shall remain nameless, to spare the MALE author SHAME) where a GIRL says someone throws like a girl, and not as a compliment. I couldn't believe it! What a traitor. I would have no problem with a sentence that explained WHICH GIRL EXACTLY couldn't run or throw, etc. Such as "the big, strong jock cried like a girl who had just seen her favorite plush animal torn to pieces in the washing machine." That seems fair to me. So does "the girl cried like a big, strong jock who had just had his football squashed flat by a runaway bulldozer."

Anyone who mistakenly thinks girls can't run or throw should talk to the girls who completed the Fall 2010 Girls on the Run program in the Mehlville School District in St. Louis, Missouri or the fifth grade girls' softball League Champs at The Harker School in San Jose, California and LEARN A THING OR TWO!

(P.S.—My MG novel THE BOY WHO HOWLED is a shining example of gender fairness!)

—Timothy Power

Not World Building, HOUSE Building!

As I was revising a manuscript for the umpteenth time the other day, I realized that I had been watching HGTV WAY too much lately, because I had unexpectedly drawn a lesson for my writing from shows like Designed to Sell and Income Property.


Um ... had I gone completely crazy?
Maybe! But more important, I had stumbled upon a fresh way of looking at a familiar task.


For those who haven't witnessed the spellbinding appeal of Home and Garden Television, let me explain. Designed to Sell shows how to turn a tired house into a showpiece by giving sellers a minimal budget and a team of experts (like the amazing architect/interior designer John Gidding and designer Lisa Laporta) to transform their house into the hottest property on the block. On Income Property, wizardly carpenter Scott McGillivray helps first-time homebuyers turn part of their house into rentals to help with the mortgage. He transforms hideous basement dumps into beautiful living units, and we see the renovations and the incredible reveals.


These successful designers are continually harping on the importance of creating a "harmonious whole" and "unifying the space," "maximizing potential" and creating "curb appeal." They routinely find inventive, inexpensive solutions to a variety of homey shortcomings.


In my editing process, I too want to maximize potential with easy, affordable fixes, and I regularly come across problems that get in the way of a harmonious whole. Characters clash with settings, situations clash with dialog, and the all-important believability of the fictional world suffers, which brings down the property value of the material.


Likening editing to renovating a house has completely inspired me. I realize now that when I take the time to upgrade the kitchen linoleum, I'd better look into upgrading the cabinets and appliances too, and the backsplash and the lighting fixtures. If I spot a bit of mildew on a portion of drywall, I can be sure the frame needs replacing, or if the floor is the problem, the very foundation needs looking at.


I want curb appeal. As the reader approaches the story, I want to create lively interest straight away. Then, when the newly sanded and stained front door is opened and he or she enters the house, er tale, I want to show a space that flows. I want to highlight the view from the beautifully installed windows, which means rearranging the clunky furniture so it's no longer in the way. I want to create a welcoming home that grows warmer and more inviting from room to room. In short, I want a story readers will be happy to live in.


And what gets in the way of that? Too many knickknacks. Too much "personality." Mismatched furniture. Outmoded fixtures. The wrong shade of paint. Among so many other things!


Some changes are cosmetic. Some require drastic demolition and reconstruction. But in the end, there's a house to be proud of, and a story that sells itself!


—by Timothy Power

My book's birthday wish

It's the birthday of my middle grade book!

(Its first birthday, as a matter of fact, so technically there should be only one candle on that cake. Hopefully, when it reaches that many candles, it will still be in print!)

Something near and dear to me is now making its way in the world, and I'm reflecting on the many wonderful influences that got it there.

When I was a middle grade kid, I spent countless happy hours in my parents' bedroom closet, hiding from the daily drama, sprawled on my stomach, reading middle grade books. I visited Oz more times than I can remember, and Narnia, and Middle Earth. I made friends with Martha, Jane, Mark, and Katharine in Half Magic, and Eliza, Jack, Roger, and Ann in The Time Garden. I foiled a Hanoverian plot with Dido Twite and Simon the painter. I learned that a tesseract was a fold in space used by time travelers.

What made me happy yesterday was reading Danny the Champion of the World. I enjoyed it as much as I would have when I was ten years old. Am I eternally juvenile? Maybe so, but there's a better explanation: I'm just as much of a person as I was then, and middle grade books are about people.

Not children.

Not adults.

Just people.

Sometimes when I tell people about The Boy Who Howled, I get the feeling they think it's a lesser accomplishment to have written a children's book than an adult thriller or even a young adult romance. These people have forgotten that they've always been people, even when they were little. So it's time I made a blanket statement. Every great writer, without exception, was turned on to reading and writing by a book he or she loved as a middle grade kid. That would include all the authors on the New York Times bestseller lists.

Which makes middle grade the most important genre. (With every blanket statement comes a blanket conclusion!)

This is my birthday wish, before I blow out the candle. I want everyone who's starting a family to remember this:

Read to your kids. Take them to the library. Let them pick out their own books. And be glad that they're people, like you!

—Timothy Power

Every picture sells a story

"Reading Helps Me Figure Stuff Out: Part Two, How I Feel About Book Covers."

Many a great chef has stressed the importance of presentation on the basis that diners "eat with their eyes."

The great Irish middle grade writer Oscar Wilde once said, "It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances."

I don't eat books (although I sometimes read them voraciously), but I can say I have an appetite for them, and, more often than not, it is the picture on the front that makes me want to pick one up in the bookstore or library.

Yes, I admit it. I do judge a book by its cover (among other things). And I side with Mr. Wilde, as he seems to think that makes me deep, not shallow!

A book cover I like makes me excited inside. (Outwardly, of course, I remain cool, calm, and collected at the bookstore/library.) Why? Because it hints at great things to come in the story on the inside. Whether it's shivers or laughs to be found on the pages, a successful cover will whet the appetite for them.

Here is one of my favorite covers, designed by artist Edward Gorey for The Wolves of Willoughby Chase by Joan Aiken.

Headstrong Bonnie Willoughby and her delicate cousin Sylvia must ward off the winter chill, evil Miss Slighcarp, and a menacing pack of savage wolves in this ripping yarn. Edward Gorey sets the stage for thrills.

Here's another fave of mine: artist Kevin Hawkes's cover for The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet by Eleanor Cameron.

Best friends Chuck and David are on their way to the mysterious planet Basidium in their homemade rocket ship (built at the request of the even more mysterious Mr. Bass). Kevin Hawkes makes it clear that amazing adventures are in store for them!

Here's artist Jon Klassen's cover for The Incorrigible Children of Ashton Place: The Mysterious Howling by Maryrose Wood.

With this illustration, the artist has convinced me that I want nothing more than to read a humorously sinister story about a 19th Century governess and her mysterious charges, who dangle from tree limbs when they're not sitting on their haunches.

These are all middle grade books (my favorite genre), and this is one thing they all have in common: the artist who designed the cover has pictured the characters in a way that is NOT realistic.

Here's how I feel about book covers: I DO NOT like realistic depictions of characters. For me, a cartoony picture of a person can bring to mind many different people; a realistic illustration (or photograph) brings to mind only that one person.

Look at the cover of a book that, for me, is hallowed ground: Harriet the Spy, written and illustrated by Louise Fitzhugh:

In the cartoony way that Harriet is depicted here, I'm able to see traces of a bunch of different headstrong, independent kids I've known. I can spot her all over the place, not just in the book. She's bursting with personality!

Here is an alternate cover:

This illustration is so specific about a certain girl that I am unable to picture anyone other than her. Same with this one:

The audio version of the book is even worse (for me).

I didn't even try to find out who designed these covers because I can't stand picturing Harriet so exactly. I find it limits my imagination, and I don't like that. (Never mind that the girl pictured here is so different from Louise Fitzhugh's vision. Refer to the picture of Harriet at the top of this post. The author knew her character inside and out.)

Here's a book I picked up today:

My love for what I have already read from E. L. Konigsburg is what attracted me here. It is going to take some effort for me to ignore the photo of the kid on the cover. I know when I start reading this book I will not want to picture THIS kid as THE kid. How I wish the cover had featured a nice illustration instead! Oh, well. That's what I get for being so picky and such a grump. :)

Clearly, there are readers who prefer photographs to illustrations on book covers, or have no preference either way. I'm interested in everyone's point of view on the subject. What do you think? Can you help me see the brighter side of book-jacket realism?

Given my ways, I consider myself fortunate that the cover chosen by Bloomsbury Children's Books for my book was an illustration, not a photograph. (Needless to say, if it had been a photograph instead, I would have been thrilled no matter what. Publication has a distorting effect on stuff like that!) The illustrator is Victor Rivas, and I'm utterly thrilled with it.

It's pretty clear from this picture why the boy has howled, and in what way. And I've seen that mischievous grin on a thousand different kids!

—by Timothy Power

"Bark," said the dog. Really?

"Don't sweat the small stuff" is great advice for life in general, but not so much for writers. When I'm reading in my favorite genre—middle grade—I pay attention to a lot of crazy little things. For my posts for Project MG Mayhem, I've decided to share some of the things I've figured out in my forays on the page. Most of it concerns small stuff that matters to me. I call it "Reading Helps Me Figure Stuff Out," and this is Part One, "How I Feel About Talking Animals."

Many of my favorite books feature talking animals. In C.S. Lewis's magical series, Narnia's talking beasts are considered akin to humankind, and it is sacrilege to eat them, though everyone gladly munches down on their non-speaking brethren in countless carnivorous feasts. Freddy the pig delights me to no end with his homespun banter in the books by Walter R. Brooks (the picture of Freddy above, by illustrator Kurt Wiese, is from Freddy's home pen...uh, page).

Freddy is a lazy pig at heart, and in Freddy and Simon the Dictator he wrote a bill to be brought up before the State Legislature, which would do away with all schools. But he's also a poet ("Hark/while I croon a verse/in praise/of the universe" is the start of an ode he composed in Freddy and the Spaceship), and so it is no surprise that he is able to speak his mind so well. He lives on Mr. Bean's farm, where all the animals talk up a storm except for the insects, yet Freddy still shows compassion for them (though, as in Narnia, the pesky impulse to devour the non-verbal is at play). When he was half-heartedly attempting a "grasshopper diet" in Freddy Rides Again (Freddy doesn't realize it's the exercise involved in trying to catch the grasshoppers that purportedly makes you thin), he says, "I did catch one. But when it came to eating him...well, you know he looked up at me with such a pathetic expression on his little face—well, I couldn't. Those big mournful eyes—"

This just melts my heart. It's so sweet! I love it whenever Freddy opens his yap.

So it's clear to me that, as a reader, I welcome animals with the gift of gab with open arms. Recently, however, I came across an example of animal "speech" that had me stumped. It came from author Jeanne Birdsall's The Penderwicks on Gardam Street, and it went like this:

"Woof," he said sadly.

The animal "speaker" is Hound, the Penderwick's dog, and he is sad for reasons I will not get in to. But this was what confused me: did Hound say "Woof", or did he woof? Did he make a sound, or did he form a word? Could he say a sound? Can anyone?

Before I go any further, I want to make it clear that I yield to no one in my admiration for this book. Jeanne Birdsall writes like a dream, and the world she created is one I could happily live in forever. The Penderwick sisters are all super smart and quirky and fun, and their father talks in Latin, of all things, unlike anyone I've ever known. However, I am a relentless nitpicker about certain things and when Hound unexpectedly piped up in quotation marks on page 106, it made me pause and took me out of the story a bit. I couldn't help but wonder, why the quotation marks? Does a dog say "Bark", or does a dog bark? When a dog barks in quotation marks, is it saying something more than "bark"? If so, what? I'll never know if all I read is "Bark." I don't speak in dog, which makes me sad too. Hound, move over.

Would I have written the sentence "Hound woofed sadly" instead? I think so, if only to spare myself the mental agony of wondering how much exactly Hound had on his mind.

The pack of timber wolves that adopts Callum in the Wild in my book The Boy Who Howled are not talking animals. They do speak in quotation marks, but only in the sense that Callum imagines what they're saying, as determined by the way he interprets their body language. They speak because Callum gives them something to say.

"My poor little Pig Face," the wolf he calls Mom seems to say, nudging him gently with her freezing wet snout. "My poor little Salty Lollipop."

When Hound said "Woof" instead of woofed, it made me want to hear more from him, in English, not dog noises (or Latin!). And I think I felt that way entirely because of the author's use of quotation marks. Of course, Jeanne Birdsall is far too talented a writer not to convey the gist of Hound's meaning. I got what she intended him to say by the way he said it: sadly. He just meant "I am sad." But if Batty, the youngest Penderwick and Hound's closest ally, had interpreted for him a la Callum, I would have been grateful, because I'm sure she would have gotten more out of him. Hound's "Woof" was left to speak for itself, and so it said everything...and nothing...to me.

So here's how I feel about talking animals (finally!). If they're going to speak, having something to say is what I want and expect from them. In L. Frank Baum's Tik-Tok of Oz, it suddenly occurs to Dorothy that every animal is able to talk once it gets to Oz, but Toto hasn't said a single word so far, and it puzzles her. She thinks it's because he's a Kansas dog and not like fairy animals. The princess Ozma informs her that Toto is a wise little dog and while he knows everything that is said to him he prefers not to talk.

Perhaps the reason he doesn't pipe up is that he has nothing to say. If so, Toto proves once again that he is more than a wise little dog. Toto is godhead!

by Timothy Power. The Boy Who Howled, a Fall 2010 Junior Library Guild selection, will be released October 26, 2010 by Bloomsbury USA Children's Books.