kristiana gregory: notes from the sunroom, a writer's journey

from a writer's sanctuary, R.I.P. stately trees

2012-02-29T14:39:00.006-08:00

majestic pines coming down

For many writers, our sanctuary is our home. I know mine is. I spend hours daydreaming and staring out our windows at the beautiful trees and lush quietude. Squirrels are wildly funny with their chasing games and we keep a bird book in the kitchen because of all the interesting visitors: Woodpeckers, Grosbeaks, Western Tanagers, Mountain Bluebirds, Lazuli Buntings and the other day a Cooper's Hawk. I can sound like a park ranger with my enthusiasm for our local wild life.

But for the past three days we've been hearing the high-pitched buzz of chainsaws and the roar of a commercial shredder parked on our street.

Three of our next-door neighbor's beautiful trees are being destroyed because their landlord wills it so. The trees are not diseased. "We always hate to cut down the ones that are healthy like these," one of the sawyers told me, "but I want to keep the client happy." In other words, he needs the job. That part, I understand.

No more place to play

A flowering crabapple is gone and now two beautiful 40-year pines. Birds' and squirrels' nests have fallen to the street. There will be no shade this summer and it can be blistering hot in Idaho. As you can see from the photo, no more tire swing.

Boise boasts that it's the City of Trees, but there's something wrong when any ol' homeowner can shave a neighborhood just because he's tired of raking leaves or wants a landscaping project.

kids with e-readers: kindle vs nook, Part Two

2012-02-27T17:08:00.001-08:00

On Friday my hairdresser and I had a good discussion about e-readers for kids. As I posted here in January, her 11-year-daughter had received a Kindle for Christmas. Initially thrilled, the sixth-grader was soon envious of her friends who had Nooks because they could read and play games.

Now six weeks later, it seems her peers are mostly playing games. With one click it's easy to fool a parent that comes into the room. It's easy to fool people at school. Her teacher organized a reading-for-fun pajama party. I didn't get all the details, except that the students with Real Books and Kindles were actually reading. Those with multi-use devises were just goofing off with games. Cheating. It's sad but the teacher canceled the program.

My friend said she's thankful this "1st generation" Kindle is for books only. She has three children. Like other good parents she's trying to be vigilant supervising TV, Internet, video games, and cell-phones.

"At least when my eleven-year old daughter goes to her room to read, I know she's reading."

writing obituaries as a young reporter & a haunting story

2012-02-24T19:34:00.012-08:00

In the late '70s I worked for a daily newspaper in a small coastal town in California. One of the things I loved most was the cacophony of the newsroom. The teletype machine was always clacking in the background with breaking news from the wire services. Phones rang and editors yelled. Reporters were at their typewriters, mostly black Underwoods that dinged when you hit the return bar and had a satisfying clickity-swoooosh when you pulled the finished story out of the inked roller.

"Today it's news, tomorrow it wraps fish," an editor told me when I was laboring too long over a lead paragraph. Usually there was only time for one draft before an article appeared in print.

At first I wrote weather reports, wedding and anniversary blurbs and---most interesting of all--obituaries. By 8 a.m. the funeral homes would call with the death notices and I would then try to make the nicest stories out of the grimmest details. Sometimes I called family members to learn more about their loved one so that the obit could have a little warmth. It might sound macabre, but I really enjoyed writing these short stories, as I called them.

Sometimes, however, calls from the mortuaries were upsetting. One morning I took a page of notes before realizing the person I was to write about was my next door neighbor, a young man who had always waved hello, but had suffered a heart attack in the middle of the night.

The call that has haunted me the most was from a funeral director telling me about his cousin. I was sympathetic of course, then asked my usual questions. When I hung up the phone and set my pencil down, I felt numb. To this day I don't remember what I wrote. This is what he told me:

Sometime in the night his cousin, a middle-aged man with an undetermined illness, decided to end his life. Not wanting to inconvenience anyone with a mess or an ambulance bill if he were to have been found alive, he drove himself to the mortuary and shot himself. His cousin came to work the next morning and discovered his childhood friend on the steps with a note explaining all this.

As I said earlier, I don't remember what I wrote.

traditional vs. self-publishing: my experience

2012-02-16T11:21:00.001-08:00

For the past 35 years I’ve been a professional writer and have published more than two-dozen middle-grade and young adult novels for traditional houses: Harcourt, Scholastic and Holiday House. And as of last November, I’m also a self-published author. From big signings and national tours to now managing the whole thing myself, I can say there are joys and stresses to both routes:

Time: With several books I’ve waited at least two years between acceptance and seeing them in print, and often have already turned in the final manuscript before receiving the contract. With self-publishing you just click a button. It’s instantly gratifying to publish right away, but the time it takes with a traditional house isn’t for naught (points below:).

Support: Editorial, sales and marketing is a huge plus with regular publishers as is Production. This is the cover design, copyediting, formatting, and adding the title to their catalogue. It’s a team effort getting a book out to libraries, schools and stores. When you’re on your own, all this is up to you.

Economics: Okay, here’s the money part. An advance with traditional publishers is actually a loan against your future earnings, which may or may not blast out of the park like J.K. Rowling. If your works don’t sell, the advance is it, probably gone by Christmas, and it’s time to start the process of submitting and waiting—and waiting—all over again. Publishing with, say, Amazon Kindle, there’s no up-front money but you’re guaranteed 70% of sales if your title is priced at $2.99 or above.

Royalty statements: Traditional publishers send these in the Spring and Fall, reflecting earnings from the prior nine months. I spent two years writing and editing my recent novel, STALKED, then my artist son did the cover. I published it on Amazon Kindle in November and have already received a check! Monthly royalties, wow!

Trends: Success with traditional houses often depends on fads and inflated expectations for profits. I was invited to create two paperback series for young readers, which the publisher initially loved but soon cancelled. The reason? Despite mountains of fan mail from kids, parents and teachers, sales weren’t as brisk as hoped for. Now out on my own, I can directly reach my readers with new adventures.

All this to say, there are benefits to both approaches. I’m deeply grateful to my former editors and publishers. They put my stories into the hands of so many children, many of whom are now adults reading to their own kids—and many of these kids have e-readers! What a great time in history to be an author.

at a tavern where Abe Lincoln slept

2012-02-12T11:04:00.001-08:00

Abe Lincoln was 'here': New Salem, Illinois

Happy Birthday to Abe Lincoln!

When I visited Illinois for a library talk in Champaign, friends drove me on a side-trip to New Salem. They knew I'd love this reconstructed village where Lincoln spent his early adulthood and earned his living doing odd jobs: boatman, rail-splitter, shopkeeper, surveyor, and post master. For a while he owned a general store, but apparently not his own home, so at night he slept in this store or in a tavern. For meals, he boarded with families in the village.

My friends were right. I loved wandering through these shops and houses, taking in the humble beginnings of our 16th president.

fun interview with Kindle Mystery Authors!

2012-02-08T07:49:00.000-08:00

An interview with Kristiana Gregory, author of Stalked

KMA: Welcome, Kristiana. Stalked has something to do with Ellis Island, I understand. Can you explain to our readers the significance of Ellis Island?

Kristiana Gregory: From 1892-1954 it was the busiest inspection port for millions of immigrants coming to America, including my Danish ancestors.

KMA: Why did you set the book in the past rather than the present day?

Kristiana Gregory: Stalked is inspired by my great-grandmother Maren Kristine Sorensen who sailed from Denmark in 1893. I made several trips to Ellis Island and the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, fascinated by what it must have been like to arrive in this new country not knowing a soul or speaking the language. I imagine that the stress, fear and excitement is similar to what modern immigrants and refugees must experience.

KMA: How did you go about creating an interesting cast of characters?

Kristiana Gregory: One family story is that my great-grandmother worked in the royal palace in Copenhagen. While doing research with my cousin however, we learned a different story, a true one: Maren Kristine married a Dane who ended up spending much of his life in a Wisconsin insane asylum and dying in his bed there of an infected carbuncle. This filled me with so many questions! How did a young man full of hope and dreams go crazy? If he’d been unstable during immigration, how did he pass the strict medical inspectors at Ellis Island? It made me wonder about psychopaths and sociopaths. Since they can be such good actors, how can a 6-minute exam weed them out? This is a good question for today as well.

KMA: Will any of these characters return in a future story?

Kristiana Gregory: I would love to continue Rikke’s story. The turn of the 20^th Century was such a fascinating era, especially for a 15-year old girl.

KMA: Whom do you see as your ideal reader?

Kristiana Gregory: Ages 10 and up, but I get a lot of letters from adults who appreciate my stories because they’re easy to read. Gosh, I hope that’s a compliment!

KMA: When you’re not writing, what would we find you reading?

Kristiana Gregory: Usually non-fiction & biographies, news articles. This might sound weird, but as a child I spent hours & hours reading our family’s World Book Encyclopedias, and National Geographic when I could find copies. I love Ray Bradbury and Mark Twain.

KMA: What did you learn from writing this story?

Kristiana Gregory: I was surprised to learn that many immigrants were found “unsuitable” on Ellis Island and returned to their countries, usually at the expense of their original ship captain. Also I learned that summer heat in the tenements was unbearable, driving many to the rooftops at night. Sometimes a poor soul would roll of the edge in his sleep, to his death.

KMA: Who has been your biggest supporter?

Kristiana Gregory: Definitely my husband and our two adult sons. Since the boys were little they have read every manuscript and aren’t afraid to give an honest opinion. There is nothing like a child to tell you your story is tooooo long, for an author to make some swift edits! And my mother has been my cheerleader since I first was learning to put a sentence on paper.

KMA: How are you promoting your work?

Kristiana Gregory: Since Stalked is my first venture with self-publishing on Kindle, I’m trying to figure this out as we ‘speak’. I’m on Twitter [@kgregorybooks], Goodreads, have a fan page on Facebook, a website [www.kgregorybooks.com]; also I write a blog, Notes From the Sunroom, A Writer’s Journey[http://notesfromthesunroom.blogspot.com/]. And I’m grateful to be talking to you!

KMA: Do you have any advice to give to aspiring writers?

Kristiana Gregory: 1) Write your heart’s desire and don’t give up. 2) Don’t read reviews of your books: if they’re negative they hurt your feelings, and if they’re positive they give you a big floaty head. It’s better to just keep going forward.

KMA: As you know, our website is centered around Kindle novels. Can you tell us why you chose to publish your book for the Kindle, or give other authors advice about the process?

Kristiana Gregory: I have 30 children’s books with traditional publishers – Harcourt, Scholastic, Holiday House – and thought it would be fun to try something different, though I really miss the friendship and support of my editors. Stalked took two years to write and edit then my artist son, Cody Rutty, did the cover. Instead of waiting another year for a contract and publishing schedule, it was exhilarating to upload my manuscript in a matter of minutes and have it available to e-readers in a snap. Wow, it was a thrill! I’m still learning how all this works.

KMA: Where can our readers find a copy of the book?

Kristiana Gregory: It’s on kindle, here.

KMA: And finally, as an author, do you have any quirks or habits that help you write the story?

Kristiana Gregory: Quiet mornings and strong coffee then I’m ready to go! Actually, I’m fastidious about freshly sharpened pencils—long ones, no stubbies—and before I start a story I’ve GOT to have a title.

KMA: Thanks for talking to us. We wish you the best of luck with your writing.

Kristiana Gregory: Thank you so much. I’m really happy to be part of Kindle Mystery Authors.

good dogs help with fan mail

2012-01-27T14:21:00.000-08:00

Poppy & Daisy help with the fan mail

This afternoon I'm on the floor in our sunroom with my good buddies Poppy & Daisy. They're golden retrievers and are excellent help when it comes to answering fan mail. By that I mean, they position themselves in the center of things and settle into a long nap until I've put a stamp on the last envelope.

As usual, the letters are charming. A boy in Arkansas wrote that he loves the Cabin Creek Mysteries because the young characters bring along their dogs to help to solve clues. I can't wait to tell him about my two helpers here.

two octogenarian ski buddies

2012-01-25T15:51:00.000-08:00

Mt. Baldy, Idaho w/ Mom & Louise(in sassy red hat) 2010

Last week my mother saved her friend's life.

They were staying in the Sun Valley Lodge on their annual ski trip together, when Louise collapsed in their room. Mom didn't realize that her buddy had had what the neurosurgeon later said was a "very severe stroke, the kind where most people die." Somehow my mother, 88, set aside her panic and did everything right, got help, and soon Louise was life-flighted down to Boise.

Friends and family have flown here to be with Louise until she's well enough to return to California. Day by day she's able to say another word and move a little bit more. When I visited this afternoon, she nodded hello then started whistling! Oh, I hope to be that spirited at 82!!

this writer's first love: short stories

2012-01-20T09:06:00.000-08:00

2 short stories, each w/ author note

As a 15-year-old, I stumbled on "The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry, my first exposure to the short story. Though the plot was bittersweet, I was enchanted by how the author waited until the end to surprise the reader.

Thus began my love affair with short fiction: trying to craft a story in as few words as possible, with a twist at the end. It's a lot of fun!

So in between publishing children's books, I have tinkered and toiled with my Curiously Odd Stories and am excited to share them! I've added an author note for each, with a brief background on the creative idea. Volume 1 is now available on Amazon Kindle for $2.99. Cover illustration is by my son, Cody Rutty.

I hope you enjoy ... there are more to come!

kids in strollers at the Mac store

2012-01-16T08:59:00.000-08:00

at our Mac store

Recently, my friend Jessica consoled me about my frustrations with technology. "It's like learning a second language," she said. "If you start as a baby, you don't even have to think about it. It's intuitive."

Intuitive. That word makes me feel like a Conestoga wagon on the freeway. Just when I think I've figured out my computer, I bump the wrong key and everything zaps into a mess. For instance, as I was typing this blog the lettering suddenly switched from red to black. What's that about? It'll take an hour to read the Help Forum, so I'm going to leave it as is.

Last week my husband and I trekked to the Mac store in the mall for help with my gizmo. We sat at the "Genius Bar" (oh, if that's not intimidating). The young tech clickety-clacked over my keyboard like those guys in the movies saving the world at the last second. As he explained things with an air of nonchalance, I glanced at the table behind us. It was made for toddlers: low to the ground with tiny beanbag chairs and two Apple computers, the screens twirling with colorful games. I watched a little girl exit her pink stroller [PHOTO, above] and like nobody's business begin her own clickety-clacking.

Intuitive from the stroller. Lucky kid!

goofing off when trying to write!

2012-01-13T15:15:00.000-08:00

   Mornings in Idaho are still dark at eight o'clock, so when I popped awake at 4:45 I thought, far out! Plenty of time to write before sunrise and have the whole day ahead of me. Well, three hours later I was still fooling around on Facebook, Twitter, reading links to Will & Kate and drinking tons of coffee. By the time I reminded myself WHY I had gotten up early, it was nearly 9 a.m. and I had written exactly ONE sentence on my Great American Novel.

   Aargh! Resolved to try again in the afternoon, I was checking email and clicking through intriguing links. A blog by Seth Godin grabbed me. I don't know anything about him, but his words cut right to my heart:

   "The first thing you do when you sit down at the computer is, let me guess: check the incoming. Check email or traffic stats or messages from your boss. Check the tweets you follow or the FB status of friends. You've just surrendered not only a block of time but your freshest, best chance to start something new ... If you're an artist, a leader or someone seeking to make a difference, the first thing you do should be to lay tracks to accomplish your goals, not to hear how others have reacted/responded/insisted to what happened yesterday."

   Boy am I guilty. From now on I resolve to stop wasting time. A little bit here and there is okay, but no more inhaling movie reviews or lurid crime stories. No more Facebook games about What-Character-Are-You on Downton Abbey. (I'm Lady Sybil by the way). No more goofing off. But first to post this and maybe check email, just a quick peek ...

kids with e-readers: kindle vs nook, Part One

2012-01-11T17:41:00.003-08:00

This afternoon when I went to my hairdresser, I asked how her daughter liked her new Kindle. It was the only thing this 12-year old had wanted for Christmas and as a voracious reader she'd been delirious with anticipation, hoping to find one under the tree.

But I could see in the mirror that my friend was shaking her head. "Well," she said, "she loved it until she saw her friends with a Nook. They can play games and read, but so far they're just playing games. I hope she gets back into reading soon."

I hope she does, too! Confession: I'd been planning to hint around about one of my e-books for her daughter, you know, point her to the Amazon site, but decided to save my ploy for another time. My next appointment is in six weeks, so I'll let you know how things are going with these young readers. Stay tuned!

serendipity with an old favorite book: Ray Bradbury's stories

2012-01-08T14:20:00.000-08:00

The Stories of Ray Bradbury: Knopf 1981

Last week when I wrote about my 1980 lunch with Ray Bradbury, I mentioned that his newly published volume of stories had been propped by my typewriter at The Times. Even after coffee and dessert I had felt too shy to ask him for an autograph so I hefted the unsigned book in my arm and walked to my bus stop. The 606 was an express that snaked from downtown Los Angeles out to the coast. It took an hour and I read the entire way.

That late afternoon by the open window of my mom's beach house I settled in for more reading. I love Mr. Bradbury's stories. They're straightforward and just odd enough to make me squint at the ocean and wonder if there might really be a translucent mermaid floating in the tide pools. It sure seemed possible in his "The Shore Line at Sunset." I lost this treasured book unfortunately in one of my many moves.

Fast forward three decades. I ordered a copy from Amazon and it arrived just the other day. It's a hefty thing so I put it on our digital scale to check its weight: three pounds! Compared to my Kindle it's like carrying around a cat.

Then I went to our kitchen nook, eager to read my all-time favorite, "The Sound of Thunder," about the time machine that zooms back to the day of Tyrannosaurus Rex. But when I opened to the title page, my jaw dropped. Was that Ray Bradbury's signature in blue ink? I think it is! Looks familiar somehow, I don't know why, but it seems strong and sweeping enough to be authentic. [PHOTO above]. In any event, I'm thrilled. I feel reunited with an old friend.

an author [yours truly!!] makes mistakes with stories and dogs

2012-01-06T08:35:00.000-08:00

Seeing your words in print is a thrill, but when you notice a mistake there's a kind of swirl in the stomach. Uh-oh. Some have been typos -- I meant "west" instead of "east" when describing the Wasatch Mountains in The Great Railroad Race. Some are historical -- in The Winter of Red Snow young Abigail says that Mrs. Knox had a "baker's dozen" of children, which was eventually true, but the thirteen total came well after that winter in Valley Forge. And some of my goofs have been faulty logic -- in Across the Wide and Lonesome Prairie a baby is born in a covered wagon during a river crossing. Readers pointed out that Hattie mistakenly refers to this baby as her niece, when in fact it's her cousin. Oops!

Fortunately these errors were corrected in subsequent printings. And on April 1st, Scholastic is re-releasing Across the Wide and Lonesome Prairie with a beautiful new cover [click the title to see!], and Hattie's cousin will be properly named.

Bridget: French Bulldog, not Pug!

Now to my mistake with dogs. My last post was about our Pug friends, Bobby and Bridget. We had another friendly encounter, so I asked their owner why they didn't have tails like Pansy and Willis, our other neighborhood Pugs.

"They don't have tails," he answered, "because Bobby and Bridget aren't Pugs. They're French Bulldogs."

Oh! So here's another correction -- Bobby was unavailable for a new portrait, off chasing a tennis ball -- but here's Bridget again, the pretty little French Bulldog.

writer's block and pug friends, bobby & bridget

2012-01-03T08:48:00.000-08:00

Bridget wonders about my camera

Bobby&Bridget inspect my shoe

When I'm fidgety and frustrated about writing, my husband and I go for a walk, which turns out to be daily! We're fortunate to meet lots of nice dogs along the way, and have become especially fond of a pug duo, Bobby & Bridget. They're always so excited to see us and our golden retrievers, they race across the field to say hello. Pugs are swift and sure as little pac-men, with endearing snuffly sounds that seem to be a running commentary. It's hard not to love a dog that sits on your foot and looks up at you with a question.

lunch with Ray Bradbury

2012-01-01T08:12:00.000-08:00

The first time I met Ray Bradbury was by phone. I was a copy editor for the Los Angeles Times Book Review in 1980 and he was calling to talk about -- well details are fuzzy because I was so stunned to hear his name -- then when he said mine, I about came unglued.

"Nice talking to you, Kristiana. See you soon."

Soon? What! My all-time favorite author of science fiction was on his way to The Times building. Are you kidding?

Turns out he was coming to lunch with my editor, his friend Art Seidenbaum, the occasion his new "book" by Knopf, The Stories of Ray Bradbury. It was a hefty 912-page collection of his short stories, 100 to be exact, and a copy was propped by my black Underwood. A minor digression here: This grand dame of newspapers was still transitioning to Video Display Terminals, or VDTs as we called them. I don't remember anyone yet saying "computer," and a lot of the editors still had typewriters on their desks. Anyway, back to Mr. Bradbury.

Suddenly he was there and Art was introducing him to those of us on the Book Review staff and then -- get this -- we were all in the elevator together, riding up to the Picasso Room where luncheon was to be served on white tablecloths. That day I learned that in many ways famous people are like the rest of us: they chitchat and talk about the smog in LA, they laugh and wonder about the future. And some famous people are really nice to underlings.

Mr. Bradbury sat next to me at lunch. I remember feeling shy and unsure of myself, but somewhere in our conversation I must have mentioned how passionately I wanted to be a writer, because when lunch was over and a waiter was pouring coffee, he said, "Kristiana, don't give up your dream."

I'm still dreaming and yes, there were real Picassos on the walls.

our open winter

2011-12-30T07:23:00.000-08:00

a dusting of snow on our skylight

We're having an "open winter" in Boise. I first read this term in the journal of mountain man Richard "Beaver Dick" Leigh who lived in Eastern Idaho during the 1870s. He described the ease of hunting without having to tromp through snow. Rivers and streams were frozen but the ice was thin enough to break for fishing.

The other day we woke to a dusting of snow along our fence and on the pine trees. Our skylight was lacy white until the sun rose and everything melted. As I look out our kitchen window this morning, the thermometer says 51 degrees. Hooray! I like being able to walk the dogs without worrying about slipping.

jigsaw puzzles & the terror of writing

2011-12-28T07:53:00.000-08:00

Daisy supervising our puzzles

This past Christmas week, my family and I started what might be a new tradition: doing jigsaw puzzles. The main deterrent we learned however, is the dog. We noticed she was enjoying a good chew on what turned out to be one of the pieces, but by the time we scooped it from her mouth we couldn't tell its color or from where it had dropped. Now one of our puzzles would have a gaping hole.

This so reminded me of writing! We started with two boxes -- one with 550 pieces, the other 1,000 -- then dumped them onto the card table and cookie sheets to sort. The task of turning everything right-side up was a big mess. Should we start fitting together the sailboat or the borders? Maybe the wagon with its red wheels would be easier.

The mess of writing is like this, for me at least. A jillion thoughts and ideas are all upside down in my head, and the blank page onto which I must organized them, is terrifying. It seems impossible. The phrase in that sentence is awkward, but on this page it's a perfect fit. The process is painstaking. It's a puzzle of words turned this way and that, but finally a chapter emerges. What had scared me at the beginning now seems rather friendly. There's a story here. And if there's a gaping a hole, I'll just fix it.

Meanwhile, a confession -- I'm not proud of this and next year will try to do better: I ditched my puzzle buddies! They soldiered on without me, accompanied by their REAL friend [photo above].

Kringle: a Christmas tradition makes it into a novel

2011-12-26T07:05:00.000-08:00

Almond frosted Kringle

We're eating Kringle this holiday, lots of it! This tradition started in my childhood when my Danish great-grandmother would send it from Racine, Wisconsin. It's a heavenly pastry probably meant to be eaten in dainty slivers with a polite cup of coffee, but we pretty much scarf it.

It's a curious thing how personal tidbits slip into the novels I write for young readers. It's not deliberate, but somehow my characters will go swimming in the ocean if the setting is a hot summer day. Figures, since I grew up on the beach and to this day I love to dive under the waves. Dogs--HAPPY dogs--often appear in my stories with characters who love them. And there's usually someone drinking "good strong coffee."

In my newest novel, STALKED, there's Kringle to go with that coffee. The story opens in Copenhagen in the winter of 1911. The main character, Rikke, was inspired by my great-grandmother Maren Kristine Sorensen who immigrated to America from Denmark. Rikke likes her coffee and Kringle -- and when the hot New York summer comes around, she dunks herself in the waves off Coney Island!

I'm trying something new!

2011-11-19T07:08:00.000-08:00

After nearly thirty children's books with traditional publishers, I'm trying something new -- publishing myself!

When I learned that my Danish great-grandfather spent much of his life in an insane asylum in Wisconsin, my mind raced. How did this young man hoping for a new beginning in America end up "criminally insane?" What was he like when he stepped off the ship from Copenhagen and how did he get by the strict medical examiners on Ellis Island?

After visits to this Island of Tears and several years of research and writing, my story is finished. This young adult novel didn't turn out as I had originally planned -- fellow writers, I know you understand this! -- but it was birthed by those questions of how and why. Coupled with family lore that my great-grandmother worked in the Danish royal palace, well, here we are! The setting is 1912, in the Lower East Side tenements of New York City.

I hope you like this new adventure of mine, which is starting out as an e-book on Kindle: $.99 through December 31st then $4.99. Cover art and interior illustrations are by my son, Cody Rutty. I'll close here with its summary and link to Amazon:
The New Book is Stalked

When Rikke Svendsen, a 15-year old Danish servant arrives at Ellis Island, she realizes that a fellow passenger on her voyage across the Attlantic--whose advances she had spurned--is stalking her. In the chaos of immigration and trying to flee him, she gets stranded in New York instead of being able to meet family in Racine Wisconsin. Relieved to have eluded the man, she finds work in the tenements as a seamstress for a film company and struggles to earn money for a train ticket north. Meanwhile, through letters and telegrams, she learns that mysterious accidents are befalling her loved ones in Racine with deadly results. As Rikke pieces together clues, frantic for her sweetheart Viggo, she seeks to unravel what or who is behind the terror.

A young reader grows up to be a reviewer: Rebecca's Book Blog

2011-10-31T16:40:00.000-07:00

Interview with Kristiana Gregory, author of Dear America: Cannons at Dawn

I am very happy to post this interview with Kristiana Gregory, who for years has been one of my favorite authors from the Dear America series. Her newest book, Cannons at Dawn (which I reviewed here) is the sequel to The Winter of Red Snow, which was originally published in 1996 as one of the first books in the Dear America series and recently rereleased by Scholastic in September 2010. Kristiana has also written several other books in the Dear America and Royal diaries series as well as many other historical novels for middle grade and young adult readers.

Why did you decide to become a writer of historical fiction? Have you always loved history?

When I was a newspaper reporter, I loved digging for facts then writing a story. One day, my editor at the Telegram-Tribune in San Luis Obispo yelled across the newsroom that I needed to start writing fiction because my leads were too flowery! My excuse was that it was painful listening to a city council meeting then having to report the boring details. I wanted a little pzazz, a little something extra that would be FUN. Historical fiction was the next step: I loved history and I loved making things up.

What is your research like for your historical novels? Do you usually visit the places featured in your books?

The only places I was not able to visit were Russia and Egypt [for Catherine the Great and Cleopatra]. Otherwise, I went to France three times for Eleanor: Crown Jewel of Aquitaine [poor me], and made several visits to Valley Forge, Philadelphia and Morristown for the Dear Americas set during the Revolutionary War. I went to Kansas for the Prairie River series; all my books set in California, Utah, Colorado and Idaho are based on research from when I lived in those states.

If you could go back in time for a day (with guaranteed safety!) where would you visit? Would you choose the setting from one of your books, or somewhere else?

The Holy Land, to hang out with Jesus for the day. I haven't yet written about that era.

How did you decide to write a sequel to The Winter of Red Snow after all these years?

I had always wanted to continue Abigail's story, so when Scholastic invited me to do the sequel I was thrilled.

What are some of your own favorite books and authors?

Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Theodore Taylor. Favorite book growing up was Island of the Blue Dolphins, because I lived on the beach looking out toward the Channel Islands. I could picture where the real Karana had lived in solitude for 18 years.

Is there anything else you would like to add?

For years teachers, parents and young readers have asked where ideas come from and what it's like to be a writer so I've started a blog http://notesfromthesunroom.blogspot.com/, which I hope everyone enjoys.

kathy@bookskidslike.com said...: Very good! It's so nice to read an interview that actually explores the author's skill. I, also, love Gregory's books!

controversial topics #2: writing about mormon history

2011-09-15T17:50:00.000-07:00

A 12-year-old girl from Utah sent me a thoughtful letter about ACROSS THE WIDE AND LONESOME PRAIRIE. She explained that as a Mormon she was hurt by my portrayal of Brigham Young and the early Latter Day Saints, saying he came across as "lazy, demanding, and dumb" and his pioneers as "quite negative."

I immediately re-read Hattie's diary, hoping to see it through her eyes because I remember taking extreme care with the research and writing. I have great respect for Brigham Young as a leader and visionary, a city planner. When I lived in Salt Lake, it was the only place I've ever been able to navigate without a map! The grid is so practical I never got lost, and the same is true of other Mormon towns here in the West. I have many LDS friends -- dear and wonderful people -- and would never want to hurt them.

So line-by-line I analyzed the story then wrote to her:
'You're right, there is criticism of the Mormons, but I had made sure those remarks were quotes from characters -- not Hattie's narrative -- and that these quotes reflected attitudes of the time. I was hoping my readers would also notice how often Pa defends the Mormons and Brigham Young: he tells the others to stop judging them, that there's nothing wrong with resting on the Sabbath; he praises them for inventing the "road-o-meter" that measures miles traveled and for inventing a 'barometer' to measure the altitude; and for building two ferries to earn money. He calls them "enterprising" and sympathizes with them by saying "Brigham Young's people are trying to start a new life, just like us."
In the end Hattie decides that Indians and white folks are alike: "some are honest and kind and others are liars and thieves." She never once criticizes Mormons, but instead shows curiosity and wishes she could meet the two children traveling with Brigham Young. For details on his group, I used a journal written by one of the apostles who was on the 1847 trek, lent to me by an LDS friend.'

This gracious young reader responded by thanking me and saying "I think I understand the history there." Her sign-off made my day: "Your devoted fan."

in praise of teachers, our most valuable resource

2011-08-12T19:05:00.000-07:00

This week we've been enjoying three of our nephews, 10 year-old twins and an 8-year old. Their father--my brother--is a 4th grade teacher and is leading his boys and their Taiwanese mother through the mountain west on a camping tour of history. On their way to Idaho, they took a side-trip to an old stagecoach station in Oregon to see the grave of Sacajawea's son, Pomp Charbonneau -- Pomp, of course, was the baby in her cradleboard during Lewis & Clark's journey to the Pacific.

With my brother at dinner, stories abound. He's so excited to describe finding part of the early railroad near Donner Pass that he delays eating the burger and salad before him. While this story evolves into one about Chinese laborers in the 1860s, I watch his boys help with the dishes. This means holding their plates below the table where Poppy and Daisy have been waiting for just such an opportunity. Dogs understand little boys and visa-versa.

my favorite teacher & his boys

I'm mesmerized by my brother, a tender father and a gifted teacher. As his older sister I can testify that he is a BORN teacher. All his life he has looked up in wonder at the clouds and birds, wondering about flight. He taught my sons how to make paper airplanes ... oh, that's another thing that happens at dinner, things fly, I mean little origami-looking UFOs that soar over the table to the couch. If his boys or mine ask what it would feel like to be eaten by a shark, he'll pause with his hamburger mid-air then begin a graphic but delightful response.

Summer vacation for my brother--as it is for so many teachers--involves more learning and discovery, more excitement for what he'll be able to share with his students in the fall. Yesterday he took his boys fishing in the Tetons, explaining that Colter Bay was named after Private John Colter of the Lewis & Clark expedition, the first white man to 'discover' Yellowstone. My brother showed my nephews the geysers then drove up to where the battle of Little Big Horn took place. Early this morning he messaged me from his i-pad with a four-word assessment: "Custer had it coming."

I can't wait until they drive back through Boise on their way home, to hear what else they've learned. I'm proud of my brother and all the devoted educators out there.

Teachers: our country's most valuable resource.

controversial topics #1: Iroquois slaughter ordered by George Washington, 1779

2011-07-19T08:33:00.000-07:00

George Washington was one of my childhood heroes. As kids, we loved hearing how he chopped down his father's prized cherry tree when he was six-years-old. Whether fact or myth, the story set a good example about telling the truth. Personally, I was relieved he didn't get spanked because maybe my parents would follow his parents' example.
So as a grown up I was thrilled to write about the Father of Our County for Scholastic's Dear America series, first with The Winter of Red Snow then its sequel, Cannons At Dawn.

Research is one of my most favorite things in the world, but sometimes I hate what I discover. Details about war, for instance, and ugly truths about heroes.

Confession: When I learned how cruelly General Washington treated the Iroquois, there was a flicker in my brain that said, 'ooh, my characters don't need to mention this.' It was 1779. The Indians were aiding our enemies, the British, but Washington said that before there would be any peace talks with the tribes, he was going to teach them a lesson: He ordered his Generals Sullivan and Clinton, to destroy the Iroquois settlements in western New York. The campaign was a victory for the American army, but devastating for our Native Americans.

In Cannons At Dawn Abigail writes in her diary: "Thousands of our soldiers burned the grain and vegetable crops, the cornfields, and fruit orchards. They set torches to the longhouses. Forty villages went up in flames. Now there will be no fall harvest and nothing for the Indians to plant in the spring. Many warriors died defending their homes, many were captured, then marched to a prison camp."
Abby and her mother are further distressed knowing winter is coming and these Indian families will have nowhere to live. In fact, many who fled north to Fort Niagara starved and froze to death. Abby says, "When I imagine their suffering, my heart hurts."

My flicker of denial passed and I got mad. Why hadn't I learned this as a kid? Was this blight of history ignored in the California schools because the Revolution was "back East"? Whatever the answer, I decided my characters should report all sides. It's a chance for today's children to glimpse a tragic but important truth:

War is hell. Heroes can disappoint.

July 4th 1866, firecrackers & My Darlin' Clementine

2011-07-03T14:38:00.000-07:00

Several years ago in a small Colorado town, we were awakened at dawn by the thunderous boom of a cannon. Turns out it was July 4th and one of the traditions in this burg was to blast everyone out of bed before sunup to begin celebrating, like it or not.

I was reminded of this when researching My Darlin' Clementinefor Holiday House. The story is set in an Idaho mining camp, in 1866, where there was constant clamor from the stamp mills, from brawling, gambling, gunshots and rough language. And on July 4th there was extra special noise: Black powder explosions started at dawn along with Chinese firecrackers, which continued throughout the day. The afternoon entertainment really grabbed my attention: anvil firing. What the heck was that? Might as well weave it into the novel!
So Clementine described how two blacksmiths each carried a heavy iron anvil in their arms, from their livery stable down Main Street [PHOTO, above].   "When they reached the meadow, one of the smithies set his out in the open. Dog Face Sam was waiting there with a sack of black powder, which he poured onto the anvil's flat surface. Next he laid out a long white fuse that dropped to the grass. The second smithy brought over his anvil and set it upside down on the first one, so the two flat sides were together.
       A sandwich is what came to mind, a dynamite sandwich.
       Before you could count to ten, Dog Face Sam had struck a match against a stone, lit the fuse, and was yelling, 'Run for your lives!'"
       I was on the schoolhouse step watching the spectacle of folks running into the woods as fast as they could, men holding onto their hats and ladies shrieking, children scattering every which way.
      A boom shook the ground like cannon fire. Black smoke rose up with the explosive clank of iron upon iron. No one got killed that I could tell, but a small boy knocked himself out from running into a tree."

Now that's a party! Happy Independence Day everyone ... I hope you're safe and not awakened by cannons!

banning a kid's book from the children's section: the power of one self-righteous parent

2011-06-06T15:25:00.000-07:00

This weekend I read with interest a Wall Street Journal article about edgy children's literature. In Darkness Too Visible, Meghan Cox Gurdon took many of my colleagues to task for writing explicit or violent novels for teens. I admire these Young Adult authors. It takes guts to tell stories that aren't going to end up as a Hallmark movie.

I thought, well at least my books won't be ripped to shreds by Ms. Gurdon. Most are for younger kids anyway and are fairly pleasant. No dogs die and there's usually a happy ending. HOWEVER, I love researching history and learning stuff they didn't teach in school -- which is a lot. I've been privileged to have publishers who trust me to tell-it-like-it-was and weave truths into stories that hopefully will inspire kids to read and learn. And hopefully inspire them to care about the future, seeing to it that our country doesn't repeat mistakes of history.

Silly me! Yesterday, I received an email from a mother who disapproves of The Winter of Red Snow, a Dear America story set at Valley Forge during the Revolutionary War. Her letter:

[no salutation] "My 9 yr old daughter, who is a gifted and talented student, has loved reading the Dear America Series (approximately 14 of them). Here are her comments about your book that I felt I had to pass them on to you:

     'I  think it's inappropriate for someone my age, especially the part with  the human hands and feet in a trough.  I understand it you're trying to  make it as detailed as possible but I think it's too much.  Also it  makes me afraid to read other Dear America books because I don't want to  have to read something that makes me cry.'

     Just for your  information, Ms Gregory, we have reported the gore of your book to our  local library and they pulled it off the shelf of the juvenile  section...I think maybe they're reshelving it for Young Adults in  another location.

Thank you, 'Jane Doe'"

Hm. We've handed our kids a messed up world -- political chaos, wars in the Middle East, economic disaster, bullying and shootings in their schools, a nuclear meltdown, an epidemic of teen and young adult suicide -- and this mother is so worried that her daughter might cry at a shred of historic realism that she marches down to her local library and succeeds in having the book taken off the shelf so that other children and families won't be able to access it in the juvenile section? Are you kidding me!

What about the "gifted and talented student" destined to be our future president of the United States? I hope she will have been allowed to read and to cry and to be horrified by the affects of war, and that she -- okay, or he -- will be appalled by overprotective parents trying to ban books because the topics are icky.

I'm appalled. And I'm furious. I edited out my earlier rough language here, even though it would have bumped me up to the Young Adult section and put me in good company.

Readers, what do you think?

answering children's letters

2011-06-04T11:33:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I'm taking a break from a Fun Writing Project to answer some children's letters, a different sort of fun.

My post office box was stuffed with mail from all over -- Wyoming, Iowa and Michigan, northern Sweden, and from a Mennonite boy in Pennsylvania. What delighted me the most was that many of these children had tucked in return postage to encourage my response. Or as one third-grader wrote in her pretty handwriting: "P.S. I've included a stamp and when you get a chance to write me back to my school that would be awesome."

I'm hurrying because most of the return addresses are to the schools and I worry summer vacation has already started. If teachers would PLEASE tell their students to include a home address, there's a greater chance my letter will reach them. Or if such personal detail is a 'safety' issue, have the students write in the early spring with the date so I'll know in which order to answer.

Mail from young readers is always a thrill. One fifth-grade boy from Northampton thanked me for my books then went on to more substance: his love of playing football. "I was the nose guard. I'm that guy in front of the ball snapper. We won 4 and lost 4. Let's get off of football. My favorite color is orange and my favorite food is general tos chicken. It is chinese."

I love kids! They're so refreshing.

writing for children & quirky inspiration from Roald Dahl

2011-05-15T08:28:00.000-07:00

Last week a writer friend sent me a present: Storyteller: The Authorized Biography of Roald Dahl by Donald Sturrock (Simon & Schuster). It landed on our porch with a loud ker-thunk because, I'm not kidding, it's as hefty as a door-stop.

Roald Dahl of course is famous for Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and for being outrageously quirky. On page 547 of his bio, he explains what makes a good children's writer. I love how he puts it and shall end this post with his words:

[The writer] must be a jokey sort of fellow ... unconventional and inventive ... He must know what enthral[l]s children and what bores them. They love being spooked. They love suspense. They love action. They love ghosts. They love the finding of treasure. They love chocolates and toys and money. They love magic. They love being made to giggle. They love seeing the villain meet a grisly death. They love a hero and they love the hero to be a winner. But they hate descriptive passages and flowery prose. They hate long descriptions of any sort. Many of them are sensitive to good writing and can spot a clumsy sentence. They like stories that contain a threat. "D'you know what I feel like?" said the big crocodile to the smaller one. "I feel like having myself a nice plump juicy child for my lunch." They love that sort of thing. What else do they love? New inventions. Unorthodox methods. Eccentricity. Secret information. The list is long. But above all, when you write a story for them, bear in mind that they do not possess the same power of concentration as an adult, and they become very easily bored or diverted. Your story, therefore, must tantalize and titillate them on every page and all the time that you are writing you must be saying to yourself, "Is this too slow? Is it too dull? Will they stop reading?" To those questions, you must answer yes more often than you answer no. [If not] you must cross it out and start again.

controversial book covers #2: American Indians through the eyes of mainstream publishers

2011-05-01T17:05:00.000-07:00

1989 cover

When my first novel, Jenny of the Tetons, was about to be published the bound galley arrived with a beautiful wrap-around cover. I was thrilled. At first.

Then I looked closely at the painting. The mountains weren't the Tetons and Jenny, a Shoshone Indian, resembled a white pioneer. Her face was pale, her hair short, and she wore a gingham dress. I protested vigorously to my editor. Not only was the cover inaccurate, it showed nothing of Jenny's proud heritage. I pleaded for a do-over: for Jenny to be in her native clothing, which was described in the novel, and for the Tetons to be authenticated. This is one of the most distinctive ranges in the West! That they and Jenny were generic, was a disgrace.

The painting was tweaked: Jenny's skin was darkened and she was given braids [PHOTO, above]. Dress was the same, ditto the mountains. When I asked why more wasn't done, my publisher answered, "Artistic license."

2002 paperback reprint

The paperback reprint is worse. A white girl is featured on the cover [PHOTO, right]. In the background is a fuzzy photo of an Indian woman on horseback, pulling a travois with two children in what looks like a reed cage. She is holding a baby in a cradle-board. This Jenny looks haggard and bummed out. It's a sad example of a publisher relegating a Native American to the background. Is it because of marketing in this case, that a fair-haired girl will sell more covers than a tired Indian? I hope this stereotype is just a mistake and that publishers will start doing more to honor our indigenous friends.

Jenny Leigh was a real person. She was married to an English fur trapper and they had six children. She was so respected and admired, Jenny Lake in the Tetons was named for her.

writer's block & Robert Louis Stevenson

2011-04-19T09:16:00.000-07:00

One of my happiest memories of our boys' childhood was reading aloud to them before bedtime. The heart-thumping adventures in Treasure Island were cause for a late night and "just one more chapter." They could recite pirate Pew's last words as several horses thundered toward him:
"Johnny, Black Dog, Dirk ... you won't leave old Pew, mates--not old Pew!" Then we'd re-read his gruesome end: "Down went Pew with a cry that rang high into the night; and the four hoofs trampled and spurned him and passed by. He fell on his side, then gently collapsed upon his face, and moved no more."

I'm enjoying this classic once again, especially remembering it through the eyes of our young sons who are now grown-ups. And after all these years, my admiration for the author, Robert Louis Stevenson, remains high. "How'd he do that?" I wonder, savoring a scene or a stretch of pirate dialogue. He makes it seem easy.

So it was a surprise to learn that he had writer's block with this novel, which he began in 1881 on a rainy Scottish morning. He drafted the first fifteen chapters, but then set his pen down. He couldn't concentrate. Ill with tuberculosis, he traveled to Switzerland. Like Clara in the novel Heidi by Johanna Spyri, he breathed in the fresh alpine air and was soon revived. He sped through another nineteen chapters to great success. Treasure Island was serialized in the magazine, Young Folks, then published as a book in 1883. It has never been out of print.

This morning I am squirming with writer's block. A trip to the Swiss Alps would cure this! I'd be so enchanted by the beauty and cow bells, I'd get to work -- wait -- first I'd go hiking then find a café for pastry. A day would pass, then a week. Finally it would settle in that I wouldn't be able to concentrate until returning home to this plump green chair where I now sit, untroubled by tuberculosis or travel fatigue.

I'm inspired by Robert Louis Stevenson and all the other authors tormented by doubts, but who keep on picking up the pen, so to speak. So onward I trudge, trying to follow in footsteps of the great.

when the sun is hot, my characters go swimming! -- Bronte's Book Club, etc.

2011-04-04T15:13:00.000-07:00

Every author needs at least one reader who adores her personally as well as her stories. I'm fortunate to be well-acquainted with my special reader. She and I email daily and we've had many adventures traveling, swimming, and hanging out together: my mother!

Recently we braved Alturas Lake in the beautiful Sawtooth Mountains. The water was freezing, but so clear we could see sunken logs deep, deep below. While we dried off in the sun and ate our picnic, she asked about my writing. As usual, I started digging for compliments.

Quick to oblige, Mom said, "Honey, I just love that so many of your characters go swimming!"

Hm. I thought a minute. She was right! We started ticking off the books: When Cleopatra VII sails from Alexandria to Rome and the ship anchors at the island of Malta, well, it's HOT! The cool, blue Mediterranean beckons. Waiting for her Dinka guards to give her some space, she wades in with her maid, their "chitons float[ing] up like sails." In The Legend of Jimmy Spoon, Jimmy wants to show off his swimming skills for Nahanee so he dives in the river, but unfortunately lands a spectacular belly flop -- my little brother did that once.

after a swim 2nd from left, 1964

Then there's Bronte's Book Club. The setting is based on the small beach town of my childhood in Southern California. Bronte swims in the harbor, goes boogie-boarding and walks on the beach with her friends. When an incoming wave splashes against their knees, the friends scatter up to dry ground like sandpipers. But not Bronte. She throws up her arms and lets herself fall into the surf. She lies in the water, letting the foam wash over her, savoring the tingle of salt on her skin. I am that girl.

My newest book, Cannons At Dawn, will be published May 1st. Abigail finds herself on a dusty trail following Washington's soldiers. It's a hot summer day, VERY hot. What a surprise ... a creek is right there and ... well I won't spoil it for you ha ha!

kids fighting in the back seat & research: The Great Railroad Race

2011-03-21T07:33:00.000-07:00

The August heat shimmered up from the desert in watery waves as we drove through Utah. Our mini-van had A/C yet still our windows were warm to the touch. It was close to 100 degrees out, we were low on snacks, and our boys were fighting in the back seat.

"You'll appreciate this some day," I told them as we pulled up to the visitor's center at Promontory Summit. This was a research trip for Scholastic's The Great Railroad Race. I couldn't wait to show our sons the historic spot where Union Pacific and Central Pacific locomotives met nose-to-nose in 1869, finally joining America by rail.

We piled out of the van just in time to hear the shrill, but exhilarating whistle of a train chugging along the tracks. It was coming from the east with great plumes of smoke rising from its engine, reenacting that last stretch of sagebrush, the grand Wasatch Mountains in the background. What a beautiful sight! I felt so shivery and excited, I grabbed my husband's arm.

"Where are the boys?" we asked each other.

The gift shop had a vending machine. We found our darlings wrestling for what turned out to be the one and only soda. I was sad they didn't seem to enjoy the history around them, but over the years they've told me -- many times -- how much they loved our family excursions and loved reading the stories I wrote afterward. That makes me feel good.

Meanwhile, I wonder about the tiny photo above. It shows an exuberant crowd on May 10, 1869, after the last spike was driven into the rails. The guy at the top appears to be hoisting a bottle of champagne. One bottle. I wouldn't be surprised if some of his buddies had tried to wrestle him for it.

funny little dogs & Catherine the Great

2011-03-05T19:00:00.000-08:00

A fragile book on my shelf is a first edition published in 1859: Memoirs of the Empress Catherine II, Written by Herself. Translated from the French, it's full of great details that added to the fun of writing about her. Catherine: The Great Journey, Russia, 1743 was the final book in Scholastic's Royal Diaries series and focused on her life as a young German princess and her journey to St. Petersburg.

She described meeting her future husband, Peter, when she was ten years old and he eleven. Already he was fond of alcohol, "his attendants finding it difficult to prevent him from getting intoxicated at table." Poor kid. He was a Swedish Duke and the nephew of Empress Elizabeth of Russia, yet doomed to a life of troubles.

One of Catherine's most comical memories was about her little spaniel named Ivan Ivanovich. She and her maids dressed him in costumes and brought him to dinner. "He sat at table with us, had a napkin put round him, and [ate] out of his place with great propriety." Sometimes he jumped up to inspect the dishes, helping himself to "a little pâté, a biscuit, or the like, which made the company laugh."

Catherine doesn't say if any grownups were seated with them, but I suspect there were. The kid in me laughs to picture this frivolity in the royal palace. Actually, the adult-me thinks it's pretty funny, too. I couldn't resist writing it into the story.

When my editor asked for input on the cover illustration, I said, "Oh! The dog, please show the dog!" The artist was Tim O'Brien who did the other Royal Diaries. I love how he painted Catherine holding Ivan Ivanovich in front of the snowy palace. It's one of my favorite covers.

Washington's birthday, 1778 -- The Winter of Red Snow

2011-02-21T10:52:00.000-08:00

On February 22, 1778 a farmer in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania noted in his journal that it had been windy and dark all day. It was during the Revolutionary War and the Continental Army was encamped in this frozen valley. The farmer probably didn't know or care that this stormy Sunday also happened to be General George Washington's 46th birthday.

But Martha Washington cared.

When researching The Winter of Red Snow for Scholastic's Dear America series, I was delighted to read that she had planned a surprise for her husband. Knowing that he loved music and loved to dance, she arranged for the army's artillery band to serenade him at Headquarters, a lovely stone mansion by the Schuylkill River. After supper that evening of the 22nd, the sound of fifes and drums drew the general away from his warm hearth.

Apparently Mrs. Washington stepped outside to thank the musicians. She took fifteen shillings from a tiny silk purse tied to her waist, paid the bandleader then invited them all inside. Young Abigail writes in her diary: Through the window I saw the General with his hands on his hips and his pigtail bouncing -- he was doing a jig!

This festive evening may have been the first public celebration of his birthday. As an author, it was great fun to image this party with dancing and a scrumptious dessert. In the back of the book, there's a recipe for "Martha Washington's Great Cake" thanks to The Women's Committee of the Valley Forge Historical Society. It must've been a doozie with its 40 eggs, four pounds of sugar, etc., and "fresh brandy."

Happy President's Day, everyone!

brownies for breakfast & other research: Bronte's Book Club

2011-02-10T07:37:00.000-08:00

Today I'm meeting one of my research partners for lunch. She's the friend who suggested I include a brownie recipe in Bronte's Book Club. Pourquoi? It would encourage kids to read!

Hm. The logic sounded wobbly until she explained: As a girl she fell in love with books after finding a fudge recipe in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang by Ian Fleming. Inspired by the novel and energized by the fudge, she became a voracious reader. Made perfect sense.

So I agreed. My friend offered to help "research" the situation. We wanted something simple, that kids could whip up without ruining the kitchen. Something they might like to serve to friends if they were hosting their own book club. I forget how many boxes of brownies we tried. We experimented with marshmallows, nuts, applesauce, chocolate and butterscotch chips. Some batches were gross, others launched us into a sugar orbit. We begged neighbor kids and family to be taste-testers. Thankfully no one keeled over, in fact, after a few days they finally gave two-thumbs up.

In the story Bronte bakes brownies for her friends. At first no one shows up at her book club, so she freezes the treats for the next time. Eventually however, she eats them straight out of the freezer and needs to bake more. Personal research was helpful here.

Anyway, the recipe is printed in the back of the novel along with hints for getting friends together. Suggestion #9 is my favorite: In the author's experience, dogs are a welcome addition to book clubs. They're good listeners, they clean up spilled snacks, and they don't use cell phones.

book dedication to a beloved editor, Ann Reit

2011-01-29T15:34:00.000-08:00

Ann Reit at Scholastic, early years

Seventeen years ago, Ann Reit and I met via a long distance phone call. She was to be my editor at Scholastic for a new historical series called Dear America. Talk about opposites! I was a California beach girl and she a native New Yorker. Ann was so direct with her opinions—in her strong New York accent—frankly, she terrified me.

But we quickly became friends. We had a blast brainstorming The Winter of Red Snow , and fifteen subsequent novels. She was not sentimental about killing off one of my precious characters.

“Get rid of him,” Ann said.

“How?” I asked.

“Have him fall off his horse.”

“But he doesn’t have a horse.”

“Kristi! Just give him a horse, make him go riding somewhere and have him fall off.”

June 1999 with Ann & my sons, Twin Towers in background

Of writer's block Ann said, "Forget about it. Just tell the story!" Our talks would veer from manuscripts, to politics and world events, to family. She loved remembering her mother and grandmother and their New York neighborhood of the 1920s. She always asked about my sons Greg and Cody, recalling details that showed how much she cared. Ann was Jewish and deeply spiritual. Often she started our conversations by saying, “Let’s talk about God.” And we would.

The last time I saw her was a few weeks before she passed away of cancer. We met at our favorite diner, Café 82 on New York's Upper West Side. The place was packed, but she forged through the crowd with her cane, to wait for the booth she wanted. Ann stood for thirty minutes, leaning on that cane until a gentleman finally finished his sandwich. As the table was being cleared, she said “Sit down Kristi, this one’s for us.”

I love this memory of Ann. She was feisty and protective. She took Flintstone vitamins and drank hot water without a teabag. I miss her terribly.

Meanwhile the sequel to Red Snow, Cannons at Dawn, will be published this May with her name on my dedication page. I had the good fortune of working with another wonderful editor on this project, Lisa Sandell.

going to France with 30 teenagers & researching Eleanor of Aquitaine

2011-01-16T08:51:00.000-08:00

La Cité Carcassonne, France

When Scholastic asked me to write about Eleanor of Aquitaine for Dear America's Royal Diary series I was thrilled. I couldn't wait to immerse myself in the Middle Ages and imagine what life may have been like for a 14-year-old aristocrat.

It happened that my son's French class was going to Europe over Spring break and would be touring the Aquitaine countryside. Greg graciously insisted he wouldn't mind his mom tagging along, so off we went with a gaggle of high-schoolers. It was fun seeing history through their eyes and to wander through medieval castles like Carcassonne, where scenes from Braveheart and Robin Hood were filmed.

I learned a lot traveling with these students. It didn't seem far off to think their concerns and interests were similar to teenagers from eight centuries ago: friendship, parental love, curiosity about their future, yearnings for adventure and, of course, cool clothes. The girls loved to shop and, as it turns out, Eleanor loved her beautiful gowns.

On a subsequent trip to Paris, my 17-year old son Cody helped me find Eleanor's crystal vase in the Louvre [photo right]. It's exquisite, about 16" tall. Most of the gems are the size of my thumbnail, in an array of blues and violets, set into silver. It's said that Eleanor was fifteen and newly married to King Louis VII when she gave this to him. The Latin inscription on its base states that after she presented it to Louis, he gave it to Abbot Suger, who then donated it to the Abbey of Saint-Denis in Paris. It's believed to be the only surviving artifact from the royal couple. [This appears on p. 176 of the book.]

It was a blast writing Eleanor: Crown Jewel of Aquitaine. Would I travel again with teenagers? Heck, yeah!

a Shoshone teenager teaches me about patience: The Legend of Jimmy Spoon [part two]

2010-12-29T07:22:00.000-08:00

While researching The Legend of Jimmy Spoon, I volunteered as a tutor for the high school Indian Club. This was in Pocatello, Idaho, seven miles from the Shoshone-Bannock reservation. Basically I was a blond California girl who knew little about Native Americans, but wanted to learn. I was eager and cheerful. Also, I talked a lot.

Yackety-yack while helping students with English essays, blabbidybla while correcting math papers (which I knew even less about). One morning, a Shoshone boy named Kerwin Toane sat at the table across from me. He wore his hair in long braids and was quiet. I offered to help with his homework then chatted on and on about this-and-that. Finally I asked why he wasn't saying anything.

"I'm just waiting for you to finish," he answered.

Ouch.

Over the next weeks, Kerwin and I developed a friendship. When I remembered to keep my mouth shut, he talked about his tribe and traditions. The more quiet I was, the more I learned. He recounted going into the mountains with his uncle, to capture a sacred eagle feather. I took detailed notes. He translated Shoshone vocabulary for me.

So in The Legend of Jimmy Spoon, Chapter 21 describes how Nampa and Ga-mu ride their horses into the foothills with Jimmy. They teach him how the Teton Sioux catch an eagle without harming the bird.

It's one of my favorite chapters.

exploring the ghost town of Bodie, California for "Orphans Runaway"

2010-12-14T07:16:00.000-08:00

ghost town of Bodie, California

At nearly 8,400' elevation, the old mining town of Bodie, California takes your breath -- literally from the altitude, but also from its stark beauty. It's high in the Eastern Sierra Mountains on a wind-swept plateau.

Getting there is tricky: 10 miles off Hwy 395 up a winding canyon, then another three miles of jaw-rattling washboard. There are no trees. When you finally arrive, you understand why this historical park is called a "real ghost town." The buildings are in a state of "arrested decay," meaning some day they'll just crumble into the sagebrush. The stores remain stocked with goods, just as they were when people up-and-left. A coat hangs from a hook in one of the homes, a hat nearby. A table is set for supper. It's eerie peeking in the windows. Visitors are instructed not to touch anything, but to leave every rusty can and fencepost in place for others to see.

In its boom years, Main Street was a mile long with 65 saloons. Shootouts, stabbings and stagecoach robberies added to Bodie's reputation as the most wicked mining camp in the West. There were brothels and gambling halls. Its Chinatown had opium dens. In 1879, a newspaper quoted a young girl who had learned her family was moving there: "Goodbye, God! We're going to Bodie!"

I had visited many times, but not until we took our young sons did I imagine this rough place through their eyes. Greg and Cody wished they could have roamed the hills without parents, smoked cigars and stayed up all night. That sounded like fun to me!

So on a subsequent trip, Dave Marquart and Susan DesBaillets from the California State Park Service, escorted us through Bodie's deserted stores, schoolhouse, morgue, hotel, and the frightening stamp mill. My copious notes became a middle-grade novel, Orphans Runaway. It was a lot of fun writing about two young brothers who tumble through adventures in this wild camp of 1879.

when a Mormon boy ran away to live with the Indians: The Legend of Jimmy Spoon [part one]

2010-11-29T05:30:00.000-08:00

Shoshone Chief Washakie

When I read the memoir Among the Shoshones by Elijah Nicholas Wilson, I thought perfect -- an adventure for boys set in the 1850s! I contacted Nick's son, Charlie, an elderly gentleman living in the Wyoming town named for his father -- Wilson -- at the base of the Tetons. When I asked permission to write a biography, he was gung-ho. He mailed me his family's genealogy and recounted details of his dad's life with the Indians and as a Pony Express rider. I was thrilled.

After months of research & writing, my manuscript Nick, the White Indian Boy was accepted by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. As a final detail, HBJ wanted Charlie to sign a release. "No problem," I said. But his letter chilled me. I never gave you permission, he responded. You may not write about my father. I felt sick. Literally, I was shaking inside. When I calmed down, I phoned him. A caretaker explained that Charlie had just had surgery and "wasn't well." Translation: all our correspondence was null and void.

One of my favorite covers

Now it was HBJ's turn to say "No problem." They advised that I just rewrite it and change the names. Rewrite a novel? It was like pulling a thread in a patchwork quilt that made the whole thing unravel. One change led to another ... you get the idea. It was a ton of work, but the process actually freed me. I no longer had to be 100% accurate, as biographies should be. I could make stuff up!

What fun it was to find The Legend of Jimmy Spoonin my head. In a future "Notes From the Sunroom," I'll tell about doing research with teenagers from the Shoshone-Bannock tribe.

waterhemlock poisoning on the Oregon Trail

2010-11-14T14:23:00.000-08:00

Western Waterhemlock

The headline in our small town newspaper gave me chills: "Toxic taste of waterhemlock sends ditch crew to hospital: Youths mistook poisonous roots for wild carrots." We were living in Cortez, an exquisitely beautiful corner of Colorado. This news freaked me out as it did other parents whose kids love playing in the canyons and fields.

The article detailed how four males--ages 7, 15,18 and 20--were cleaning an irrigation ditch and decided to sample the plants. Though they took just small bites, they quickly became ill. By the time they reached the hospital, two had suffered seizures and were unconscious, and were put on respirators "as the poison paralyzes the vital functions." All four had their stomachs "flooded with a mixture of charcoal" to neutralize the toxin, then pumped. I interviewed one of the ER physicians. When she described how it took several people to hold down the boys in violent seizure, I thought, wow this stuff is dangerous.

At the time, I was researching Across the Wide and Lonesome Prairie: The Oregon Trail Diary of Hattie Campbell, 1847 [Dear America]. One source told of cattle dying along the route after eating "wild parsnips." Hm. It figured that humans could have made the same mistake and more probably kids, as had the boys in my town. So in Hattie's story, I created the scene where the children pick 'carrots' for soup, but with disastrous results. Some of the women crush charcoal from the campfire into a powder, trying to force it between the jaws of the convulsing victims.

Young readers often ask me why some characters have to die. They say that since I'm the author, I can make everyone live happily ever after, right? But I kept the tragedy to make a point. Pa lecturing the children and Hattie's tears express my motherly worry, also my hope that even one life might be saved from this story.

In French Canada waterhemlock is called la carotte à moreau, or carrot of death. It's common in the Western United States, thriving in meadows and swamps, and along streams and irrigation ditches.

Last I heard about the four youths in Cortez, was that they recovered, sore and tired, but apparently just fine. So there's a happy ending!

searching for Valdemar

2010-10-31T09:36:00.000-07:00

Wind Point Lighthouse, Racine

My dad's story was wild, but I wanted to believe it: In the late 1800s his grandmother, Christine, had been a servant in Denmark's royal palace. When she got pregnant by one of the princes, probably Valdemar, she was whisked away to America to work in a logging camp. Her baby grew up near the Wind Point Lighthouse in the Danish community of Racine, Wisconsin.

I'd always wanted to write this tale so last month I introduced myself -- via email -- to relatives in the Midwest, asking about our royal blood. Ha! They hadn't heard that one, but they mentioned a "family secret" that several had taken to their graves, and that records for Christine's firstborn were sketchy. His name? Valdemar. I knew it! She had so loved the prince, she named her baby after him. Coincidentally one of my cousins, Kris Olson Elbert, had already begun researching our Danish ancestry so our emails flew. We wanted to meet each other and visit our cousin, Bill Johnson, who had grown up knowing Christine. Bill lived near the Wind Point Lighthouse and was as curious as we were.

So I did what we've told our kids NEVER to do: met someone online, hopped a plane to Chicago, hugged hello in a hotel lobby, then drove to a new city to spend time with strangers. I didn't even have a Plan B.

Meanwhile Kris had scoured census records and with Bill's help found Christine's real name -- Maren Kristine Sorensen. This led to the discovery of a ship's manifest from the S.S. Island of the Thingvalla Line which arrived in New York on August 17, 1893. Captain Skjodt recorded that she was an unmarried servant from Copenhagen, age 26, traveling with one piece of baggage. I could picture that hot summer day on Ellis Island and Christine hiding her pregnancy from immigration officials.

Well, someone has to be level-headed in these matters. Kris did the math then broke the news: no prince. We're just regular Americans. Turns out Christine married a fellow Dane, Christian Nielsen, and their son Valdemar was born in 1895. But what happened to this boy, also called Walter? Did he run away from home because his dad was crazy? Maybe he died from hypothermia after rescuing a friend in a river, as one story went. We couldn't find any record beyond his birth until we looked through a dusty ledger at the Bethania Lutheran Church. The beautiful handwriting was in Danish but finally Kris spotted Valdemar Nielsen, son of Christian and Christine, who died in the spring of 1910. We were thrilled to see his name, but also felt sad. What happened? He was only 15. The cemetery didn't have any burial record.

For two days we hung out in Racine with wonderful family, all new to me. I learned that Christine's favorite flowers were violets gathered in the spring by her children. Bill drove us by her boarding house where she had had chickens and a garden, and cooked for eleven Danish men fresh off the boat. She listed herself as a widow when, in fact, Christian was in an asylum for 25 years. In Bill's kitchen -- which overlooked a beautiful and stormy Lake Michigan -- we scoured family letters, documents and photos, shared stories, laughed, and grieved a little. At the library Kris and I searched old newspapers on microfilm. Those things are hard to read, but we finally saw where an "undersheriff" took our gr.grandfather Christian to the State Insane Asylum. Then at last we discovered the obit for Walter. He died in St. Luke's hospital from "a lingering illness." Bill returned to the cemetery with these details and found Walter's grave and cause of death: pneumonia.

We still have many questions, such as, why was Christian "adjudged insane" on his daughter's 3rd birthday? But we're happy to have found Valdemar's resting place. One photo shows an earnest young man who would bring his mother wildflowers. He had three younger siblings and may well have braved an icy river to rescue one of them. Hypothermia untreated could have led to pneumonia. Bill is going to straighten the crooked head stone and we'd like to have a family reunion. I'd love to gather some violets for Christine, to put on her son's grave.

Her daughter Gertrude -- my grandmother -- wrote that Christine was "noble and kind" with the "God-given strength of a Viking Pioneer in Amerika." I'll say.

"Son of C & C Nielsen" 1895-1910

controversial book covers #1: no boys with knives!

2010-10-16T18:23:00.000-07:00

True story!
In 1818 pirates attacked the Spanish owned village of Monterey, California then continued down the coast blasting cannons at various missions. One of the two ships was a 42-gun frigate captained by the cruel Argentinian privateer, Hippolyte de Bouchard. The other captain was Peter Corney a British officer who, lucky for me, turned out to have a way with words.

I say lucky, because he wrote of these dastardly deeds in the primly titled Early Northern Pacific Voyages, published in 1896. He made it sound like a travel article for Sunset Magazine, but nooo, these were bad guys. When I discovered his thesis I thought, perfect! I'd always wanted to know about pirates from my native state, especially because we now had two little boys. They hated reading so I hoped that if I could just tell a story with cannons and sharks and dead bodies, maybe just maybe they'd be enticed to read a few chapters.

So I wrote The Stowaway: A Tale of California Pirates under the guidance of my pirate-y editor Regina Griffin. Main character is 11-year-old Carlito, a Spaniard who sneaks aboard the frigate. The original cover is lovely [PHOTO, top left], but I was hoping for something gritty and dreadful. I didn't complain because, gosh, it's such a thrill to have a book published. But when Scholastic told me they'd be reprinting the paperback with a new cover I said, "Oh! Oh! Please make Carlito dirty and scared."

The artist, Craig Nelson, did better than that. Not only was Carlito's shirt torn, ragged and dirty he looked terrified and was holding a knife. I loved it. Drama. Surely it would tempt boys to pick up the book. Well ... [big sigh here] ... we were informed that certain principals in certain school districts would never allow a book into their curriculum with a cover that depicted violence such as this. The pub date was near so instead of redoing everything, the knife was painted out [PHOTO, lower left]. At least we didn't have to give Carlito a clean shirt!

An encouraging note: Despite the cover Parents Magazine named The Stowaway a "riveting drama" and A Best Pick for 1995.

life's small pleasures & My Darlin' Clementine

2010-10-03T11:06:00.000-07:00

My husband and I have a saying when we're feeling discouraged by world headlines, or I'm bummed by another rejection, or we're missing our sons: "Okay, let's find an LSP!" -- Life's Small Pleasure. We're not as flowery as Anne Shirley of Green Gables, but seriously sometimes all it takes to feel better about life is to get outside and hear birds singing--or take a picnic to a soccer match and watch a friend's son play his heart out.

It was 91 degrees yesterday in Boise, Idaho. Parents were cheering from the sidelines, the boys ran the field in the happy clustering I remember from our sons' games. One of the kids wore bright yellow shoes--which I thought showed guts and creativity--and Nathan scored a goal. The LSPs were adding up.

But what a surprise when my friend's daughter, Katie, showed me a copy of My Darlin' Clementine. She explained she was reading it for her 5th Grade class in Bellevue, and even had some questions for the author. I'm stoked this book about Idaho history is being used in schools. LSP times ten!

So it was a beautiful Saturday. We went home to our goldens who shook themselves from their nap to greet us. While my husband was cooking dinner, we enjoyed the best LSP: a phone call from Seattle where our sons and their sweethearts were about to watch the sunset. Sunset as in sunshine, a bonus for that rainy city. We smiled about their afternoon together, especially when one of them posted a terrific photo on Facebook.

PHOTO above: on the soccer field with Jessie [L] and Katie, holding Clementine.

pets as characters: how Cleopatra got her leopard

2010-09-21T16:42:00.000-07:00

with my leopards Poppy & Daisy

Kids often write me about their pets, listing their names and mischief, and they ask about mine. I didn't realize how much animals mean to some children until these words from an 11-year-old reader: He described his dog as his "very best friend in the whole world" and how every night they slept in the same bed. At the end of his letter the boy wrote that his mother used to be his best friend, but a few months earlier she had died of cancer.

My heart was wrenched. Ever since, I've made a point of having a dog or two, and often a cat, in my stories. So no matter what might happen to a character, good or bad, a devoted pet will be there to comfort the reader. Unless writing of a historical event, I won't let any animals die. All dogs and kitties live happily ever after, birds too!

When I was researching Cleopatra I thought, hmm, what kid wouldn't love to have a big cuddly purring leopard for a friend. So I gave her one! You can see Arrow with its jeweled collar on the cover [ABOVE left] of The Royal Diaries - Cleopatra VII, Daughter of the Nile, Egypt, 57 B.C. I love how artist Tim O'Brien painted a golden-retriever size cat standing beside the Egyptian princess, both so regal. He nailed it.

My goldies, Poppy and Daisy, are as tall as Arrow when they're dragging me to the park but most of the time they just lie around [PHOTO ABOVE right]. They are our family's loyal and cherished best friends.

little boys playing in a lake & the idea for "Jenny of the Tetons"

2010-09-06T07:23:00.000-07:00


Jenny Lake, Wyoming

Grand Teton National Park was supposed to be a three-hour drive from our home in Pocatello, Idaho, but with two toddlers in the backseat it took twice that long ... diaper-changes, someone was thirsty, a moose was spotted. Finally, before too many squabbles, we reached a beautiful picnic beach at Jenny Lake [PHOTO, left]. I marveled that such a pristine spot was named after a woman and asked at the visitor's center about her identity.

A ranger explained Jenny had been a Shoshone Indian married to an English fur trapper named Beaver Dick Leigh during the 1870s. Not only is the neighboring Leigh Lake named after him, he kept a journal of their life together with their children. My imagination went wild. What was it like hiking with five kids in the wilderness while being pregnant? Living in a tipi during blizzards? While our boys threw stones in the lake and splashed each other, I wondered if Jenny was another mother lost to history or was there a story to be told?

I'd been a newspaper reporter and book reviewer, but had never written a novel. Didn't know how or where to start! In the gift shop I bought maps, nature guides, and historical accounts about the tribes, then hauled everything to the car with the usual plunder of candy and T-shirts. On the long drive back to Pocatello, ideas percolated. By the time the boys were down for "naps" [ha! that's a joke] I was on the phone with the archivist at the University of Wyoming. I asked how I might read Beaver Dick's diaries and said I was writing a book called Jenny of the Tetons, a title that just that instant popped into my head.

A few days later, the mailman delivered a hefty package. Inside were xeroxes of Dick's letters and journals with a note from the archivist: "$10.40 please." Wow! I spread out the maps on the kitchen table and began tracing every canyon, creek and river mentioned in the diaries. Soon I had a picture of Jenny's life with her mountain man and began to write, opening each chapter with his words. His spelling was atrocious which I kept intact to show kids that you don't have to be perfect to tell a story.

Jenny of the Tetons (Great Episodes)took nine months to write and research. I visited the Shoshone-Bannock reservation where elder Emma Dann demonstrated how to raise a tipi and what Jenny would have used as diapers: the soft pulpy bark from sagebrush! I interviewed Maude Miner, one of the first white babies born in Idaho Territory, and who had met Beaver Dick as a child. When I asked what he was like, she said that during his visits her mother would have to open all the windows: "Sometimes he was clean, sometimes he wa'rnt," she explained.

After a discouraging string of rejections, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich published Jenny in 1989. Then to my utter amazement The Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators [SCBWI] gave it the Golden Kite Award for fiction. It was a grand beginning!

orthodontist's waiting room & the story behind "Earthquake at Dawn"

2010-08-19T12:31:00.000-07:00

Having braces at age 40 was a bummer, but Dr. Neufeld's waiting room made all those months worthwhile: he had great magazines! People, US Weekly, and home improvement stuff. One morning before my appointment, I became engrossed in a National Geographic article about the San Francisco earthquake of 1906. One of the black-and-white photos mesmerized me.

It showed a team of beautiful horses that had been killed by falling bricks, their wagon covered in debris. I'd grown up in California, but earthquake reports had always been sanitized, meaning children and animals didn't die. Certainly not pretty horses delivering milk for breakfast. Another photo was of 22-year old Edith Irvine, whose camera captured this and other powerful images from that terrible morning of April 18th.

The magazine also printed --for the first time -- excerpts from a 33-page letter written by another young woman who survived the earthquake, Mary Exa Campbell. She described looters being shot, the fires, and babies being born in the park, including triplets. By the time I was reclined in the dental chair, a story was whizzing through my brain. At home, I called National Geographic. They gave me phone numbers of Edith's nephew, Jim Irvine, and Mary Exa's relatives who graciously sent me her letter and a 1st person account by Jack London.

I was delirious with story-itis -- can that be a word? -- and couldn't wait to call my editor at Harcourt, Karen Grove. A tale to tell is the most exciting moment for a writer, especially with true-life characters and original source documents; yikes, it was fun. Jim Irvine drove to my house in Redlands, with old photos and letters -- in the 1800s his family had owned the great sheep ranch which eventually became one of the largest cities in California: Irvine.

The original cover of Earthquake at Dawn (Great Episodes)shows Edith Irvine with the horses in the background [ABOVE], and several of her photos are inside the book. I was thrilled when the Commonwealth Club of California honored it with the Silver Award for Juvenile Fiction in 1992.

a scary old house & the haunting of hillside school

2010-08-01T07:01:00.000-07:00

The old house was just uphill from the ocean in Manhattan Beach. As kids, we'd pass it on our walks to Becker's Bakery where we loaded up on sugar cookies, two for a nickel, then would run out to the end of the pier and back. On our way home we'd stop in front of the house. The place was scary: weeds in the sidewalk, windows boarded up. We dared each other to peek through the cracks. Once we heard a frightful moan and saw a figure creeping around inside, or at least we thought we did, so we raced away screaming.

The idea of an old mansion where strange things happen stayed with me through the years and inspired The Haunting of Hillside School. It's #4 in the Cabin Creek series where the cousins try to solve the mysterious music and a face at the window. My editor Kristin Earhart picked the name Hillside School, and it turns out practically every town in America has one by that name.

[PHOTO ABOVE]: In 1963 I convinced my friends Chris and Martha to pose by the broken door so I could take their picture. We were in 7th grade. The image is too small to see our little paper bags from Becker's Bakery.

a real mystery in our living room & the secret of the junkyard shadow

2010-07-18T14:33:00.000-07:00

One December night long ago, my little brother and I woke to a clunk and clanging. We lived at the beach and from our open bedroom window could hear the familiar sounds of the surf and foghorn, but this noise was new. Maybe Santa had come early! It was almost Christmas. Our parents were asleep, apparently not aware of the commotion. We crept out to the living room to investigate, leaving our sister safe in her crib.

Santa had been there! But instead of toys he had left behind a bunch of black boxes in various shapes. We opened the lids, astonished to find a shiny musical instrument in each box, nestled in blue velvet. There was a trumpet, a trombone, flute, clarinet, and a saxophone. We bumped into some brass cymbals, which finally roused the household.

I don't remember my parents' reaction except that they called the police. After all, a stranger had broken into our home!

This curious event from my childhood inspired The Secret of the Junkyard Shadow. In this Cabin Creek adventure, folks are perplexed about broken items showing up on their porches in good repair. It takes much sleuthing for the cousins to solve this mystery, but a lot of nice things happen along the way.

Back to our living room. It turned out that a musician from a beach club had volunteered to deliver all the instruments to a friend's home. It was late and dark and he was on the wrong street. So when he found the house with the porch light on and the front door unlocked, he figured he'd found the right place.

p.s. I've been accused of stretching the truth to have fun with a story, but not here. Yesterday I verified this one with my mom while we were drinking coffee and playing Bananagrams. You can ask her :)

our 1st indepence day, philadelphia 1776

2010-07-04T08:22:00.000-07:00

On a hot and humid July 4th, 1776, a horseman brought worrisome news to Philadelphia: ships carrying 10,000 British soldiers had landed in New York. Redcoats were now camped on Staten Island, just one day's ride by horseback. Meanwhile, a printer named John Dunlap worked through the night making copies of the Americans' letter to King George III, their declaration of independence from England.

In Five Smooth Stones: Hope's Revolutionary War Diary, nine-year-old Hope and her mother sit in their garden, in the shade of their tall brick house. They read this letter to each other, which calls King George cruel and unfit to be the ruler of a free people. "Our country has a new name," Hope writes in her diary, "the United States of America. No longer will we call ourselves an English colony."

It took days for this news to reach every farm and village, but soon patriots were ringing bells from all the church steeples. They were reading the Declaration of Independence to one another, from courthouse steps and from the saddles of express riders stopping along dirt roads. With the exception of Loyalists, Americans were jubilant. They blasted cannons and tore down the royal flags of England, setting them on fire, and destroyed statues of King George. Blacksmiths carted away the chunks of iron to melt down for bullets to use against the enemy: This war for independence would continue until 1781.

Hope memorizes the words treasured by so many of us: "We hold these truths to be self-evident. All men are created equal. Their Creator gives them certain rights. Among these rights are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." Happy Independence Day, everyone!!

catalina island & my darlin' clementine

2010-06-20T06:19:00.000-07:00

In the summer after 6th grade my family and I took the ferry from Long Beach, California, 26 miles across the channel to Catalina Island. Destination: Girl Scout camp at the beautiful Emerald Bay. We unloaded my sleeping bag then picknicked on oranges and peanut butter sandwiches before I waved them good-bye.

This photo above shows me in my uniform ready for the nightly campfire of driftwood. I loved these sunsets on the beach: scarfing gooey s'mores and belting out folksongs with my new best friends. One of my favorites was "Oh My Darling Clementine!", a strangely sad tune. The verse that got me was Ruby lips above the water, blowing bubbles soft and fine, but alas I was no swimmer so I lost my Clementine. The zinger was the last one: How I missed her! How I missed her, how I missed my Clementine, but I kissed her little sister, I forgot my Clementine. WHAT!? Who was this cad that would kiss his dead girlfriend's sister? And did Clementine really drown? I wanted to know.

So a few years ago when my publisher at the time, Jean Feiwel, suggested I write a novel based on this ballad I was raring to go. I set the story in 1866 in the fictional Nugget, based on the wild mining town of Idaho City which is just up the mountain from my home in Boise. It was a blast pondering the life of 16-year old Clementine and mixing in some mystery and romance. My editor at Holiday House, Leanna Petronella, helped me shape the adventure and we titled it My Darlin' Clementine.

A happy postcript: The Idaho Commission for Libraries has selected Clementine as Idaho's book to be featured in the Pavilion of States on the Mall at the National Book Festival in Washington, D.C. September 25, 2010. I'm thrilled and honored by this recognition. And it all began at Girl Scout camp!

california beach girls & bronte's book club

2010-06-06T14:37:00.000-07:00

In 1960, in California, a few of us neighborhood kids started the Manhattan Beach 4th Street Book and Snack Club. That wasn't its official name, but that's how we thought of it. We were nine years old. With younger siblings tagging along, we rode our bikes to the pier then up the hill to the library where whispering--quiet whispering--was strictly enforced. There we roamed the stacks until we each found a book to check out, its plastic cover then crackling against our handlebars as we rode home, fast, because of the treats that awaited us. It was the best part of the club, eating our snacks while looking out at the ocean. Though we never actually discussed the stories we read, we sure had fun.

That year Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O'Dell was published. I fell in love with the Indian girl Karana, who had been abandoned on San Nicholas Island in the 1830s. Based on a true story, it sparked my imagination because the Channel Islands were practically out our front door. When it wasn't foggy we could see the purple hump of Catalina, 26 miles out; further southwest was San Nicholas where the real Juana Maria had lived for 18 years. How I wanted to canoe there with my friends and live as she had with her dog and wild birds.

Fast forward to being a grownup. I set Bronte's Book Club in the fictional Gray's Beach, a composite of all the coastal towns I had lived in. So when Bronte starts her book club as a way to make friends, she choses her favorite story: Island of the Blue Dolphins. The discussions don't go quite as planned--there's some bickering and tension--but eventually the five girls learn how to trust and to care for one another.

A dog also joins Bronte's book club. Dogs are perfect for these sorts of gatherings because they eat spilled snacks, they're good listeners, and they don't interrupt.

PHOTO: five best friends just after a swim, summer of 1964 (I'm 2nd from the left), at 4th Street in Manhattan Beach. ABOVE: This cover for Bronte's Book Club is one of my favorites because it's cheerful & fun; my editors Regina Griffin and Leanna Petronella were also cheerful and fun (and a bit sassy).

in praise of children's librarians

2010-05-24T13:29:00.000-07:00

One of the best family vacations we had was a solid month at the Jersey shore, when the boys were 8 and 10. Our cottage was walking distance to the boardwalk and the beach, and a block from the Ocean City Free Public Library.

First thing after unpacking, we walked along the railroad tracks to town and got our library cards. One rainy afternoon I was checking out another armload of books and chatting with the children's librarian as she date-stamped our Berenstain Bears' and I-Can-Reads. Suddenly a shrill fire alarm made me jump.

"Don't worry," she said. "It's just kids."

"Typical," I said, proud that my sons were in a corner reading. "Some parents are so irresponsible."

The words hadn't left my mouth before two young boys flew out of a conference room at full speed. My boys. They squeezed in beside me, covering their ears from the noise. "Mom, we opened a door to go outside, and something happened. Are we in trouble?"

Soon enough a janitor reset the alarm and all was quiet. I was mortified. My apologies to the librarian were profuse.

Without missing a beat with her date stamp she said "My dear, what would the world be without the curiosity of little boys?"

I stopped holding my breath. With her few words, she had told me she understood.

The next day the sun was out so we headed to the beach with a picnic. While my husband and I spread our towels in the sand, the boys raced each other to the waves, peeling off their t-shirts as they ran. In a wild shout of abandon they threw them like frisbees to watch them land on the water. But within moments the waves had swallowed those shirts and that was the last we saw of them.

"WHAT were you guys THINKING?" I yelled.

"We wanted to see what would happen, Mom. We're really sorry."

So when writing Across the Wide and Lonesome Prairie, I couldn't resist letting Benny throw his shirt in the Platte River. Readers often ask why Hattie's little brother did that because, of course, he never saw it again. I answer, "Benny just wanted to see what would happen."

What would the world be without the curiosity of little boys and patient librarians?

a sick puppy helps with a pirate story

2010-05-10T15:26:00.000-07:00

It was raining when the boys told us our new puppy wouldn't eat his dinner or drink any water. We found him curled in the back of his dog house, eyes closed, shivering. Russell was a golden retriever. He was our family's first pet and just three months old, but already he had won our hearts.

I rushed him to the vet. A blood test revealed he had a virus of the digestive system, Parvo, often fatal to young puppies. When told that Russell might not survive the night, I held my breath until I ran out to the car then burst into tears.

Glad that the boys were at home with their dad, I lay my head on the steering wheel and cried. "I hate Parvo," I said. "Parvo is terrible." Hmm. I sat up. The word had a certain ring to it. Said it aloud several times. It could be a name for a bad guy, say, a terrible no good mean ugly pirate.

I drove home in the rain, worried for Russell but now eager to reach my desk. At the time I was writing a novel for Scholastic: The Stowaway: A Tale of California Pirates. It was based on the true story of the French privateer Hyppolyte de Bouchard, who raided the California coast in 1818. He was the cruel captain of the 42-gun frigate, Argentina. I'd been trying to come up with a name for one of his swarthy crew members. Nothing seemed to fit until that trip to the vet.

So in the story Parvo met an untimely end, but back in the real world our sick puppy survived. Russell was to be our family's gallant companion for 13 1/2 years; there's even a photo of the two of us on The Stowaway's original cover from 1995. What a good friend he was.

PHOTOS: [left] Russell, age 13, inspecting our tomato garden; [above] cover of The Stowaway: A Tale of California Pirates, edited by my favorite pirate editor Regina Griffin.

tom sawyer's island & the secret of robber's cave

2010-04-25T07:34:00.000-07:00

Disneyland in the late 50s and 60s was paradise. No crowds or lines during weekdays. My siblings and I ran amok in Frontier Land and hid from Captain Hook's pirate ship as it circled the lagoon. We caught real fish from Tom Sawyer's dock with bamboo poles & string--a photo in our family album is proof!

Lucky for us, our parents believed a well-rounded education meant skipping school now and then, for a day of playing make-believe. They dressed us in red sweaters so they could spot us from a distance and packed a sensible lunch of peanut butter on whole wheat with apples and a thermos of milk. Anaheim was a short drive from Manhattan Beach in our '55 Mercury, so there was only minor pinching and pummeling in the back seat. By the time we saw the Matterhorn from the highway, then Sleeping Beauty's castle as we pulled into the parking lot, we were ready to explode.

What a blast! This photo above shows me at age ten, in my party shoes and red-plaid skirt [which matched our Thermos], camera bag over my shoulder, entering a cave on Tom Sawyer's Island. My brother, sister and I crept through the caverns and popped out from dark corners to scare each other. We jumped on the swinging bridge with delighted terror, watching for crocodiles in the river.

Never did I dream that as a grown-up I'd be writing stories for children based on our fantasies at Disneyland. My first Cabin Creek Mystery: The Secret of Robber's Cave is about young siblings exploring just such an island and cave [cover above]. I love my parents for encouraging us to play and pretend.

When our sons were in 1st & 3rd grades, I told their teacher they wouldn't be in school the following day because we were going to Disneyland. "Wonderful!" she said. "Never let school get in the way of an education."

So the tradition continues. Thanks, Mom and Dad. And thank you, Mrs. Kimm, from Redlands Christian School.

a scary chairlift ride & the blizzard on blue mountain

2010-04-13T10:48:00.000-07:00

Some scary things from childhood stay with you your whole life.

On one vacation in the 60s, my family skied in Sun Valley, Idaho. My little sister and I were on a chair lift half-way up Dollar Mountain when the girl in the chair ahead of ours, leaned way forward, as if trying to fix her safety strap. The next instant, she FELL 20? 30? feet, landing in a mangled sprawl on the slope. I have a vague memory of seeing blood and hearing her scream in agony, but maybe I'm making that part up. In any event, we heard later that she broke both her legs, and that pretty much cemented my fear of heights.

But why waste a terrifying experience! I drummed it up for The Blizzard on Blue Mountain, #5 in the Cabin Creek Mystery series. If you notice the cover [upper right], there's a broken chair lift. In the story Claire and her friend Sophie find themselves on the damaged chair, not realizing the danger. They hang on for their lives, their snowboards weighing them down. Their fright is what I imagined that girl on Dollar Mountain must have felt so many years ago.

PHOTO [upper left]: my brother and I getting ready to hit the slopes in Snow Valley, California. Check out our chic pants & boots.

40 eggs for George Washington's cake

2010-04-03T17:16:00.000-07:00

I love wandering around historical sites when planning a story for children -- from ghost towns in the West to the tenements of New York City's lower Eastside. Rangers have sublime details, such as how to load cannons or what happens when a great white shark rams a row boat.

But some of the best stuff is in the gift shops. When researching the Revolutionary War, I bought a quill pen and ink jug, an American flag with thirteen stars, and fife and drum music from Colonial Williamsburg -- I love a patriotic march! These trinkets and music inspire me when I finally sit down to write. At the cash register in a Pennsylvania store, I found a recipe printed by the Women's Committee of the Valley Forge Historical Society: Martha Washington's Great Cake.

I have trouble following recipes, but this one seemed dangerously simple:
40 eggs
4 pounds butter
4 pounds sugar powdered
5 pounds flour
5 pounds fruit
mace & nutmeg
wine & some fresh brandy

Wait! 40 eggs, really? I checked with the historical society and was told that in Martha's day these were "pullet eggs", about the size of a child's thumb. I didn't dare try the recipe myself, but thought perhaps Abigail could help Mrs. Washington in The Winter of Red Snow.

So in the story, Abby and her sister Elisabeth visit neighbors asking for eggs while Papa waits in the wagon with a crate of wood ashes in which to carry them. The next day -- February 22, 1778 -- is General George Washington's 46th birthday. Not only does he have a very fine cake, it is recorded that he was serenaded by an artillery band with drums and fifes. Some say this was the first public celebration of his birthday.

The moral of the story is to go shopping!

the spark of an idea: the winter of red snow

2010-03-26T06:54:00.000-07:00

A small piece of paper in a display case caught my eye.

I was in the visitor's center at Valley Forge National Park in Pennsylvania, glad for the air conditioning. It was Spring of 1994 and unseasonably warm. As I waited in line for the water fountain, I studied this piece of paper with faded handwriting. It was a receipt showing that General George Washington had paid a laundress 40 shillings a month during the winter encampment of 1777-1778.

Boing! Suddenly the Revolutionary War came into focus. I could relate to laundry! Ideas and questions zoomed through my head. Who was this laundress? What would it have been like to wash the General's shirts and see Martha baking a cake? While I went nuts in the gift shop buying books and maps and other doodads [including two Almond Joys], a story emerged: a young girl living in Valley Forge watches the Continental Army march into her peaceful valley during a blizzard. Many of the soldiers are barefoot, their bleeding feet leave blood in the snow ...

Wow! That gory image could be the title: The Winter of Red Snow.

Once home, I called my editor Ann Reit, to discuss the new Dear America series she and Scholastic publisher Jean Feiwell had invited me to help start. "Do it," Ann said. "Any more ideas?"

Off the top of my head I asked, "What about a girl on the Oregon Trail heading West?"

"Do it," she said again. Thus began another diary: Across the Wide and Lonesome Prairie, but that's another story!

BOOK JACKETS above: [left] original from 1996; [right] new for Fall 2010 re-issue

a surprise at Hanover College

2010-03-17T14:47:00.000-07:00

I've just returned from my first visit to Hanover College, a beautiful campus on the Ohio River in Indiana. Old brick buildings, wide lawns under trees still bare from winter. I was privileged to be part of a symposium with Dr. Sylvester Johnson and Dr. Howard Jones who spoke on American Exceptionalism. I got to talk about the fun in writing kids' books.

The surprise came when I met some vivacious Education students, who had started reading my Dear America books when they were nine years old, specifically The Winter of Red Snow. They talked about wanting to be teachers and possibly using my books in their own classrooms.

Seriously I choked up, deeply moved. Since writing my first novel in 1987, I've prayed for my future readers. Sometimes my prayers are specific--for happiness, health, for a comforting faith--but often the prayers have no words. They're just a yearning that my stories might bring a bit of fun to a child's life.

What serendipity to meet these thoughtful and passionate students, future teachers!

PHOTOS [top left]: freezing by the Ohio River with new friend. She has a dog and loves to read! [top right]: students Natasha Guffey, Marissa Walker--their imaginations and great sense of humor will make them great teachers. [bottom]: enthusiastic readers at our tea and book signing, including three brave boys!