writer's block & Robert Louis Stevenson

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.