A Swell Way to Keep From Working

This past Tuesday, on my way to a microbiology conference, I spotted a man on the train wearing a t-shirt with the word “mentor” printed in large letters across the back. His pants had fallen down below his waist. The view was unpleasant, and I felt sad for his mentee.

Some takeaways from the conference: harmful bacteria can hang around on airplane tray tables, arm rests, and window shades for days; despite early evidence to the contrary, the microscopic bugs that can cause Legionnaire’s disease survive in windshield wiper fluid; we all need to open our windows more; there’s no difference in the fungal population of men’s vs. women’s public restrooms; never schedule phone interviews about quantum computing during microbiology meetings.

These past few weeks I’ve been interviewing experts on wearable medical technology, smart cars, snakes, and urban sensors, and mostly writing fiction. Here are a few recent articles:

An interview with Brett Doar, who builds Rube Goldberg machines for a living.

A story about a group of young engineers who built a more practical robotic arm.

This is an older one, about a Dalek builder, that I never got around to posting. My favorite anecdote, which did not fit in the final article: At meetings, Dalek builders sometimes sit inside their creations, drive around, and mingle with each other as alien robots. They even speak in Dalek screech.  

And a father and his giant Transformer costume.  

In between the writing and the talking, I helped my kids put together a pretty sick ninja turtle zip line in the backyard. Then we got to show it off to a friend of mine who was visiting Boston for the night on business. He was impressed, I think. My mental or intellectual relationship with this individual is kind of strange. When I lift my car keys to a subway turnstile or try to swipe a card to enter my house, I think of him. And when I write to him about one of these incidents, and the fact that he popped into my head after it happened, he agrees that he was the right person to tell.

There Was Something He Felt Like Doing

A personal record last week: Ten separate talks, plus eight revision workshops, spread between seven different schools and the lovely Massachusetts Reading Association conference. At the latter I spoke about engaging boys as readers. One of the five or six tricks or techniques I discussed: Never ever, ever, ever talk about your feelings. If the narrator discusses matters of the heart too openly and frequently, the book risks losing the boys. Or most of them, anyway. 

I don't mean to imply that a great book for boys should be without heart or feeling. On the contrary. Any great book must have heart. But with boys I think it has to be subtle. 

For instance, here's a little passage from the wonderful Jerry Spinelli novel Maniac Magee:

"Maniac just stood there a minute.  There was something that he felt like doing, and maybe he would have, but the lady turned and went back inside her house and shut the door.  So he walked away.”

He wanted to thank her or hug her. But he'd never admit it. Oh no. And here's another, from Rodman Philbrick's classic, Freak the Mighty:

"It’s time to go home, Gram gets nervous if I’m not back before dark.  Everything seems really great, just like Gwen says, except when I lie down on my bed it hits me, boom, and I’m crying like a baby.  And the really weird thing is, I’m happy."

The emotion comes upon him inexplicably. As a reader, you've probably already guessed that he's happy, since he's made a new friend, but he sure doesn't know, or does not want to admit it, until he's forced to confess, since he's crying and all. 

Finally, I found the classic My Side of the Mountain in my father-in-law's collection. This novel follows a boy who runs away from his overcrowded NYC apartment to live in the woods of the Catskills. When the main character writes about his first night in the woods, he very reluctantly admits how he felt:

"So I sat tight, and shivered and shook - and now I am able to say - I cried a little bit."

Much later in the novel, at a happy moment, when the season changes, we get this:

Scatalogical Stravinsky and the Taste of Crayons

This past weekend, at the Rhode Island Festival of Children’s Books and Authors, I had an amazing time talking with a bunch of great authors and illustrators. So, what do writers talk about when they hang out together? Books, naturally, and rainbow loom. And whether one should drop lemon wedges into glasses of water or just squeeze in the juice. And this guy, the Irish novelist Flann O'Brien, on the left. Another writer turned out to be a fan and I don’t often meet too many lovers of The Dalkey Archive. At one point, a few of us were stuck trying to remember the library song from Beauty and the Beast. That's when I knew I was with my kind of people. The author/illustrator Laurie Keller and I also had a great conversation about the necessity of working on your weird stuff, the art or writing out there on the fringes, which is often the material that keeps you inspired. So I’m going to spend a little time on the adventures of a character named Tim this week. He’s very odd.

Speaking of illustrators, a few months ago I met the artist Greg Hildebrandt, who, along with his brother, created the iconic Star Wars movie poster with Vader looming in the background. At the time I was actually interviewing an amazing kid named Justin Beckerman, who built his own one-person submarine, and kind of thinks with his hands. If Justin wants to understand how a motor works, he doesn’t look it up online. He takes the motor apart, moves things around, cleans different parts, replaces things, and then just gets it. The final story is here, and I probably could have written it without visiting, but I just had to meet this kid. Naturally, he was standing outside in his driveway taking apart a broken jet ski when I arrived (at night!), and it was quite a bonus when he took me next door to meet Hildebrandt, his neighbor.

The artist shared a few great stories about his youth, including the time he ate crayons because he wanted to know what the colors tasted like, and this little pearl of wisdom about creative work:

“It’s not all about inspiration. It’s about slow, steady, forward movement.”

Now on to the latest installment of Emersonian Reading Series. At the Providence Atheneaeum, a wonderful library, I read the first few pages of the famous composer Igor Stravinsky’s autobiography and found this delightful passage:

"...one of my earliest memories of sound will seem somewhat odd...I can see it now. An enormous peasant seated on the stump of a tree. The sharp resinous tang of fresh-cut wood in my nostrils.  The peasant simply clad in a short red shirt. His bare legs covered with reddish hair, on his feet birch sandals, on his head a mop of hair as thick and as red as his beard - not a white hair, yet an old man. He was dumb, but he had a way of clicking his tongue very noisily, and the children were afraid of him. So was I. But curiosity used to triumph over fear. The children would gather round him. Then, to amuse them, he would begin to sing. This song was composed of two syllables, the only ones he could pronounce...he made them alternate with incredible dexterity in a very rapid tempo. He used to accompany this clucking in the following way: pressing the palm of his right hand under his left armpit, he would work his left arm with a rapid movement, making it press on the right hand."

That's right, ladies and gentleman, one of history's greatest composers was drawn to music because of some guy making fart noises.

A nice image early in Tom Clancy’s The Hunt for Red October:

"The water was coated with the bilge oil of numberless ships, filth that would not evaporate in the low temperatures and left a black ring on the rocky walls of the fjord as though from the bath of a slovenly giant."

A fragment from a great passage in one of Roberto Bolano’s big books:

"...and he dreamed that to escape the bullets he ducked underwater and let himself be carried along by the current, coming up only to breathe and going under again, and in this way he traveled miles and miles of river, sometimes holding his breath for three minutes or four or five..."

And here’s the Irish playwright JM Synge, in his memoirs of time spent on the Aran Islands, noting what sounds very much like an early minimalist running trend:

"Michael walks so fast when I am out with him that I cannot pick up my steps, and the sharp-edged fossils which abound in the limestone have cut my shoes to pieces. The family held a consultation on them last night, and in the end it was decided to make me a pair of pampooties, which I have been wearing today among the rocks. They consist simply of a piece of raw cowskin, with the hair outside, laced over the toe and round the heel with two ends of fishing-line that work round and are ties above the instep."

Is anyone surprised the Irish were early proponents of minimalist running, though? They invent everything first.

Finally, after much internal reflection, I have arrived at an answer to a question a budding writer named John posed to me earlier this year during a school visit: How do you research a subject that is entirely fictional? So, to back up, in my talks I stress the importance of becoming an expert in whatever subject you happen to be writing about. Cryptography or baking supply chain logistics, for example. But John was confused because he wanted to write about mages and mages don’t really exist. To most people, anyway. So when John first asked me the question, I suggested gathering as much information as he could from other works of fiction.

Now I’ve got a better idea. John, you might not like this, as it does mean more work, but I think you have to write the book you would need to read to write your book. Hmmm....let's try that again. So, to become an expert on an imaginary person, place, or thing, you have to really think through and flesh out that subject. If you want to write a book about an alien planet, you have to build that planet in your head. As for mages, I’d at least sketch out The Complete History of Mages or Mages 101 or The Guide to Becoming a Mage, or maybe even all three, before you start writing your book. Look at that Rowling lady. The imaginary book Tales of Beedle the Bard became so real in her head that she actually sat down and wrote it out!

Sorry if that’s disappointing John, but I could tell you were a bright kid, so I’m sure you’re capable. 

Oh, and in other news, I found out one of my articles from last year was cited as a kind of honorable mention in the Best American Science & Nature Writing 2013. So that's nice.

A Human Catapult and Super Mario Kart

Earlier today, at a great school here in Massachusetts, I spoke with a few hundred kids about reading, writing, science, and everything in between. At the start I was telling them how I love writing stories about smart, slightly weird people building weird, fantastic things. We discussed fast furniture and homemade Iron Man suits, but here are two other recent examples, both from Popular Science. 

In one case, a group of young engineers converted an actual go-kart park into a live, realistic rendition of the video game Super Mario Kart. The technology, based around the FIRST Robotics Competition Kit, is amazing, but my favorite part of the story is how they walked into the go-kart park in their white lab coats, introduced themselves to the manager, explained their goals, and asked if they could use one of his carts. Amazingly, the guy agreed. For more, read the story here:

http://www.popsci.com/diy/article/2013-04/real-super-mario-go-karts

And here's another wonderfully odd one. An engineer named Jason Bell - who also built an automated tow rope for his kids so they don't have to trudge through the snow up their backyard hill while sledding - designed and constructed a human catapult to launch BASE jumpers off a bridge. I know. It sounds insane. But Bell was incredibly careful and paid a great deal of attention to safety. That story is here:

http://www.popsci.com/diy/article/2013-05/you-built-what-human-catapult

Interactive Chat & Writing Under a Van

This Sunday at 6:30 EDT, in advance of the 101st anniversary of the ship's demise, I'll be hosting an online interactive chat about Titanic through a very cool new platform called shindig. It's pretty simple. When you sign in, the page turns into a beautiful library, and my bearded mug sits in a medium-sized window in the middle. I'll have some slides in another little window next to me as I talk about Titanic and how I went about writing and researching Dangerous Waters. You can ask questions via chat or texts or even raise your hand so that we can talk directly to each other.

I'll also run a trivia contest, and I'll send the winner a free signed copy of the book.

The sign-up page is here. Join me!

Now on to other news. I visited a great school in New Hampshire last week, and in the flow of the talks, I asked one of my favorite questions: Where do you write?

As usual, the kids were reluctant to admit to any odd spots, but once a few classmates revealed their own creative hide-outs, they were all thrusting their hands in the air. Their answers ranked right up there with some of the best. My favorites:

A young man named Sebastian detailed the merits of a small, crater-like hole in his backyard. The hole is large enough for him to sit in comfortably and not terribly clean. Yet Sebastian is so dedicated to this writing spot that he even dug out after the big snowstorms this winter.

Ivy talked about how she used to sneak into the shed at her Dad's house. The space was dark and quiet and she sat on the floor between to old rusted bikes to work on her stories.

Finally, Jason. He's a tall sixth grader, and his teacher tells me he's a great writer. Jason talked about how he used to climb under his Dad's van out in the driveway. He'd lie on the pavement and write, then scurry out as fast as he could if he heard the engine start up.

"But you don't do it anymore?" I asked.

"No," he said.

"Why not?" I asked.  "Too dangerous?"

"No," he said. "I grew. Now I don't fit."

Shinobi vs. Ninja in Newton

When I realized that my Friday afternoon talk at Bigelow Middle School was the last thing standing between 200 kids and their winter vacation, I was a little nervous. I was counting on a full scale revolt. Or at least a round of restless twitching in the audience. After a few stories about dinosaurs, fast furniture, flying cars and brain surgery, though, the students settled in just fine.

There were more than a few young writers in the crowd, and in case they're reading, I'd like to follow up with several of them:

To the two boys who were about to show me your funny story: I'd love to read it. As I told you, that's how I started out as a writer. My friends and I spun together ridiculous little tales in between class.

To the girl who wanted me to complete her story: We talked about this already, but that's your story, and you should finish it! I'm sure you'll do a better job of it than I could.

To the amateur ninja expert: Thanks for asking about my still-in-the-works ninja book. As we both know, ninjas were known as shinobi, and they didn't always dress in the black costumes we see today. They disguised themselves as farmers, merchants, and other everyday folk. In truth ninjas were more like spies than warriors. All these kinds of historical details will be part of the book, so check back here for updates, and thanks for coming up to say hello.

Finally, Mr. Mogenson, I think you should wear that jacket every day. And thanks for inviting me in to your wonderful school!

Visiting Martinson

Thank you to the fifth grade students and teachers at Martinson Elementary School for inviting me in for a few wonderful workshops earlier this month. I'm still waiting to see how your stories turn out! There were some great ideas, including a daring window entrance, hovering helicopters, and an octogenarian villain. The sensory details you all came up with were fabulous as well.

Given the recent blizzard, and the days off from school, I'm hoping a few of you managed to finish. (Although I imagine the tree lovers among you couldn't climb up to your favorite writing spot.) If you do write those last few lines, don't forget to send me a copy. And remember: revise, revise, revise.

The Hobomock Scribes

Last week I enjoyed a wonderful visit to Hobomock Elementary School. Thanks to the teachers for welcoming me and to all the students for coming up with such great stories and sensory details for our adventures. I was also grateful to the two intrepid reporters from the school newspaper who asked such incisive questions during our interview. Normally I'm the one doing the interviewing, so I was a little nervous, but thanks to my entourage everything went smoothly. The fourth-grade PR guys filtered the questions brilliantly. My bodyguard kept me feeling safe, our invisible but loquacious ninja made sure there were no awkward silences, and of course my chief-of-staff managed it all wonderfully. Too bad we got in trouble for laughing too much.

As for the previous day's lunch crew...awkward? No, I don't think so.

If any of you are reading this, remember: REVISE. Then revise again. And again...

Writing on Menus

This is not a restaurant review, although the now defunct VietGrill here in Canton was a lovely spot for soup. Every order came with fresh cilantro and Vietnamese basil and lime and...wait, sorry, I forgot. Writing! I meant to write about writing. Specifically, first sentences.

When I talk to kids about their own writing, I emphasize that they shouldn't concern themselves with crafting a stunning first sentence right at the start. I'm sure some writers work this way, but I prefer to begin somewhere in the middle of a piece, or at least a few sentences on from the eventual opening line. I don't even start on the first page of a new journal or notebook. Instead I flip forward a few pages, and scribble on the early blanks much later. There's too much pressure in writing a perfect first line. And even when you do think you've got one, you'll probably end up changing it later.

Once the story I'm working on has started to take shape, I'll go back and work on or at least think about those first few sentences. Sometimes, though, those opening lines will just pop into my head at random. Normally I have a pen and paper handy for such occasions, but when I don't have my supplies, I grab whatever I can find. Scrap paper, newspapers, the back of a friend's hand...but not napkins. I don't understand the whole napkin sketch phenomenon. Every time I've tried to sketch something out on a napkin - like my invention for the greasy burger glove or the stand-up bathtub - the paper rips before I can scratch out a line. Maybe inventors have a special way of writing or something.

Anyway, back to that menu above. I was waiting to pick up some food, and at the time I was nearing the end of the first draft of my book The Truth About Santa. The first sentence - or "a" first sentence, anyway - popped into my head. Writing on the back of the owner's hand was out of the question, since I didn't know him too well, so I grabbed a spare menu and started writing. The scribbled version on the menu doesn't exactly replicate the final version, but the spirit of the idea is there. And you have to capture that spirit, whether you end up transcribing it onto the pages of a beautiful leather notebook, some cheap scrap paper, or one of your friends.

Captain Chicken at 826 Boston

826 Boston, the after-school writing program, has been in the news lately, and rightfully so. It's not surprising that the kids turn out such great work. The program is amazing and the instructors are inspired, enthusiastic, and smart. And what better front for a writing room than the Greater Boston Bigfoot Research Institute? I was lucky enough to be a guest instructor there last year, and it was incredible to see how they work, how they have the teaching of creative writing down to a science. I had a great time in my pirate story workshop helping the students develop their own stories, particularly the villains. One of my favorites was Captain Chicken, a humanoid, seaworthy fowl who has pens for hands – you know, since the pen is mightier than the sword. There were also a number of radioactive sea monsters. The influence of Captain Jack Sparrow and his adventures was hard to filter out, but overall the kids were very creative and surprisingly willing to work, given that they’d come in during a school vacation.

To learn more about 826 Boston, or lend your support, click here.  Also, the director, poet Daniel Johnston, has great taste in pens. The Pilot P-500 is unmatched. 

Where do you write?

Where do you write? I've been visiting a bunch of schools for the past few months to talk about reading, writing, and my new book, Dangerous Waters, and this question has turned up some wonderful answers. I try to encourage kids to find a spot in their home where they can work uninterrupted. Writing requires total focus, and it's hard to concentrate if your brothers and sisters (or, in my case, the kids) are running all around you. You need to find a spot to unplug, disconnect, and completely dedicate yourself to the assignment, whether it's a few pages for school or a novel-in-the-works.

My own spot is this horribly mundane, disorganized collection of tables and books and devices in the photo. I'd prefer dark wood and old leather, perhaps a collection of cloth-bound volumes with uncut pages in the background and a large window overlooking a tranquil body of water, but that's not happening. And it's not really necessary. I'd probably just stare at the water until I fell asleep. And the books would make me sneeze, I'm sure.

Back to the kids. And their answers. A few of my favorites:

-One girl said she works on her stairs. This sounds like a poor choice at first, but if you think about it, no one stops on the stairs. They pass by, heading up or down, and leave you alone. Brilliant.

-Several kids cited their bedroom closets as the ideal locales. Sure, this might be a fire hazard with the wrong lamp, and you'd need a decent-sized space to stretch out, but it could be a delightful place to focus. Bunch a few fallen sweaters or coats against one wall, lean back, relax, and write.

-Two kids like to sneak under their beds. I thought this was brilliant, and when I told another class about it a few weeks later, one of those kids wrote me to tell me he has now begun doing his homework under his bed as well. I tried it myself, in fact, but I soon began sneezing and promptly extricated myself.

If anyone else has any unique writing spots of their own, let me know!

Why I Write About Water

During a recent visit to a wonderful school in New Hampshire, a thoroughly vexed young student raised her hand and stared up at me. “Why,” she asked when called upon, “are you always writing about water?”

In fact, my first novel, The Wages of Genius, was set in an office. The problem with writing a story that takes place in a bland and boring business office is that if you really commit yourself to the world, really build and imagine it and make it real, then you end up feeling like you’re sitting in that space all day. I left my job because I couldn’t stand working in a cubicle farm. Then I hung out in independent, funky cafes listening to jazz and scribbling away, imagining the whole time that I was actually in a cubicle farm.

So maybe I’ve learned something. I love the water, but my family is landlocked for the foreseeable future, so I visit the deep ocean in my imagination. Fish, Dangerous Waters, and the new novel I’m polishing are all set out on the sea, and while working on each one, I felt like I was there, staring out at the ocean through my characters eyes, feeling the waves beneath me.

Thanks for the question, and all the others from the devoted readers and budding writers up at Woodbury and Fisk. And Kevin, don’t forget: Fifteen revisions. No less.

Villains at Milton Academy

Earlier this week I had a great visit with the fourth-graders at Milton Academy. Half of them had read Fish, and they had several great questions about the writing process. At one point in the presentation I was talking about the evolution of a particular line in the book, and how it changed after a few debates with my editor, and a few of the kids actually remembered the sentence when it flashed up on the smart screen. Maybe it was the appearance of four ladies in large yellow dresses in the middle of an action scene that made the fragment memorable, but still, I was impressed. Quite a group of readers.

They were also especially interested in the villains in my books. Several of them volunteered their names for future evil characters. I promise I will keep them in mind.

We had some extra time at the end, so I read them the first chapter of my next book, Dangerous Waters, which comes out in March. Normally I edit while I read, cutting a sentence here, shortening a paragraph there, but in this case I read every word. They all felt necessary. That's a good sign, I think. And the kids seemed to love it...not a yawn or wandering stare in the place.

My favorite comment from one of the students: "You make me want to read a hundred books!"

That's exactly what an author wants to hear.

Skyping with Singapore

People have always told me that I have a rather large head, but the students of the Singapore American School must think it's gargantuan. A few weeks ago I skyped with Captain Coole's crew, a very inquisitive bunch of kids in Singapore. (OK, so they're not really a pirate crew, and their teacher isn't actually a pirate, but that's how they introduced themselves, and I like it.) They asked great questions about reading, writing, pirates, and my book Fish. I was especially excited to talk about Scab, the nasty, stinking villain; he's one of my favorite characters.

Toward the end of the visit, though, someone turned around the laptop in their far-off classroom so I could have a view of the space. This virtual tour also afforded me a look at the smartboard, where my massive head filled up the entire screen. It was terrifying. For me, at least. They seemed perfectly fine.

Anyway, thanks again to Captain Coole, the Roots, and the rest of the class. We'll have to talk again sometime, as long as we can figure out that time zone stuff...

McGlynn and the Cleveland

A note to the students of McGlynn Elementary: My next book is not really about a bunch of kids trapped in a snow storm, but the idea is growing on me.

First, some background. During my presentation, my laptop misbehaved, going to sleep before its bedtime, and the projector promptly displayed an entirely white screen with a blue box in the middle and the phrase "No Signal!" directly in the center. Around this time, one of the students asked me about my next book, and since we had just been talking about covers, I joked that the image of the screen was the cover of my next book. The white space was snow, the blue box was a mysterious house, and the title represented the fact that all phone and communication lines have been cut off, etc. We ran with the joke for a little while, and they all knew I was making it up as we went along, but after thinking about it some more, it's really not such a bad idea for a book. Which means someone has probably written it already.

Anyway, on to Cleveland Elementary, another great school. Thanks to the kids for your very, very insightful notes. It's great to know that the central messages - becoming an expert in everything you write about and never, ever handing in your first draft - stayed with you. A few of my favorite comments from the notes:

"I really liked your presentation. I really thought you would just stand there and answer questions but you were a lot better than that."

"I liked how you told us about the weird people you meet..."

"You're really lucky you have only three kids...When you showed us all the messy writing you did it was great because when Mrs. Wesley [teaches us writing she] has us organize our thoughts on paper the way you did."

Thanks again for letting me pop in and talk about reading and writing....

Holten Richmond Middle School: In Defense of Bow Ties

Earlier this week I was lucky enough to visit the Holten Richmond Middle School in Danvers, MA, for a talk with a bright crowd of students. We spoke about writing, rewriting, and rewriting again as I led them through the process of how FISH, my recent pirate novel, evolved from a simple idea into a finished and bound novel full of characters, foreign lands, quests and puzzles.

During the question & answer session, a few of the young gentlemen in the crowd took exception to my appearance in one of the photos displayed during my presentation. At that point in the talk I had been explaining how the idea for a character who loves to swim but hates to fight sprang from my own experience.

As proof of the fact that I abhorred violence, I showed them the photo here, a picture taken on the occasion of my graduation from sixth grade. They said nothing of the white pants, the yellow shirt, the violin case, or the way I leaned so naturally against the prow of that imitation submarine. Instead they were solely interested in my colorful necktie. In fact they were abhorred, wondering aloud why anyone would wear such a thing. Intimidated by these small but powerful young men, I quickly blamed my brother, who was a terrible sartorial influence. But I should have stood up for my tie, and bowties in general. If asked again, I will present my defense, citing, among other things, the fact that they are far less likely to stain or be caught inside a massive, spinning saw than their elongated brethren.

A few brave members of the audience declared that they thought the bow tie was cool. And I thank them for that. Thanks as well to Michelle Deschene-Warren of the Peabody Institute Library and Holten librarian Sarah Woo for putting the event together.

Pirates and the Liar's Paradox

A few weeks ago I visited Munsey Park School in Manhasset, NY, and spoke with a number of classes about FISH and the writing process. When I was talking to a group of second-graders, one of the kids caught on early that I have a tendency to embellish when telling stories. I'd been talking about my journalism (all true stuff) and my fiction (mostly invented). So he raises his hand, I stop, and he asks, "Was what you just said true?"

I'd been talking about sitting in a flying car, but I wasn't making it up. I wrote about the car, Terrafugia's Transition, which is really a drivable plane, in Popular Science. I explain this to the inquisitive kid, then add a qualifier, noting that I do often make things up.

"So how do we know what's true?" he asks.

"You can ask me," I answer, "but you shouldn't trust my answer, because I've already said that I make things up." He looks at me strangely, and then I get carried away. "You've actually brought up a really interesting and famous philosophical question known as the liar's paradox....."

The teacher laughed slightly, I went on for a moment more, and then quickly returned to stories of sword fights, treasure hunts, and smelly rogues.

Cleveland Elementary

5th graders are bright. I visited Cleveland Elementary School in Norwood, Massachusetts, two weeks ago to talk about FISH, journalism, writing in general. At one point, one of the kids posed a great question.

"If you've written something that you think is great, but your friend reads it and says it's really bad, do you listen to your friend?"

My answer was a little long and winding, but I basically said that you have to think about your friend's critique, and consider whether there might be any truth to it, but ultimately you have to listen to yourself. I added that you should never take the first person's word. You're better off waiting for a whole bunch of people to tell you that you're terrible before you start thinking about believing them.

After class, one of the kids caught me in the hall. He was nervous, maybe a little annoyed. He summarized what I'd said with regards to criticism, then pointed out a contradiction. Earlier in the class, when another kid asked me whether I was an artist, I answered that I'm not very good, then cited the fact that a very skilled illustrator once told me exactly that.

The kid recounted this story about my artistic skills, then said, "You contradicted yourself! Maybe you're not such a bad artist after all."

A budding lawyer, perhaps.

The Balch School

A group of Balch Elementary School third-graders and I had a great time talking about books, writing, pirates, and FISH in the packed school library. A few miniature journalists in the class came prepared with questions. Here's a sample:

"Did you always want to be a writer?"

No, I said, I wanted to be in the NBA. They laughed.

"Did you play sports when you were younger?"

Yes: lacrosse, basketball, football, swimming. This answer generated numerous high-fives.

"Did you write Twilight?"

No, and you can tell by my car.

"Is Fish a series?"

Not yet....but of course I have plans for him!

Visiting the Murphy School

Thanks to Mrs. Gale's two 6th grade classes at the Richard J. Murphy School in Dorchester. We had a fun time talking about writing articles and books, what brain surgery looks like up close, and how all writers, even the 6th grade version, should really think of themselves as editors. We also discussed piracy and the apparently little know fact that there appears to be an editorial error in the school's sign.

The questions from the kids were really sharp. I actually thought they were eighth graders until Mrs. Gale informed me otherwise.