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.

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...

Experimenting with Voice

Last week, while getting ready to teach a class, I was trying to think of a way to explore that elusive quality of voice in great writing. Not voice as in Cee Lo, but as in Louis Menand's notes on the topic in this review. A powerful narrative voice should be recognizable regardless of who is reading the text aloud. Right? My eldest, a first grader, has been improving as a reader, so I asked her to recite a passage from one of my current favorites. Then I played it in class. One of the participants guessed it immediately. Anyone else?
 

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. 

Talking Sirloins and Scatological Fantasy

I have far too much faith in my memory. A few weeks ago, the Massachusetts Audubon Visual Arts Center invited me in for a guest talk at their summer creative writing camp, and one of the kids was telling me about a book he loves. I asked him what he liked about it and he said, “Because it’s sad and sometimes intense.” I scribbled down this wonderful quote, assuming I’d never forget the book. Naturally I have. Forgotten, that is. And it’s frustrating to know that the title is lingering somewhere in my skull. 

Gregor the Overlander, maybe?

The kids also had a few great comments about books-turned-movies. Each preferred the written word. Hannah, a very talented young writer, summed it up perfectly: “The movies don’t let you use your imagination.” She was particularly bothered by the movie version of Greg Heffley. 

The students’ work was inspiring. A budding poet named Marley read a few nice lines, along with a funny piece about an intelligent steak. (I’m partial to talking food stories.) A young humorist named Henry wrote a surprisingly touching little story about a dragon with bowel control difficulties. I haven't read the Inheritance Cycle, but I wonder if gastrointestinal issues ever pop up in those novels. One would think that fire-breathing might lead to some internal difficulties now and then. 

Thank you so, so much to the Visual Arts Center. I encourage anyone in the Boston area to head down there some weekend and enjoy the trees and birdsong. The dragons and talking sirloins are purely imaginary. I think.

The Library in the Park

Last month I was out in Flagstaff, Arizona to meet with an astronomer for a story. After spending a day with him, trying to understand the particulars of charge-coupled devices, vacuum chambers, and lenses so large they can bend and twist, I needed to give my brain a rest, so I stopped by an outdoor concert in one of the small city parks. The music was great, the trees were green, the air was cool, and kids were running everywhere. Off to the side, the Flagstaff Library had stationed its colorful mobile book bus. I went over to take a look and met Marcia Hansen, a charming New England expat and youth services librarian. She explained that the library used the bus to extend its reach to remote Native American reservations. Out there, kids often have little or no access to books. With the van they can easily check out a few at a time.

What amazed me most about the van was its effect that night, on the local kids. I couldn’t believe how many of them were hustling in and out. People were dancing all around, there was no AC inside, and there was ice cream to be had out on the lawn, but these kids wanted to be in a library. One girl started crying when her dad tried to coax her out. Granted, she looked to be about the age at which a tantrum can come at any time, for any reason, but I’d prefer to believe a nascent love of literature prompted that particular protest.  

That’s it about the van. My librarian friend also lamented the glut of science-fiction books filling the shelves these days. I apologized for the fact that I’m working on one myself. Sometimes you can’t help what grabs you. If a story is waking you up at 4 in the morning and asking to be written, you have to get it out.