Ava XOX (13 page)

DEAR DIARY,

I can't believe I've almost filled up another whole diary! Neither can Mom or Dad. If diaries counted as books, I'd be
prolific
(spelling word alert).

Dad said he'd take me to Bates Books tomorrow to buy a new one. Since Dad is Irish, I teased, “You just want an excuse to see all the shamrocks.”

He laughed. “Busted!”

Yesterday, Pip helped Ben and Mrs. Bates decorate the bookstore, and they hung shiny green clovers everywhere to get ready for St. Patrick's Day—which is March 17. Pip also helped two kids pick out books—
The Story of Ferdinand
and
A Fish Out of
Water
. To thank her, Mrs. Bates gave her a magnet that says YAY! BOOKS!

When I grow up, if I do get to write books for kids, I might want to write a love story about two kids who are too young for real love.

Or maybe I can write about a girl who tries to do a good D-E-E-D, and at first it backfires, but then things work out, and she learns that what people say and how they say it both matter.

Speaking of, I hope Tanya keeps liking our tips and also that she can keep caring
about
herself enough to keep taking care
of
herself, if that makes sense.

Dad came to tuck me in, and we started talking about writing, and I said that one good thing about kids' novels is that they have happy endings.

“What do you mean?”

“Didn't you once tell me that plays sometimes end unhappily?”

“Did I?”

“Yes. You said that in Shakespeare plays, sometimes everyone ends up dead all over the stage. You said
Hamlet
ends up with a pile of bodies. And Romeo and Juliet don't get to go on a honeymoon or anything.”

Dad laughed. “True. Until Disney came along, a lot of fairy tales had sad endings too. The way Hans Christian Andersen wrote it, the little mermaid turns into sea foam.”

“Some Aesop fables have sad endings,” I said. “The boy who cries wolf gets eaten up.”

“Nom, nom, nom,” Dad said as if he were a hungry wolf. He even
ululated
, which is a fancy word for howled.

“Stop!” I said, and he stopped. “You know something else about books?”

“What?” he asked.

“When an author writes a book, and someone buys it, the author still gets to
keep
the book. For artists, it's worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like if Botero or Picasso or even Pip or Tanya sold a painting,” I began, “they'd have to give up the original.” Dad nodded. “Or take your plays. When the actors take the final bow, it's over. You can't play it again live in your office.”

“Ah, but I can play it over in my mind. And when you write for the
stage
instead of the
page
,” he said, making a rhyme, “you get to hear the audience laugh. Novelists don't usually get to hear readers' reactions.”

“How's your new play coming?” I asked. I sometimes forget that not only do kids have ups and downs, but so do parents. (And elevators.)

“Pretty well,” Dad said. “I have a new draft, and we're going to have a table read this month.”

“A
first
draft?”

“More like a
tenth
draft!”

“What's this one called?”

“I haven't told you?” He looked surprised. “
First Love
.”

“Is it autobiographical?”

“All writing is a mix of imagination, observation, and memory.”

“H-U-H.” Dad had once told me that success was a mix of
t
alent,
t
iming, and
t
enacity—I remember because it was an alliteration. “Has Mom read it?”

“Mom loves this play! And as you know, Mom can be a tough cookie.”

“Can
I
read it?”

“Let me keep polishing it,” he said. “Besides, you'll like it more when you're older.” (Note: that's parent code for “You're too young.”)

“Do the people in the play like each other the same amount?” I asked.

“Not right away,” Dad replied.

“But it has a happy ending?”

Dad laughed. “It does.”

“Are there any rivals?” I asked.

“Rivals?” Dad repeated, surprised. “I guess there are, actually. ‘The course of true love never did run smooth.'” Dad smiled. “That's Shakespeare. Now lights out, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, but then
negotiated
(spelling word) for five more minutes so I could write in you.

AVA…ALMOST…ASLEEP…

DEAR DIARY,

This is the last page of this diary. I'm about to put you on my bookshelf next to the other two diaries I finished.

Sorry I won't be able to tell you about the Pi Day party. It's in four days, and
everyone
is talking about it. Chuck and I have agreed to be pie-making partners, which, I confess, is about all I can think about.

Back in kindergarten, he and I were
assigned
to be apple-picking partners. This time, we
chose
each other. On purpose.

Funny. When I started this diary, I didn't even know I liked Chuck. Now we both know that we both like each other.

And the thing is: that feels like sort of enough.

For now, anyway.

Someday I might be ready for lip gloss and texting and phone calls and holding hands. But not yet.

At least not quite yet.

Oh wait. I just thought of something. This diary doesn't have a happy ending. What it has is (drum roll, please) a happy
beginning
…

AVA WREN, ON HER WAY

It's true that writers write alone, but when I rewrite, I sure love company. And I appreciate when others help me, well, watch my language.

I am indebted to everyone who read my early pages and offered insight, suggestions, and sometimes even a joke or palindrome.

Here's to family: My mom, the late Marybeth Weston Bergman Lobdell. My husband, Rob Ackerman. My daughters, Lizzi and E-M-M-E. My brother, Eric, and his wife, Cynthia Weston. My cousins, Sarah Jeffrey and Matt Bird.

Here's to friends, teachers, interns: Sam Forman. Denver Butson and his daughter, the original Maybelle. Kathy Lathen and her daughter, H-A-N-N-A-H. Nick and Ginger Sander. Alan Frishman. Cathy Roos. Suzannah Weiss. Karolina Ksiasek. Katherine Dye. Claire Hogdgon. Jen Lu.

Thanks too to Tom Feyer and Sue Mermelstein, letters editors of
The New York Times
, who encouraged me to write a Sunday Dialogue about childhood obesity in 2014. And to Karen Bokram who invited me to be “Dear Carol” at
Girls' Life
back in 1994.

I'm beyond grateful to my fabulous agent, Susan Ginsburg, who is always filled with the best kind of energy and to her wonderful assistant Stacy Testa, also of Writers House.

A giant bouquet to the Sourcebooks team—first and foremost my editor, Steve Geck. I am so glad he loves Misty Oaks as much as I do. A hearty shout-out to Heather Moore, Alex Yeadon, Sabrina Baskey, Nesli Anter, and Dominique Raccah. And an extra XOX to Victoria Jamieson who draws the charming book jackets, and to Elizabeth Boyer, who let me keeping revising even when it was time to say, “Pencils down!”

Finally, a nostalgic nod to my fifth-grade crush, Billy Hammer of Edgewood Elementary School, wherever he may be. And to Saul Ackerman, my Language Arts teacher, who made fifth grade so inspiring and memorable. A round of applause too, to all the booksellers who, like Mr. and Mrs. Bates, put books in the hands of kids.

Last but not least, a high five to
you
, because after all, what's a book without a reader?

Carol Weston kept diaries as a girl. Her parents were word nerds in the best way. Her first book,
Girltalk: All the Stuff Your Sister Never Told You
, was published in a dozen languages and has been in print since 1985. Her next fourteen books include
The Diary of Melanie Martin
and three other Melanie Martin novels, as well as
Ava and Pip
and
Ava and Taco Cat
. Carol studied French and Spanish comparative literature at Yale, graduating summa cum laude. She has an MA in Spanish from Middlebury. Since 1994, she has been the “Dear Carol” advice columnist at
Girls' Life
magazine, and has made many YouTube videos for kids and parents. Carol and her husband, playwright Rob Ackerman, met as students in Madrid and live in Manhattan. They have two daughters and one cat. Carol's next novel is
The Speed of Life
. Find out more at
CarolWeston.com
.

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!

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