Five Pages a Day (12 page)

Then I heard from my editor. “What in the world is a wallaroo?” she asked. “No one will know what you're talking about. Can't you just say kangaroo?”

Well, no, I couldn't. Not after the zoo people had objected.

I changed the sentence again, this time saying, “wallaroo, a kind of kangaroo,” and I hoped everyone was happy with that.

Except for the unpublished book about Alzheimer's disease, the most time I ever spent researching one book was for
Shelter Dogs: Amazing Stories of Adopted Strays
. Each of the eight chapters in the book required one or more interviews with the dog's owner.

But first I had to find the right combination of dogs for the book. This took days of phone calls before I ever began the interviews.

For example, I wanted to include a dog who had rescued his family from a fire, so I called the non-emergency number for every fire department in the Puget Sound region, where I live. I left messages explaining who I was, the kind of book I was writing, and what I was looking for. “If you know of a dog who rescued someone from a fire,” I concluded, “please call me.”

Someone from the Redmond, Washington, fire department called back to tell me about Ivan, a dog who had rescued a mother and child from their burning home. Both people were hearing-impaired and couldn't hear the fire alarm.

My first question was, “Do you know where they got Ivan?” Since the focus of my book was dogs who came from animal shelters, I couldn't use the fire story, no matter how compelling it was, if the dog had been purchased from a breeder or pet shop.

The fire department spokesman didn't know Ivan's background, but when I tracked down the dog's owner, I learned that she had adopted Ivan from the county animal shelter. Ivan's owner didn't hear well enough to talk to me on the telephone so I interviewed her via e-mail.

I've had to find out the cost of a license to pilot a hot air balloon and the black market price for a bear's gall bladder.

I've stood on the bank of a river where bald eagles go to catch salmon. I've examined (carefully!) antique Wedgwood china, attended a cat show, and had myself hypnotized. I once checked out so many library books about poisons that the librarian asked me to show identification.

Many times the research never shows in the manuscript. For two books,
Deadly Stranger
and
I'm Not Who You Think I Am
, I had to learn about mental illness, to be sure that the characters behaved in ways that were consistent with their sickness.

I also do extensive revision on every book. By now it would seem I should be able to write a flawless first draft. So far that hasn't happened. I usually write every book at least four times before I'm satisfied

I rewrote the first sentence of
Saving Lilly
twenty-two times. The final version goes like this: “Not many sixth-graders get an opportunity to save an elephant.”

I work on a computer and do most of the revision that way. When the book seems as good as I can make it, I print it out. As soon as I read the words on paper, I see many places in need of revision. I go through the manuscript, making corrections in pencil. Then I put those changes on the computer and print again.

When I think the manuscript is finished, I send it to my editor, whose job is to be sure the writing is clear, interesting, and has no errors. Sometimes I'm asked to add material, or cut part of what I've written. It isn't easy to eliminate paragraphs or even whole pages that I've labored over. Most of the time I take the editor's advice, but not always.

The editors don't tell me how to make the changes. They note what needs to be fixed, but it's up to me to do the repairs.

A few times I have been asked to change the book's title. When I wrote a book called
What Happened to Grandma Ruth?
my editor wisely pointed out that my title probably wouldn't appeal to my readers. That book became
Night of Fear
.

First drafts are plain hard work for me, partly because I don't outline in advance. I just jump into the story with a vague idea of the plot. Usually I don't know how it will end until I write the ending.

Revisions are my favorite part of the writing process. I especially like to play with words, to see if I can improve a description or add color or texture to a scene. In my first drafts, I usually tell what the characters see and hear as well as how they feel. Later revisions often include what the characters taste, smell, or touch.

In
Don't Tell Anyone
, Megan hides from her kidnapper in the forest. The first draft said, “She came to a large fir tree and hid behind it.” In the final version, I added, “She pressed herself against the rough bark. The tree smelled like Christmastime; Megan blinked back tears as she thought of Mom and Kylie.”

Toward the end of my revising, I read through the manuscript once, trying to cut three words from each page. This process tightens the story, and those excess words aren't missed.

A student once confronted me after a school talk and said, “My teacher paid you to say that, didn't she?”

“To say what?” I asked.

“That part about rewriting your books. She paid you to say that, didn't she?”

I assured her that no teacher had bribed me to include anything in my talk, but I could tell she didn't believe me.

Later she and her teacher came to the table where I was signing books.

“Lesley thinks I paid you to say you revise your work,” the teacher said. By the twinkle in her eyes, I knew she must have been telling Lesley all year about the importance of revision.

I held up my right hand. “I swear she didn't ask me to say that,” I said.

The teacher held up her right hand. “I swear I didn't even meet Peg until after her talk.”

Lesley looked at us, sighed loudly, and walked away.

“Thank you,” the teacher whispered. “Lesley wants to be a writer, and she has talent, but she won't revise her work.”

If she wants to be a writer, I thought, she had better revise her attitude.

{ 15 }

Talk, Talk, Talk

S
oon after
Deadly Stranger
was published, I was invited to speak to the Honors English class at a middle school. I agreed to do it, and then panicked. What would I say? I was a writer, not a public speaker.

I called a writer friend who visits dozens of schools each year and asked her advice.

“Oh, just tell them how you wrote your book,” she said. “Say where you got your idea, and answer their questions. It's easy.”

I wasn't so sure about that. I'm frequently ill at ease with people. Except with family and close friends, I often feel awkward, as if I am there by mistake. How was I going to talk to an entire class? I considered calling the school back and inventing an excuse not to come.

Instead I spent several days making notes and hoping I would not be too boring.

When the day came, I arrived early. The teacher greeted me, said she had a quick errand to do before class started, and left.

I was alone in the room when the bell rang. As the students filed in, I smiled at them nervously.

Two boys came in together. One whispered to the other, “Rats. We have a sub today.”

“That isn't a sub,” the second boy said. “That's the author!”

The first boy looked me over. “That's the author?” he said, clearly astonished. “She looks like someone you'd see in the grocery store.”

He was right, and at that moment, I would have felt far more at ease pushing my cart through the produce aisle at Safeway.

I don't remember exactly what I talked about that day, but the students seemed interested, asked lots of questions, and the teacher was grateful that I had come. I was mostly relieved to have it over.

This was the first of several hundred school visits. As I published more books for kids, and my books became better known, many speaking invitations came in. I visited nearly all of my local schools and found it was fun to meet my readers. Such visits also sold a lot of books, which kept my publishers happy.

Before long I was asked to talk at schools in other states, usually for several days at a time. I went whenever I could work the invitation into my schedule.

I quickly grew tired of flying off alone and staying by myself in hotels, so Carl and I bought a small motor home, got the license plate BKS4KDS, and began traveling together to do book talks. We took our dog, Daisy, and our cat, Pete, with us.

On our first motor home trip, I talked at twenty-six schools and two public libraries, spoke to ten groups at a children's literature festival, and autographed books at two bookstores.

We were busy, but we loved traveling by motor home.

One weekend, we stayed at the Indiana Dunes National Recreation Area. It rained Saturday night, and when we got up the next morning we found a tiny kitten hiding under our motor home, trying to stay dry. There were only a few other campsites occupied. We carried the kitten to each of them, but none of the campers had lost her.

We spoke to the park ranger who told us, “People drop off unwanted kittens here all the time. Usually the coyotes eat them, or they get run over.”

A car had parked for a time in the campsite across from us the night before, but the people had left without spending the night. Had they come only to abandon an unwanted kitten?

The idea that anyone would be so cowardly and inhumane made me furious. I cuddled the kitten in my arms.

“Pretty smart cat,” Carl remarked. “A big campground like this, and she found the humane society volunteers.”

We were concerned that the kitten might have a disease that Pete or Daisy would catch, and we didn't need another animal in the motor home. Still, we couldn't just leave her at the campground.

“Maybe there's a humane society near here,” I suggested. “They could find a good home for such a pretty kitten.”

We drove to the local animal shelter. It was understaffed, overflowing with animals, and struggling financially. Someone examined the kitten, then said she appeared to be healthy and they would take her. But it was clear to us that they had too many cats already. Instead of leaving the kitten for them to worry about, we gave them a donation and took the kitten with us.

The next morning, Carl dropped me off at the school where I was to talk. While I spoke to the students, he found a veterinarian who examined the kitten, pronounced her in good health, wormed her, and gave her the first set of vaccinations.

We named her Molly, after the heroine in
Nightmare Mountain
.

We quickly learned that two cats in a motor home are far different from one. They slept all day, then put on what came to be known as the Cat Follies between two and three o'clock each morning. They galloped back and forth, jumped from bed to couch to floor, wrestled with each other, leaped over Daisy (which made her bark), shredded the toilet paper, and generally kept us awake.

Each night during the Cat Follies, we told each other that as soon as we got home we would take Molly to the humane society where we volunteer and put her up for adoption. We never did, though. By the time we got back home we were too fond of her to give her up.

Naturally, a book came out of this experience.
Desert Danger
, the fourth book in my Frightmares series, is about two girls on a camping trip who find an abandoned kitten in the campground.

During the next few years, we made a fall trip and a spring trip every year, traveling to a different part of the country each time. One advantage of motor home travel was that I went to schools in small towns, far from major airports. Often I was the first author ever to visit.

Along with the small schools, I spoke at large conferences of teachers and librarians. My stomach churned before such speeches. I always spent a lot of time deciding what I would say and then I practiced saying it, clocking myself to be sure I was within the time frame I'd been given. Daisy is an excellent audience when I'm practicing a speech. She listens politely, never interrupts, and only rarely falls asleep while I'm talking.

No matter how well prepared I was, the jitters always got me. Sometimes my knees shook so much that I had to hold on to the podium for fear my legs would buckle. I usually printed out my talk, but then my hands shook so hard the pages rattled when I turned them.

What finally saved me from being so scared was the audiences. They always listened intently, and afterward many people came up to thank me or to say my remarks were just what they needed to hear. Their kind words meant more than they will ever know.

The year after my mother died, I mentioned her death in a speech to the Texas Library Association. As soon as I spoke the words, a wave of grief washed over me, and I was unable to continue my talk. I stood there in front of several hundred people, struggling to control my tears, feeling foolish and apologetic. Then, from every corner of the room, spontaneous applause broke out. People clapped, letting me know they understood, and that my tears were okay.

I still have a few butterflies before a major speech, but now as soon as I'm introduced, I look out at the smiling faces and I know I have nothing to worry about. These people are not just an audience—they are my friends.

I look forward to signing books after my talks. I like the chance to visit with my readers, and after all those years of “dejection slips,” it is amazing to see a long line of people waiting for me to autograph their books.

I was asked to talk to kids in Seattle's juvenile detention center. When I arrived, I went through a metal detector, then through a locked door which was watched by an armed guard.

My destination was a small room that served as a library. An earnest young librarian who wanted to make a difference in the lives of her patrons waited for me. She had placed some of my books on a table.

“After you speak, they can check out books if they want to,” she said.