Historical Fiction? Tell Me Another!

Baby Adolf?

When my debut novel comes out next year, it’s probably going to be categorized as historical fiction. Understandable. The story takes place in the 1930s so, yeah, it is historical. And I do love history, but history wasn’t the driving force behind my writing the book. Fiction was. And family.

Consider the photograph at left, supposedly a snapshot of Hitler as a baby. (Cute, ain’t he? Gads, no.) This photo was making the rounds back in the 1930s (way before anyone had heard of Photoshop or Internet memes, or WWII for that matter.) It’s a fake, of course. A fiction. It’s doctored. Were people fooled? Yes. Would you have been fooled?

OK, here’s a true confession: If I had been around in 1938 and had seen this photo, I would have been fooled, I just know it. ::blush:: As a kid, I thought the articles I read in my grandmother’s National Enquirer mags were 100% true. I know, I know–I was a doofushead, but I was under the impression that newspapers wouldn’t dare print lies. After all, that’s against the law.

Well, folks, let me tell you, for this gullible girl the world was quite a strange and fascinating place, thanks to those far-out articles in the pages of the tabloids. Later, when I learned the truth about their fake stories and air-brushed photographs, I felt tricked and betrayed–and embarrassed–and I didn’t like that one bit. Consequently, as an adult, I’ve developed a sort of fascination for the ways in which people persuade, manipulate and fool others. I love a good hoax, just as long as I’m not caught up in it.

And that’s where my as-yet-untitled middle grade novel (Holiday House, Fall 2013) comes in. It’s the tale of a girl who sneaks off to work for a radio station with hopes of landing a role as an actress. When she finally finagles her way into the recording studio, she ends up becoming part of what some still call the greatest hoax ever unleashed upon the American public.

Seventy-four years ago last week, thousands of radio listeners were misled by actor/director Orson Welles’s dramatization of H.G. Wells’s novel The War of the Worlds. True story. My father-in-law was one of them. While a young man living in Newark, New Jersey, in 1938, he was one of many CBS listeners on the Sunday night before Halloween who became convinced that Martians had invaded Earth and were marching toward Newark. Little green men were reportedly on a course heading directly for his family’s apartment on South Orange Avenue.  He panicked. Lots of people panicked.

South Orange Ave., Newark, New Jersey in 2006. That’s my character’s building there, the gray one in the middle. 🙂

Orson Welles’s so-called “panic broadcast” of 1938 is an extreme example of what can happen when people believe an authoritative voice without question and react before having all the facts. I loved the War of the Worlds story as a young adult. When I found out later on that my own father-in-law had experienced it, I knew I had to write a story around this extraordinary event.

That’s what I set out to write–a story that hangs upon a true event in history. So, yeah, it’s historical. And it’s fiction. But it’s not historical fiction, not to me. It’s my way of exploring hoaxes and lies, belief and deception. And it’s my way of honoring my father-in-law, Henry Brendler, a great storyteller in his own right, who died in 2009 at age 90, when I was in the middle of working on this novel.

The panic broadcast wasn’t history or fiction to him–he had lived through it. Many of the details in the story come directly from his memories of Newark as a kid. I wish I could present him with a copy when it comes out. It’ll be 75 years after the fact. I think he would have enjoyed it–a slice of his true story, written as fiction.

As my character would say, “And how!” I can’t wait to hold the book in my hands. Thanks, Pop.

I’m Pat Zietlow Miller. And, I’m a book geek …

I’ve always been a book geek.

When I was young, that involved walking to the bookmobile and trying to convince the librarian to let me check out more books than the rules allowed.

It also involved visiting the public library whenever my parents could take me. That’s where they got me an adult card rather than a child’s so I could take as many books as I could carry home with me.

But I didn’t just read those books.

I read everything I could see. Magazines, newspapers, brochures, cereal boxes, junk mail. In fact, the first time I had to do a demonstration speech on a hobby, I loaded my backpack with all these items and shared my passion for the written word.

Maybe that’s why I wasn’t invited to more parties.

But I honestly didn’t care. Who needed parties when there were words? I remember having to put books down and stop reading because I was so in awe of how the writer had turned a phrase or constructed a sentence.

And, sometimes, I’d laugh out loud. Not because the sentence was funny, but because I especially liked a particular combination of words on the page.

Eventually, I started writing myself.

In fourth grade, I wrote awkward stories about a cat named “Salt” and a dog named “Pepper.” (Guess what colors they were?) Around that same time, I wrote terrible songs about sisters named Madeline and Adeline. I read “If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, What am I Doing in the Pits?” and then tried to write essays that sounded like Erma Bombeck. All I remember is that one of them made my mother mad.

But in fifth grade, I wrote a poem about a yellow duck on the run from the law that made my teacher laugh so hard he cried. And in sixth grade, I wrote a paper about my grandmother’s swishy, swirly, square-dancing skirts that another teacher said gave her chills.

When she asked me how long it took me to write it, I answered honestly — about a half hour. Everyone in my class gasped. That was the first time I realized that writing wasn’t easy or fun for everyone.

Then one day, I was flipping through the school library’s card catalog when I realized something. Every book in there was written by somebody. A real person. And maybe someday, I could write a book too.

I flipped to the Zs to see where my name would fall.

Well, my name will probably never be in a card catalog. I’m not sure any still exist. But it just might be on amazon.com and goodreads and in the Library of Congress.

If all goes well, my picture book, SOPHIE’S SQUASH, will be illustrated by Anne Wilsdorf and published by Schwartz & Wade in the fall of 2013. And I find that — almost — too cool for words.

Here’s how it happened:

1. Four years ago — after writing newspaper articles and a wide variety of technical memos to pay the bills — I decided I wanted to write books for children. No, I did not quit my day job.
2. Instead, I started spending three hours each night after my kids were in bed writing manuscripts. They weren’t as bad as my songs about Madeline and Adeline, but they were far from lovely. Miss Clavel of MADELINE fame might have said, “Something is not right.”
3. So, I brought piles of picture books home from my new public library and read them. I read everything Kevin Henkes has ever had published. Everything by Mem Fox.
   Everything by Judith Viorst. Everything by Kari Best and Jill Esbaum and Dori Chaconas and Mo Willems. Plus a ton of stuff by authors whose names I don’t recall.
4. I went to my my first SCBWI conference and hid in the back row hoping no one would realize I didn’t belong and ask me to leave.
5. I joined two critique groups and got feedback on my stories.
6. I kept writing. I kept reading.

Then, I cautiously began sending out submissions.

Lots of form rejections. Lots of silence. Then, one day, a little blue card with a handwritten note. “Cute, but not quite right for us.” I almost had it framed. A real, live editor thought my story was cute.

As I kept writing, I got enough tiny bits of encouragement in between the rejections to keep me from giving up. More personalized rejections. A story that sold to Highlights magazine. An honorable mention in a writing contest. A few requests to revise and resubmit.

But always, ultimately, a rejection.

Until my phone rang almost exactly a year ago. The area code said “212,” and the caller ID said “Random House.” And the voice on the other end said, “Hi! This is Anne Schwartz. You probably don’t remember sending us SOPHIE’S SQUASH, but …”

That was the fateful moment that led to my being part of this EMU’s Debuts blog. I’m so excited to count down to my book release — and those of my talented agency-mates — with all of you.

Because a confirmed book geek like me can never have too many books.

Introducing new Emu, Laurie Ann Thompson

Hey, I just got here,
and this is crazy,
but here’s my blog post,
so read it maybe.

Whether you like that song or not, it’s inescapable these days. It’s stuck in my head after watching two tiny young girls singing it together, complete with hand motions, at Starbucks the other day. At first I was appalled due to the entirely age-inappropriateness of the lyrics, but their performance was just too innocent and adorable. I couldn’t NOT smile. So, now I’m passing my little ear worm on to you. Aren’t you glad I’m here?

Just to keep you on your toes, we now have two Lauries as well as two Taras. Aside from that, I’m a bird (get it? emus?) of a different feather here so far. I write nonfiction, like Cynthia Levinson, and I write picture books, like Tara Lazar (and more, coming soon!), but I think I’m the only one here to combine the two: I specialize in nonfiction picture books. I love them. I read about 100 of them every year. I have bookshelves FULL of them in my house. Apparently they’re a tough sell, which I don’t really understand, because they’re awesome. But tough sell or not, it’s what I must do. And guess what? I sold one!

It currently doesn’t have a title or a publication date, but I can tell you this: it’s a biography of Emmanuel Ofosu Yeboah, who, with one leg, rode a bicycle nearly 400-miles across his home country of Ghana. His heroic ride garnered international attention and helped to change Ghana’s disability laws. And, by way of introduction, I can also tell you about “The Call,” or in my case, “The Calls.”

Call 1:
I am terrible about answering my phone. I am much better at leaving it in the car, in the drawer, out of battery, on silent, you name it. I also refuse to answer it when I’m doing something important, like writing, or driving, or sleeping. I am usually doing one of those three things. That means I occasionally miss important calls—like this one! Luckily, super-agent Joan knows this about me. Last May she sent me an email saying I should call her, because there was some “interesting interest” on my manuscript. I took a deep breath, got comfortable, and called her back. The interest was from a dream editor (Anne Schwartz) at a dream publisher (Schwartz & Wade/Random House). The interesting part was that she wanted a pre-empt (!), BUT… only if Sean Qualls would illustrate it. Were we interested? Um, one of the things we picture-book writers do if make lists of our dream illustrators for each project. Who was #1 on my secret list for this project? Yep, you guessed it—Sean Qualls! I seem to go into “must-act-professional” mode around Joan, so after a long pause, (I think) I managed to calmly ask, “Is there any downside to this?” Fortunately, Joan said no, so I said, “Let’s do it!” My fate would be in Mr. Qualls’ hands.

Call 2:
After a very long, nail-biting week (during which I only occasionally moaned, “How long does it take to read 600 words?”), I received another call from Joan. This time I was taking a walk with a friend and my husband. When the phone rang (yay, I had my phone, and it was on!), I thought to myself (in my typical phone-avoidance mindset), I am only going to answer this if it’s Joan. Yeah, right, like THAT’S going to happen. *looks at caller ID* Wait! It’s Joan!!! Then I got to say those words every writer longs to say, “Excuse me, but I have to take this. It’s my agent.” Bwah hah hah! Did I really just say that? I don’t even care what Joan says, just getting to say that out loud was enough. Wait, who am I kidding? No, it wasn’t enough. I want more! Geesh, just answer the phone before she hangs up, you moron. Yes, I remember all of that internal monologue perfectly, yet I don’t remember much of anything of the call itself. I was probably hyperventilating. I doubt I acted very professional. I have no idea if I said anything intelligible at all. But Joan must have, because when I hung up, I ran back to my hubby and friend and yelled, “Sean said YES!” There was hugging and crying, and I don’t think my feet touched the ground for the rest of the walk, or that whole day, or even for the next week.

Call 3:
I got my revision letter and notes a few days later (squee!), but there was still the matter of an offer to work out. At that point, I knew there was going to be extremely good news coming, but I still wasn’t allowed to tell anyone! That kind of secret is hard to keep, but I did it for two whole weeks. Then Joan got the offer and tried to call me to discuss the details. No answer. I called her back, but then she was driving. When she called me back, I was driving, on my way to the dentist. I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I put her on speaker and we ironed it all out while I zoomed down the freeway. We had just finished as I pulled into the dentist’s parking lot. I bet the dentist has never seen anyone looking that happy when they step into his office.

Well, that’s my “call” story. After all of the wonderful Emu’s Debuts launch parties recently, some of your beloved Emu’s Debuts will soon be retiring.  Fortunately, more of us newbies will be stepping in to introduce ourselves and keep the debut ball rolling (or at least be fodder for Jeannie Mobley’s diabolical tricks). Stay tuned!

A Sob/Sub Story

I read J’s post on Monday about steps she took to promote The Wicked and the Just with particular interest. After all, my own debut novel will hit the shelves in only two short years—I’ve got to get a move on with this whole promotion thingy!

It’s a little early to try to get you excited about my book—I’d tell you the title, but it’s probably just going to change anyway—so instead I think I’ll focus my energies on establishing my own personal brand.

Who is this Tara Dairman? What’s her story?

Those are the questions I’ll be endeavoring to answer via blogging/Twitter/Facebook/Goodreads/Pinterest (psych! I’m not actually on Pinterest)/etc. over the next year and a half…or however long it takes before my ARCs come out and I actually have something book-related to talk about.

Standing out from the crowd is going to be an uphill battle, though—I can tell. I mean, I’m not even the first Tara to write on this blog. (Hi, Tara Lazar!) It seems that I’ll have my work cut out for me.

Where to start? When in doubt, I usually turn to my BFF, J.K. Rowling, for wisdom. People really seemed to like her rags-to-riches story, the whole struggling-single-mum-on-welfare-makes-good angle. So with that in mind, I’m going to tell you something—something that not a lot of people know about me.

The day I got what’s known in this business as The Call, I was at rock bottom.

I had just come off two years of homelessness.

I was sleeping in my car.

But then, the phone rang and changed my life. It was my agent, bearing news of an offer from New York. My first novel was going to be published!

Good story, huh? And it’s true, every word of it! Here’s the pictorial evidence.

See, when the call came through, I was at the bottom of a rock. A rather famous rock, actually.

Skid row, I tell ya!

I had spent the better part of the previous two years without a permanent home, vagabonding from place to place, eating the cheapest street food I could find…on purpose. It was all part of the epic, round-the-world honeymoon my husband and I had quit our jobs to undertake.

And the night of the day of The Call, when my husband and I found ourselves in a remote corner of North Dakota with every hotel for 50 miles unexpectedly filled up with oil workers, we did sleep in the car.

Just how every girl dreams of celebrating her book deal.

Wasn’t the first time we’ve done that, and I’m sure it won’t be the last—though it will hopefully be the only time I ever wake up to find an enormous pile of fresh buffalo poop right outside my window.

Sadly, he didn't play the drums.

So, OK. Maybe I wasn’t homeless in the strictest sense of the word. Maybe, in context, my sympathy-inducing, author-brand-defining sob story is really just a run-of-the-mill submission story.

But the good news is that if my first book tanks and I do end up living in my car, I’ve got the press release all ready to go.

Tara Lazar Gets “The Call”…But Can She Remember it?

I have a confession to make.

I don’t really remember “the call”.

It happened almost two years ago and it’s a blur.

But I can say the call was a tad anti-climactic.

You see, my editor had already sent umpteen emails to my agent Joan, telling her they loved THE MONSTORE and updating us on where they were in “the process”. I had a good feeling from that initial email…and subsequent follow-ups that kept apologizing for taking “so long” (which, looking back now, wasn’t very long at all for publishing—perhaps four weeks).

There was also a pre-offer email asking if I was open to making changes to the manuscript. Can you guess my response? **** YEAH!

When the call of the offer came in, I was happy, but I also knew it was coming. Maybe Joan sensed this because she tried to trick me. I remember picking up the phone and hearing a long sigh, “Hi…*sigh*…it’s Joan.” After hearing her drooping tone, I thought, oh well, they don’t want it after all that. So when she said, “We have an offer!” it took me a stunned minute to understand what was happening. I am getting an offer. Oh no, I’m not. Wait, I am! I am? I AM!!!!! YIPPEE-KI-YAY! 

(OK, so maybe I do remember the call!)

The joy lasted through several phone calls to family and friends, but by the end of the day I was already thinking…

…when am I going to sell the NEXT book?

Terrible, I know. Can’t I revel in the excitement for more than 139.7 minutes?

It seems with me that it’s always about the NEXT book. When I sold book #2, I THOUGHT THIS WAS A BEAR BOOK, I was already dreaming of book #3. I guess it’s how the Duggars feel about babies…?

So I look forward to the day when I have 19 books and counting.

In the meantime, I know I should be proud of the accomplishment of one book. After all, Harper Lee is content with one book. But something tells me THE MONSTORE movie isn’t going to star Gregory Peck. (Although I envision Danny DeVito in the role of The Monstore manager. One can dream about more than the next book.)

THE MONSTORE characters, copyright James Burks.

How my Dream Became a Deal

Let me add my congratulations to the stars and successes of Cynthia Levinson’s WE’VE GOT A JOB! Also, congratulations to Jim Hill, winner of last week’s drawing, and Heidi Grange, winner of last week’s quiz, who both won a signed copy of the book!

I’ve been thinking about Jeannie’s post all week. About the significance of what we do. As artists setting our stride against headwind of rejection. As writers, laying our souls bare in our work.

Actually, I’ve been thinking about this for quite some time.

You see, WATER may be my debut, but it is not my first book. Like many authors, I took a few cracks at it before I got it right. I heard that pesky statistic—the one that says we’re more likely to be struck by lightning than published. But I kept at it anyway. For years.

Because I had something to say. Many somethings; important somethings. But truly, truly, I am so grateful that those early stories stayed in their dusty drawer, that my skills and taste had time to catch up with my dreams.

The wonderful news is that WATER found its way to just the right agent and just the right editor. Here’s the story of how my dream became a deal:

• January, 2011: I won an award at VCFA that sent the first 20 pages of my middle grade novel onto an editor’s desk at Harcourt Children’s Books. But I was still in school. I couldn’t spend too much time daydreaming…
• May: I heard back with a request for the full manuscript. I sent it in, trying to convince my high hopes to come just a little closer to the ground.
• June: I received an official-looking envelope in the mail. It was a three page editorial letter on fancy cream paper, with the peppy blue HMH dolphin in the corner and some very thoughtful, constructive, and kind words from an editor named Reka.

So I added and I tweaked and I tightened. I sent the revision to some trusted (and brilliant) first readers, and then I dug in again. When I couldn’t bear to look at the pages for one more second, I took a deep breath, and hit send.

• December: An email appeared in my inbox. Reka loved my revisions. She loved the story. Relief. Affirmation. Joy. Hope.
• A little later in December: Early morning phone call with Joan. She loved it too. And she wants to work with me through a long and varied career. Halfway through my happy dance, a kind soul reminded me that though I had a savvy literary agent in my corner, I didn’t actually have a contract. Right. Stop dreaming up cover designs. Pause the parade of stars floating across my vision.

• January, 2012: THE CALL came while I was at work, so naturally, I stepped into the supply closet. Joan says, “We have an offer!”
• A few weeks later: Finally, after a year of intermittent letters and emails, Reka and I spoke on the phone. Listening to her talk about all the wonderful things she envisioned for WATER, it finally sunk in. This was really happening. For my story. It was just about the best feeling in the world.