Maureen's Blog

ROBERT LANGDON: A LOVE STORY

2010-01-08T09:09:00.004+03:30

If you haven't read The Lost Symbol (or my guide), very little of the following will make sense. But this was my presentation from this evening's "Secrets of the Lost Symbol" panel at the Tribeca Y.

************

I come to you this evening to tell you why Dan Brown is right and everyone else is wrong, and why Robert Langdon is the hero we need.

I think Dan Brown was tired of Jason Bourne, James Bond, Jack Bauer, Indiana Jones, and John McClane and decided to make us what we really want . . . a nebbishy hero whose name does not contain a J. Someone who is not fearless, but deeply fearful. A reading of The Lost Symbol alone reveals his fears of: planes, elevators, running in loafers, spontaneous speaking, basements, long hallways, rats, stairs, fast driving, catwalks, and tiny conveyor belts. This is a man who wears turtlenecks because he is afraid of ties.

This is also a man who could not save his own ass with a two-handed ass-saving machine, so he is incapable of helping anyone else. Indeed, he never saves the damsel in distress—she is saved from death twice, once by herself, and once by the CIA. On the first occasion, not only does Robert Langdon not save her life, but she is forced to drive herself across down in her own Volvo, crash into the steps of the Library of Congress, and fling herself into his arms just to show her appreciation for just how much he has not done.

He spends most of the book having absolutely no idea what is going on. Like a cat lost in an airport, he dodges and weaves his way around massive, frightening figures. He repeatedly denies the reality of everything that is happening. “What the hell?” he asks. “You cannot be serious.” “But that’s not real.” He is periodically lifted up and carried from place to place, and set down again in increasingly uncomfortable surroundings. He will go anywhere he is told to go, even if that place is completely crazy—like on to a plane at a moment’s notice at the invitation of a stranger, down the book chute of the Library of Congress, or to the house of a known madman. Ten hours after the ordeal, he allows Peter “The Stump” Solomon to blindfold him and push him around Washington DC—into black cars and ominous elevators. When Katherine tells him to go to the top of the dome of the Capitol building, he goes. If your parents ever used the “if your friends all jumped out the window would you do it too?” line on you, they were talking about people like Robert Langdon, who would not only jump out the window because his friends told him to—he would do it because anyone told him to.

He would like nothing more than to cave in to any and all demands placed upon him. In Mal’ahk’s house of horrors, he is subdued within seconds of walking in the door, and when forced to give up the secrets of the pyramid or die, he trips over himself in his effort to give up the secrets as quickly as possible. A beloafered jerk in a Mickey Mouse watch whose only known routine is his daily swim and subsequent hand-grinding of coffee beans . . . Robert Langdon would like nothing more than to be left alone to study weird puzzles and dead languages and teach the surprisingly dimwitted and slavishly devoted students he openly despises. But sadly, his phone always rings, and he must do whatever the voice on the other end tells him.

At the end of the book, when he is busy not making out with Katherine, she gives him a suggestive hug and says, “How can I ever thank you?”

Missing the hint entirely, he delivers the great truth of the novel. “You know I didn’t do anything, right?” he says.

Now, in saying all of that, you may think that I may be suggesting that the book or its characters are deficient. Far from it. Dan Brown just saw that the world was ready for a completely unironic, unsexy, inept, scaredycat, easy-bleeder, indoor-kid, nerd hero who succeeds not by trying, but by being forcibly pushed into danger, which he quite sensibly hates and wants to avoid. He is the opposite of a Boy Scout—he is never prepared. This unpreparedness is the key to his success—had he known what was going to happen, he most certainly would have hid.

How does Robert Landgon roll? He rocks some Saturday New York Times crossword puzzle in pen. He likes comfy chairs and smooth rides and looking at the decorations. He doesn’t know what Twitter is. He’s like your grandpa, but he’s not as cool as your grandpa. He’s that guy at the party who will just not shut up about the things he saw in Rome. You could kick his ass, even if you are twelve years old and armed only with a bag of goldfish. This is why, to use a word he despises, Robert Langdon is awesome. Adventure comes to the lazy, nerdy, and easily influenced. You too—armed with your comprehensive understanding of signage and your workmanlike knowledge of Klingon—you too might be called. You too can defeat the big bad, no matter how big, oiled, hairless, and tattooed he is—even if you do so almost completely by accident.

And in what forms does danger come? It comes in SUDOKU. Because, just as you suspect, the forces of good and evil spend all of their free time making codes and building puzzle cities. Everyone in power is full-tilt-boogie crazy, secrets are the building blocks of the universe, and absolutely everything is interesting if you are just boring enough to see that fact.

This is the world I want to live in, and this is the world Dan Brown has shown to me.

The man, the myth, the loafers

THE PROBABLE

2010-01-04T06:23:00.004+03:30

There’s a golden rule in writing, one so taken for granted that people often don’t even talk about it. It’s simple: never, ever, ever, ever, ever respond to a negative review. Ever. I mean, you can if you really want to. No one is going to ARREST you if you do. But you are going to look like a huge jerk if you do, and the entire internet will laugh at you. Why? Because people are entitled not to like your work. Yes, even stupid people, for stupid reasons. Yes, even people you respect for reasons that are actually pretty good. Even your mom. Anyone is entitled at any time not to like your work, and there is exactly nothing you can do about it.

Certainly, it is a wonderful age in which we live, what with this whole “internet” thing where everyone can say whatever they want—and the problem of course, is that everyone can say whatever they want, which leads to things being wrong on the internet. Sure, you get reviews that say things like, “tihis book was so boring it had no vampirs u don’t know how to rite!” and you have to take it on the chin. You don’t answer back. What on earth would you say, even if you did? “I can TOO rite (WITH A W!)” These don’t really present a problem.

And I’m not talking about “official” reviews either (though you REALLY, REALLY shouldn’t respond to them). Not that official reviews are so far removed from reader comments on forums or Amazon, really. I think there is sometimes the notion that any review that has ever been printed is some kind of Official Word—not actually proclaimed by God, but possibly by someone in his office, and most likely on letterhead. Like in order to become a reviewer you have to pass a series of important tests and physical challenges . . . reciting The DaVinci Code backwards, perhaps, entirely from memory. Or maybe you have to coax a chicken away from an alligator through song and dance. And only when you have passed these many tests will you be allowed to Review, and the mantle of Ultimate Rightness will be placed over your shoulders.

This is most certainly not the case. I know this because I was a reviewer for a Big, Fancy Publication, and let me tell you something—I cranked those reviews out hard and fast, often at three in the morning, because they paid me fifty dollars each and ALL I did was write negative reviews. Why? Because you get to crack better jokes and sound smug and smart. This, as it turns out, it a very common behavior, so it’s not just me. There is nothing quite as fun as writing something an evil, snarky critique.

Reviews are just opinions. Some reviewers and publications are better than others, and all have their good and bad days and their personal preferences. One of my favorite writers in the world was a reviewer by trade. I worship the man, and he wrote a DEVASTATING review of something I love. I have learned to reconcile this in my mind, but it took time. If you go back and read reviews of books that everyone accepts to be Good and Important Books that Everyone Has To Like, there will be a reviewer who hated it when it was published, or who hates it now. So that’s not anything to freak out over either.

Does this mean all reviews are meaningless? God, no. It just means that there are a chorus of voices in the world, and you have to pick which ones you are going to listen to. This, as it turns out, is more or less the point of Writing School. In my writing program, you had to go through two years of writing and presenting your work to your class or thesis group. In a room of, say, ten reasonably smart and talented writers, you are going to get ten totally different opinions. And for those two years, you had to train your ear to listen for things that rang true—comments both good and bad—things you could build on.

So, I listen still. I have to admit, I don’t sit and read every comment written about me, because I would go insane, but I scan through every once in a while to see what’s what. In general, the experience is pretty lovely (which is part of the reason I don’t do it that often because I will get a BIG, SOFT HEAD). In doing this, I’ve noticed something in a few reader comments that has me worried. I’ve seen versions of this comment time and time again, both for my books and for similar “realistic fiction” books.* The comment usually goes something like this . . .

I read this book and it was okay but why would this happen? It is just totally not probable. I mean I liked the story and the writing but I just don’t think this would happen in life.

This makes me quiver. Not with outrage, but with fear and concern, because I am terribly worried that a lot of people are growing up with a slightly mixed-up idea of how stories work and what they are meant to do.

Stories are not meant to be probable.

Probable means the thing that is most likely to happen. There would be little point in reading about the thing that is most likely to happen. So I am confused about the expectation here. Is the problem that the reader thinks the story isn’t about something common enough? Of course, amazing stories can be written about very common, everyday things, exposing deeper meanings and levels of communication. The first example that leaps to mind here among thousands of possible examples is A&P by John Updike, one of the first short stories I remember reading as a tiny mj. It’s literally about a guy working the cash register at an A&P when a girl comes in dressed only in a bathing suit and bare feet to buy some jarred herring snacks. The narrator (a teenaged boy) admires the girls (in many ways), but the manager wants to throw the girls out, so the narrator takes off his apron and quits. That’s it. That’s the plot.

A&P is a probable story, I guess. It’s quite possible to walk into a grocery store in a bathing suit and buy some herring, if that’s how you roll. But in 1961, when it was written, it was a bit more of a shock to see a girl in a bathing suit walk into a store. It was unlikely. It was a statement. It meant something.

So I guess A&P isn’t probable at all. It was about an exceptional moment—certainly one that falls within the boundaries of physical possibility, but still, a moment that stood out and provoked a strong change. And that was the most probable story I could think of.**

Possibly, there is a confusion here with logical. Stories should be logical. You can write the most far-fetched story in the world but it must make sense within itself—it has to obey its own rules. As I sit here typing this, I have the Alfred Hitchcock movie The Birds on in the background. That’s another short story I remember reading as a kid, and another possible but not probable premise: one day, all the birds decide they don’t like people, and they attack. “This isn’t usual, is it?” one of the characters just said, after a flock of birds destroyed a picnic. No, it is not usual at all. But it is a story with nice, simple rules, which it follows carefully: birds are normal, birds get squirrelly, birds &*@# everybody up, birds get progressively better at breaking into houses and running people off roads, birds take over town. It’s bad bird behavior, but it follows a logical progression.

But since I keep seeing this comment in so many places and for so many books, and since the phrasing is often so similar, I am very worried that these readers mean exactly what they say—that they are expecting something to roll out in a certain way, that they think there are ways that stories are supposed to go. You’re either fighting off the space leopards with your rainbow sword or you are buying a pair of jeans and making a call on your cell phone (brands included, natch!) . . . and there is NO MIDDLE GROUND. If the book is “realistic,” then the coordinates have been predetermined. Weirdness is not encouraged and will not be tolerated. This bothers me both as a writer and as a weird person.

I write fiction. I make things up. To date, I have not included many space leopards or their ilk (though that is going to change soon), but I’ve never felt this is in any way a limiting factor. There are many strange and fantastic things that are quite real—and any number of styles or techniques can be employed when telling “realistic” stories. Many of the “realistic” writers I admire write complete lunacy, and this is a very good thing in my opinion.

So the kneejerk “this isn’t probable” reaction seems to me quite similar to the “this place is weird” reaction to foreign travel, or “this tastes funny” when eating something new. It suggests that there are people who think they know what normal is. And if I can impart any wisdom at all*** I would like to impress this little nugget: there is no normal. You are not normal. No one is normal. And if you think there is a set way a story (or life) is supposed to go, you are mistaken—and happily so. Because there is a lot of fun to be had and things to be learned be had when you shake off those preconceptions.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to go do some riting (WITH A W!). If YOU would like to add to this discussion, please do so in the COMMENTS!

* My friends who write Sci Fi and Urban Fantasy and all of that good stuff don’t get this comment, but they get lots of others, usually along the lines of “Why did you kill so-and-so?” or “Why haven’t so-and-so made out yet?” even if so-and-so are related.

** And I have absolutely no doubt that someone out there has written some critique that says, “I guess this story is okay but it is so boring and why would you quit your job just because a girl in a bathing suit came in to your store? That is just not probable.”

*** Unlikely, but roll with me here. I have a cold. Cut me some slack.

THE CHRISTMAS EVE ASK MJ MARATHON

2009-12-24T08:53:00.003+03:30

Last Christmas Eve, I tried to answer as many questions as I could in a massive BLOG MARATHON that lasted all night. This year, in the countdown to Christmas, I am going to try to do something LIKE that. Throughout the day, I will post ANSWERS to your questions on a rolling basis. But let’s get started!

Jo07 asks: what do you do when someone gets you a gift unexpectedly you've gotten them nothing?

When I was just a tiny mj, I was pretty good with my homework, generally. But I had a terrible memory for Kindergarten show and tell day. I would always find out about show and tell when we gathered in line to go into school and I would go into a SILENT INNER PANIC about the fact that I hadn’t brought anything. The first time I remember this happening, I yoinked a stick off one of the trees outside—a little bent one. When show and tell came around, I told everyone it was a snake stick. It was what baby snakes used to learn how to crawl. And another time, I found out when show and tell started so I just had to roll with it and show my ARM, like that was what I meant to bring all along. I showed it all around the room and told everyone what I did with it. Pretty slick, right?

This presence of mind is pretty remarkable because, as I was just remembering today, I was a pretty clueless kid. Weird stuff was always happening to me and it’s ONLY NOW that I realize how strange it was. Take, for instance, the bus driver I had when I was in first grade who was this seventy-year old playboy who used to stop the bus and take us into McDonald’s every single morning because he was hitting on the manager, a saucy wench of seventy herself. We were late pretty much every day because of this. I had no idea this was weird!

Or what about the creepy bus driver we had when I was in second grade (once they fired the other guy because he used to take us into McDonald’s every morning without permission and make us late for school), the one who used to have me come and stand BETWEEN THE SAFETY BAR AND HER SEAT to MASSAGE HER SHOULDERS as she drove. I did this! Why? Because some adult told me to. Did I like it? No. But she would always say, “Maureen, come rub my shoulders,” and I would sigh and put down my book and when we reached a red light I was squeeze my tiny body into that space and do her bidding. How did this unspeakably creepy behavior come to an end? That would be when THE BUS CRASHED. Yes, we LOST OUR BRAKES* as we were going down an incline and took out two other cars and there I was squeezed into what was more or less the most dangerous spot possible on the bus. I was still there when the police came on to the bus, and they were like, “What the hell are you doing there?” Let me tell you the one answer a police officer loves to hear from a child: “I was massaging the bus driver.”

Or, when I was in high school, and we had this 23 year-old bus driver who I used to talk to as we were driving around. And then he started asking me out. Every. Single. Day. He was all, “You could tell your parents you’re going somewhere else and I’ll meet you down the street and we’ll go to dinner.” At first, I tried to laugh it off. Then I tried to explain that I was busy, forever. That my parents locked me in the basement. That was allergic to being outside. Anything. This guy would just not stop. So I was telling my friend Betty Vox about it one day in her homeroom and her teacher overheard and she reported the guy. He was so furious at me that he screamed at me for five minutes and then HE RIPPED OUT MY SEAT.

Now, that may sound like a completely irrelevant bunch of anecdotes about my very bad luck with school bus drivers and not an answer to the question of all, but it is, in fact, my way of LEADING you to the answer. What I’m saying is . . . don’t massage the bus driver. Maybe just don’t massage, because 9 times out of 10, that is a creepy offer. Like, if your co-worker in accounting gives you a scented holiday candle, don’t just grab a post-it note and write “GOOD FOR ONE FREE MASSAGE BY ME!” on it and hand it over while making squishy-squishy motions with your hands. Likewise, if someone in your class gives you a gift certificate you weren’t expecting, don’t then ask them out every single day for the rest of the year and then if they complain physically tear their homeroom desk from its moorings and turn it on its side in the back of the room. Or if your friend’s grandmother gives you some homemade cookies, don’t forcibly take her to McDonald’s every single morning at seven thirty and then hit on the staff as she sits there, looking at her hashbrown in confusion. Some people will say these points are self-evident, but not all. Not all. And if I can reach just one person, this blog has done its job.

The stick and arm tricks work pretty well, though. Try those.***

OR! You can give them a FREE SUITE SCARLETT! Always have this link ready.

*vampires?
** This really happened. All of these really happened. In the case of the massaged bus driver . . . it just came up because my mom, who is a school nurse, was telling me about a bus crash at her school today. Luckily, it wasn’t serious and no one was hurt, but she had to deal with it. And I said, “Remember that time my bus crashed?” And she said yes, and how she was so mad because the school or district didn’t TELL her that the bus crashed—they said the bus stalled (which our buses did ALL OF THE TIME). So I got home and told her all about this crash, and she was furious that no one told her and she called the school and complained. And literally the only other time my mom called my grade school and complained was in eight grade when she found out that I knew absolutely nothing about the sea battle between the Monitor and the Merrimack. She’s convinced this is pretty much the most important thing that has happened, ever. Well, I can tell you that I have graduated from college and grad school and I have fancy degrees and I still don’t know %^$# about the Monitor and the Merrimack. So I don’t know what that says about me, or naval history, but anyway, I said, “Yeah, and I was standing between the safety bar and the driver’s seat because she used to make her massage her shoulders . . .” And it was only AS I WAS SPEAKING that it occurred to me just how extraordinarily creepy it is.
*** On second thought, giving parts of your body as gifts might also be creepy. And “snake stick” doesn’t sound much better. Don’t do either of these things.

A PRESENT FOR YOU

2009-12-23T09:29:00.005+03:30

It has always been my dream to give a present to EVERYONE who reads this blog (or Twitter, or my mind). So I went to my publisher to see what I could do. Now, normally, I am not permitted in the building because of a minor misunderstanding we simply refer to as the "big fire incident," but I managed to get in through the fire escape (which they had foolishly left open and functional, perhaps in the light of the "big fire incident") and I said, "Hey, guys, some people are running short of cash this season. Can't we do something to help out? Why don't we give everyone a free book? That would promote Cheer. Free book, I say! Free book!"

Everyone in the men's room was in total agreement. So was security!

I went to The Man with my idea, and The Man liked what he heard.

After I signed a little agreement to never sneak on to the premises again, they set to work on a program to give EVERYONE a FREE COPY OF SUITE SCARLETT!

It begins today. It begins NOW. This holiday season, I am pleased to present COMPLETELY FREE COPIES OF SUITE SCARLETT to YOU!

SOME QUESTIONS ANSWERED

What's the catch?

There is no catch. You just get the electronic book for free. Happy Holidays!

Wait, what?

You get the book for free. Right now. It's yours. Take it. *gives*

How?

You click here, which takes you to the bulletin page of my site. Once there, you will see all kinds of buttons with little pictures. Hit the picture of the device you want to read it on, and BAM, book.

Is it the whole book or some weird short version?

It's the whole book AND a bit of the SEQUEL. It's, like, MORE than the book.

What devices can I choose from?

You can get versions of the book for iPhone, Kindle, Barnes and Noble Nook, or just an online copy you can read on any computer. (Note: Kindle downloads begin at 12 midnight Pacific time, so just over an hour from the time of this posting. DON'T hit preorder. It may take a few hours for the BN and Amazon systems to catch up, but they should be up and running by tomorrow morning. If it's telling you to buy it right now, wait a few hours.)

How many copies can I have? Like, if wanted to send my friends this link can THEY also have copies?

They're electronic so there are an ENDLESS NUMBER OF COPIES. ANYONE can have a copy. It's available from now until January 15th.

Some of my friends are kind of slow on the uptake. Can I tell them I BOUGHT THEM THE BOOK FOR THE HOLIDAYS and give them the link?

If you are so inclined.

I want to give this book to a lot of people! How can I do this?

You can SHARE the love by hitting the SHARE button and posting the box to your Facebook profile so that everyone can have some FREE BOOK. Or you can just pass the link via Twitter or ANY OTHER FORM OF COMMUNICATION YOU USE. In fact, I would love it if you did so. The more, truly, the merrier.

So you can write a short blog today because you are giving out a whole BOOK?

That's right! Happy reading! Ho ho ho!

THE CHEER BLOG: HOW TO MAKE AN IMPRESSION

2009-12-21T23:12:00.007+03:30

mighty_mudha asks: So, the boy and I are spending xmas with his family....first time meeting them....any advice? (I'm overly nervous...)

The holidays are a wonderful time to get to know the parents of a significant other—but the experience can go HORRIBLY WRONG if you are not careful. Thankfully, you asked me in time. Right now, go and get as many objects relating to your S.O. as you can get your hands on. Go! Get them!

You see, the main thing parents of an S.O. want to know is that you REVERE their child in the same way they do. Well, not in the same EXACT way, but they want to see the depth of your appreciation. And the FIRST way you do this is by making some tribute tree ornaments, glorifying your S.O.

I realize that some of you are craftier than others and that some of you may find the prospect of making these ornaments daunting. But don’t worry. These can be as simple as attaching a picture to a pre-made ornament. I’ve made one of my friend John Green to show you how easily this can be done.

This simple and elegant ornament requires only scissors and tape.

You will undoubtedly have a collection of totems from your relationship which you have saved and can easily convert into ornaments simply by attaching a hook or a bit of ribbon, and perhaps a short note with a bit of a memory! Here is are two examples:

Your collection of totems can be easily converted in a matter of minutes.

Now, the key part of this is PRESENTATION. You don’t want to just shove this box of ornaments at your hosts. You need to decorate their tree with them. The easiest way to do this is when everyone is sleeping. If you are not staying overnight, the best thing to do is excuse yourself and get outside, taking their car keys with you. Put their car into neutral and push it as far down the street as you can. Then come back in and scream, “SOMEONE HAS STOLEN YOUR CAR!” When everyone runs out, lock the door and get started! If the tree is already decorated, simply remove the decorations and start over. If they do not have a tree, either bring one or hang the decorations on the refrigerator or some other large object. If they have pets, you can also decorate them.

When everyone wakes up or comes in through the window (depending on your situation), they will be ENCHANTED to see what you have done! Imagine the beautiful scene, this display of your love! Don’t worry if no one is talking about your decorating. Sometimes people have trouble expressing very deep emotion. They must just look down, or at each other, or at your S.O. But trust me, your relationship will now be the NUMBER ONE thing on their minds. You have them EXACTLY where you want them. You could easily stop there and you’d be golden, but I think it’s best to press on, burrowing your way further into their hearts like some kind of parasite of love.

At this point, it may be time to eat. This is a major opportunity to impress the parents with your intricate knowledge of your S.O.’s eating habits. It’s important to demonstrate that you are fully prepared—no, fully DETERMINED—to make sure all of their nutritional needs are met. As I am sure you know, real love means exerting control over every single aspect of your S.O.’s existence.

So when the Christmas beastie and the trimmings are being passed around, make sure to examine absolutely everything that goes on to your S.O.’s plate. It might be useful to have a small food scale with you. There are many tiny models that you can slide into a purse or a man-bag, but there is nothing wrong with hauling a larger, industrial model to the table. Be bold. People admire boldness. Whenever your S.O. tries to spoon something on to his or her plate, guide their hand over to the scale. Once you have an accurate measurement of the food, use your computer or a small book on nutrition to calculate the exact nutritional value of each and every serving and edit it as necessary. You might have to bring along some Tupperware containers full of whole grains or steamed vegetables and make up the rest of the plate. (Make sure to have a plastic bag ready for all the unwanted items you scrape off the plate.)

Now that you’ve proven your serious dedication to your S.O.’s health, you need to take that one extra step to prove that you are ready to do anything for them. Nothing, truly nothing, impresses an S.O.’s parents like ACTUALLY SAVING YOUR S.O.’s life RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM. To do this, you are probably going to have to nudge certain things along a little—namely, you have to make it appear that your S.O. is in harm’s way. This can usually be accomplished with little to no injury on the part of your S.O. Here are just some ways you can do this:

Choking is a very effective trick, and you can do this right at the table. If you feel comfortable with your Heimlich skills, you can go ahead and stick a fishbone or small pebble into you S.O.’s meal. If you’re less sure, you can go ahead and perform the maneuver whenever your S.O. coughs. (If you S.O. is not prone to coughing, a quick handful of glitter to the face does the trick wonderfully.) Just get up behind them, pull them out of their seat, grab them around the middle and start squeezing, screaming, “BREATHE, damn you, BREATHE!”

If you are lucky enough to have an S.O. with a very serious allergy, this is a piece of cake. Slip the allergen quietly into the scene and let nature do the rest. MAKE SURE you have the EpiPen or any other necessary medication on the ready, otherwise this is just attempted (or completed) murder, and that will not impress anyone.

I know that for some people this last step might seem like too much, but trust me . . . once you have saved (or appeared to save) your S.O.’s life in front of their parents, they can NEVER REJECT YOU and you can do whatever you want, forever.

I hope this has helped. Please, continue to send your questions, and I will continue to answer them.

UPDATE: Due to popular demand, I am auctioning off the beautiful John Green ornament seen above for CHARITY! The ornament is paper on glass, handcrafted and absolutely one of a kind, with artist's signature. Send your bids in to Twitter. The auction starts NOW and ends at noon tomorrow (EST). The winner will make an online donation to Citymeals on Wheels, and I will send the ornament with my SPECIAL THANKS.

PLUS . . . you will ALSO get the ONE AND ONLY HARDBACK COPY OF SCARLETT FEVER, my PERSONAL copy with my handwritten notes in it. Truly, you cannot get it ANYWHERE else.

MJ’S LOW-PRICE GIFT GUIDE

2009-12-17T07:59:00.012+03:30

As you know, I am an expert on all things Cheer-related, so I am kicking off my annual Cheer Blogs, in which I help YOU solve your holiday conundrums. Recently, many of you have been asking for help buying gifts—specifically, gifts that don’t cost too much.

I know it's bad to encourage commercialism and of course the MAIN thing you should be buying is BOOKS, preferably from your local independent bookseller. But okay. I know some people don't want books, or you have to get something BESIDES books. So I have assembled this list of things you can buy for $5-30, most of which I own and can vouch for.

FLIP AND TUMBLE REUSABLE SHOPPING BAGS, $7-9

These bags are awesome. I first saw them at Scott Westerfeld and Justine Larbalestier’s house. They own a half dozen or so. Now, so do I, and I go nowhere without them. They are super durable and fold up into this awesome little ball you can chuck at people’s heads. You just keep one or two in your bag or suitcase and you won’t need any plastic bags at all! Good for the environment, good for you.

A small family of Flip and Tumble bags, waiting for adoption.

HARMONICA, $5-25

I was amazed to discover one day that I had a drawer full of harmonicas. And when I say “full of harmonicas,” I mean that there were two of them. But that is more harmonicas than I was expecting to find. And they are NICE harmonicas, too. They are “professional quality.” So I pulled out one of the harmonicas and IMMEDIATELY played “Happy Days Are Here Again” on it. Like, literally! I never knew I could play the harmonica! Harmonicas are awesome, and an excellent gift for those times when you first start dating someone and you aren’t sure what you “are” yet and you don’t want to freak them out by giving them a piece of jewelry or a vial of your own blood or something like that that just radiates COMMITMENT. Harmonicas are also great gifts for people who really hate their roommates, or for anyone who has a mustache. I think you will find they are RIGHT in many circumstances.

The little black dress of gifts

MAGNETIC JOURNALS, $10-30

I buy a lot of journals. I don’t know why. I don’t usually write that much in them. But I buy them like a maniac and I’ve taken a real shine to this brand, which makes beautiful ones with great bindings and a handy magnetic clasp to keep them closed and tidy. The bonus part of this is that you can sit and flick the clasp closed over and over. It makes this awesome snick, snick, snick noise that will annoy others but somehow really helps you think. Or at least look like you are thinking. And that is what matters.

I own this one. Snick. Snick. Snick.

FIRE EXTINGUISHER, $10-25

Everyone should own a fire extinguisher. It’s a gift that says you care. It’s best given with a word of loving caution and a deep, unblinking stare. Say something like, “You never know when a fire could break out.” Or, “You’d be amazed at how many things burn.”

Things burn, you know.

TREE CANDLE, $11-26

Listen to me, and believe me . . . I am OBSESSED with good holiday candles. Every year I go around to ever shop like some kind of deranged bloodhound, sniffing. I sniff and sniff. And I am not easily satisfied. But let me tell you something . . . this candle smells like a frickin’ tree. I bought five of them, and I’m going to buy more. You probably know someone who wants a frickin’ candle. Get them this frickin’ candle. That is all.

"It smells like a frickin' tree." - Maureen Johnson, author, so-called interesting person on Twitter

PLATES OF WORRY, $10-15

There’s a store called Fishs Eddy here in New York that just makes awesome weird stuff. I shop there a lot. If you are in NYC, you should, because they have cool crap like mugs with the least-famous presidents on them, or drinking glasses with striptese dancers on them, or big piles of flatware for cheap, and they also have a large assortment of antique disembodied ceramic arms. I am really taken with these plates, which have all kinds of demotivational messages written around the edges, like, “It’s hard to be around you when you eat like this” and “For the love of god stop eating.” They are good, strudy plates too, so you can really fill them up! (This store also has totally awesome scissors too, if you are into scissors.)

URBAN DECAY EYESHADHOW PRIMER POTION, $17

So when I was out the other day at the makeup store (the same day I bought the vibrating makeup that keeps breaking and vibrating in my bathroom sink) the saleslady said to me, “You should buy this stuff.” And I said, “What is it?” And she said it is a POTION that keeps your eye makeup on. Now, if you have ever worn eye makeup, you will know that it can rub off and be annoying, and clearly I was in the mood that day to be convinced so I took it. I don’t know what is in this stuff—magic, or uranium, or glue or something—but it totally works. A good gift for people who wear makeup, and a lot better than a stupid vibrating sponge.

Now with NEW WAND

GAP SLIPPER BOOTIES, $25

I own a pair of these in white. They’re nice. I originally bought them because they looked warm and comfy and I thought they would be great to wear on writing days at home. I have discovered their other advantages. Like if you live above a crazy person who sends security after you if you close your windows, or attacks your cable guy while he is installing your Verison FIOS, or calls the apartment complex’s carpet police to say you don’t have enough carpeting even though you totally do and in fact went and bought thousands of dollars worth of deep-pile shag rugs to shut her up but nothing you do will satisfy her, nothing, so you essentially carpet your feet but still that isn’t enough! Anyway, these slipper booties are great for that! Also, you can wear them to walk home from the emergency room at 4am after you have a reaction to medication and you are so ashamed that an ambulance had to drive you ACROSS THE STREET that you go home on foot, which is fine because you are ACROSS THE STREET.

Cozy!

MINI HELICOPTER, $30

I don’t own one of these yet, but you better believe I mean to. Because . . . mini helicopter. There is nothing a right-thinking person can’t do with one of these babies. Check out this sweet video:

See what I mean? Don’t you just want to cover that thing in post-it notes and fly them into unsuspecting people’s heads? I mean, that is what I am going to do with it, when I eventually get one.

Have CHEER-related questions.? Hit me. I am here, ready to help.

THE 13 DAYS OF CHEER!

2009-12-02T00:46:00.012+03:30

So, it’s December. Those of you who have been around these parts for a while know that I AM FAN OF THE HOLIDAYS. I can barely contain myself through the year, so eager am I to put up my tree, hang the shiny things, and let loose the hamsters of joy. Christmas carols, holiday stories, cookies, stockings, general merriment . . . I am there, 100%!

For the past three years, I have done a holiday card giveaway. For the first two, I made each card myself, until I reduced myself to such a broken condition that I had to get the cards printed. Then last year, I got double or triple the requests. I spent six weeks singing and addressing the cards—working right through Christmas Eve—until I was once again a broken (but CHEERFUL!) wreck.

This year, I am faced with a big deadline, and I have finally admitted to myself that the card thing has gotten away from me. I do not have the time or the muscle power in my freakishly small hands to write out the hundreds of cards again.

“Fie!” I said, when I realized this. “How will I spread CHEER?”

How could I be CHEERFUL under these circumstances?

And then, it hit me . . . I could TWITTER my Cheer.

Let's start December off right with the 13 Days of Cheer! Here’s how this works: every day, I will pick someone at random on Twitter who replies or otherwise writes to or mentions me and that person wins a book! (One of mine, of course. And by “mine,” I mean, written by me, not just a book I own.) There is a wide selection on offer, including two copies of the as-yet-unreleased Scarlett Fever! It could be any time of the day. You will never know when the CHEER ATTACK is coming.

Now, of course, this isn’t the ONLY way I am going to spread Cheer. This is like a warm-up exercise for the first half of the month, before I get the BIG CHEER on. And, as is my custom, I will answer your Cheer-related questions. If there is something you need to know about the holidays, I am here to help.

NANOWRIMO DAY 25: THE BOOK IS YOUR @^&$*

2009-11-26T04:39:00.002+03:30

At the start of this month, I said I was going to try to blog every day about NaNoWriMo. I did, however, put in all kinds of conditions: I was moving, I was traveling, hamsters, etc. So I’ve only managed to do four or five blogs. Now it’s the 25th day, and I’m jumping back in the game!

This relates directly to today’s question. When I put out my call for topics, I immediately got 20 or 30 people asking questions like, “I’ve only done 6,000 words! Do I even keep going?” Or, “I haven’t written for a week! Should I give up?”

Clearly, a lot of people are finding that they haven’t hit their target wordcounts and the panic is starting to set in. So, today, let’s talk about what you do when you are REALLY, REALLY BEHIND, and address the “should I keep going?” question.

Listen to a story . . .

When I was a very small mj, I had a best friend named Hortence.* Hortence and I were best friends because we lived next to each other. That was all. It was a friendship of convenience, as all friendships are when you are four years old. Hortence was bigger than me, and her parents were hippies and had all kinds of awesomely relaxed standards. This meant that in Hortence’s house, we could play with ANYTHING at ANY TIME. (This included tools. Nothing says safety like a six year old with a hammer.)

We also listened to music and made up complicated dance routines with props. There was a song we loved called “Centerfold.” Centerfold is a story about a guy who was in love with a girl in high school, who later finds out that she is the current centerfold in a magazine full of NAKED LADIES. And for some reason, this destroys his mind a little.

Here is the video, in case you don’t know it.

There is a line in the song that goes, “Slipped me notes under the desk, while I was thinking about her dress.” Hortence always thought this line was “FLOWERS thinking about her dress.” Now, when I was a tiny mj, I did not understand what the song was about, really. I was pretty confused about why the man was so upset to see a girl he knew in a magazine. But I could speak basic English. So I knew that part Hortence had worked into her routine with the plastic flower was pointless. To be fair, it does sound like the singer is saying FLOWERS thinking about her dress, but (as I pointed out to Hortence), flowers do not think about dresses. Flowers do not think at all.

We were debating this on the swings (we did a lot of talking on the swings). We had to be in each other’s dance routines, of course, and I was refusing to do anything with the plastic flower because the flower was just NOT IN THE SONG. Hortence, master debater that she was, said, “He does TOO say flowers because . . .”

And then she pushed me backwards off the swings. This was how we resolved 90% of our debates.**

I much preferred this approach to Hortence’s other method of punishing me and making me go along with her plans—namely, she would revoke my toy privileges. See, her grandmother worked at a toy factory*** so she had pretty much every cool toy there was. And if I crossed her authority, she would simply tell me I was no longer allowed to play with something. Usually her Suckerman. I LOVED Suckerman. Suckerman was this rubbery demon-sea monster thing covered in twenty-eight suction cups. You pulled on his arms and then you threw him against the wall. He would stick and kind of roll down and stick and roll down and stick and then fall off the wall. It was genius.

Suckerman

So if Hortence REALLY wanted to let me know who was in control, she would say, “You can’t touch Suckerman.” And then she would put him right in front of me. Those of you with siblings might have had the good sense to just reach forward and TAKE the Suckerman, but as far as I was concerned, there was a MAGICAL DOME over Suckerman that my hand could not penetrate. I would just sit there and stare at it sadly.

Hortence’s mojo was so powerful she could occasionally put the magical no-touch dome over MY TOYS. “But that’s mine,” I would say. And she would just shrug and say, “You can’t touch it.” Finally, on one of those occasions, when she put the dome over my Rubik’s Cube, I broke with convention and took it back! And then she grabbed it back from me and threw it on top of our neighbor’s shed. I eventually got it back, but not before it rained. It was never quite the same. So I never crossed her again.

I was, in short, her b%^&h.

Why am I telling you this? I will explain. See, sometimes when you are working on a book, you feel like you are the book’s b%^#h. Like the book holds you under its sway. Like it owns YOU. Sometimes it puts the magical dome over itself and says, “You can’t work on me. I’m too hard.”

The reality is that the book is YOUR b%^#h.**** There is no magical dome. It cannot throw itself on top of the neighbor’s shed. YOU are in charge at all times. YOU make the book. Sometimes it is hard but YOU are still in control. No muses or magical writing pandas.***** It’s very easy to get worked up about how tricky and finicky writing is, how it requires special conditions. NO IT DOESN’T. You need time and something to write with and a little gumption. And, if possible a snack.

And the same is true with NaNoWriMo. Sure, yes, it’s great to meet the deadline at the end and hit that 50,000 word mark on the 30th. But NaNoWriMo is a great tool to get you writing and IT TOO is your b%^#h. Don’t use the fact that you are currently a little bit behind as an excuse to stop. This is your opportunity to finish a book. So finish a book! DO IT. Set new dates for your own personal NaNoWriMo and push on.

No matter what, my answers to these questions will ALWAYS be that you should keep writing.

I am also informed that I am required by law to tell you something. Today, Let it Snow—a book I wrote with John Green and Lauren Myracle—made it on to the New York Times bestseller list. The status of “New York Times Bestselling author” has long eluded me. It wasn’t the be-all, end-all goal of my life. I was perfectly happy not ever having that title. But today, I do have it, and I get to KEEP it forever. And it is actually kind of awesome.

And I got here by just plugging away and writing. Okay, and maybe there was ONE magical writing panda. But whatever.

* Not her actual name, of course. I have changed it on the grounds that she can still beat me up, because . . .
** Hortence is now, and I kid you not, a professional boxer.
*** Again . . . no, REALLY, she did.
**** I look forward to you quoting me to your English teachers on this point.
***** I am not sure how prevalent the belief in magical writing pandas actually is.

THE LOST SYMBOL READERS’ GUIDE: THE FINAL INSTALLMENT

2009-11-13T00:25:00.004+03:30

Friends, it’s been almost a month since I have delivered an installment of this saga. The delay was mostly due to my move. You can’t move and absorb the mysteries of The Lost Symbol, because the human psyche is only capable of so much. So if you need a refresher, here are parts one, two, three, four, and five.

When we last left them . . . Mal’akh had gotten everything he wanted and had Katherine and HSRL in the basement of his evil lair. Katherine was hooked up to something you mind find at an evil bloodbank . . . a machine that slowly drained her dry. And HSRL WAS DEAD! We saw his body sink to the bottom of the tank, like one of those little pirate chests they put in fishtanks.

Now, back to the action.

Chapters 109-110

CIA director Inoue “Evil Yoda” Sato and her crack team have swooped down on Mal’akh’s Palace of Fun. Sato commands one of her minions to find the computer. Said minion goes to the desk and stares at it in bafflement. It LOOKS like a computer should be there, but there is none! Where could it be? What kind of evil mastermind has a computer that you can just PICK UP AND CARRY AWAY? What kind of monster are they DEALING with?

Sato tells him it was a laptop, makes mental note to stop hiring people from the room with the rounded scissors. No wonder she is so cranky and wizened!

In the rumpus room in the furnished basement, Katherine is still hooked up to the bleeding machine, and RL is apparently STILL NOT DEAD. As he clings to life, he runs through some Latin phrases. This is the kind of thing he usually does while trying to run from a hail of bullets while wearing loafers, or trying to escape a major national monument in loafers, or trying to get away from a swooping helicopter in loafers . . . but since there isn’t a lot to do at the bottom of a tank as your brain is about to explode, going through Latin phrases is as good a way to pass the time as any.

Chapter 111

We flashback to what seems like a scene from Stupid Harvard* (but it’s actually Stupid Phillips Exeter Academy, which is a feeder school for Stupid Harvard—and from what I can tell, from there it’s pretty much a straight line to Sato’s team—IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW). Here again we see the overeager arm raising, the giddy excitement at slide shows, the shouting out of names of countries and other nouns.

At the heart of the action is Peter Solomon, who’s there to tell these dim bulbs about the wonders of the Smithsonian. In the process, one of the students confronts Peter and wants to know if he is a Mason. She has Googled him! This one will go far! He admits that yes, he is a Mason. But aren’t the Masons some kind of creepy, weirdo organization of creepy weirdos? Not so, says Peter.

DB proceeds to slice up and plate the juicy fact-meat that he so loves to serve. We learn that the Masons are awesome and not weird at all, and that everything you know is wrong. So there, suckers.

Chapter 112

Downstairs, the CIA is disconnecting Katherine from the bleeding machine, so if you were worried about that, don’t be.

Meanwhile, wretched, crab-like Sato is descending into the hidden basement, where one of her agents is pointing out HSRL’s tweed coat and loafers, which are on the floor! His uniform! His loafers! Then she approaches the tank and looks through the plexiglass and sees a FLOATING, SUBMERGED HSRL!

Now, I know what you are thinking . . . you are thinking, “HSRL has been in that tank for a while, totally submerged, so he MUST be dead. He MUST be.” But Sato knows different. She knows that he is alive. HOW he is alive—well, we’ll get to that in a minute. But think about this. You’ve found HSRL in a tank of liquid in a hidden basement. Now, I don’t know about you, but if I had stumbled upon this scene, I would have turned to my idiot agent and said, “We’re going to go back upstairs and cement over that door. Then I’m buying YOU a chocolate milk and you’re going to promise me never to tell anyone about this.” But DB knows best and doesn’t give in to baser instincts like these. So instead we are given a scene of a naked HSRL, born again, blinded by light, and mistaking the face of Sato for the face of God.

And now . . . the science. DB is not precious with this next section. It moves with the grace of a ballgown trimmed in hammers, but we must get through it to understand the bit about the tank. That tank was filled with oxygenated perfluorocarbons, a new technology known as Total Liquid Ventilation (TLV). Yes, breathable liquid! The science goes on for about two more pages, which contain the only known quasi-academic reference to the 1989 movie “The Abyss.”

Then we get a full HSRL rebirthing scene, and as soon as he is out—he’s talking Latin. I’m not going to lie—Chapter 112 is a bruiser. But no one said this would be easy.

Chapters 113-124

Katherine, of course, believes that she has just seen HSRL die, so she is as surprised as any when he shows up all drippy and towely. “How?” she asks. Sato is about to do the whole “oxygenated perfluorocarbons, have you seen The Abyss?” thing again when Katherine pulls a “Just shut up and hold me!” (To HSRL, not Sato.) HSRL has, once again, not saved her. Our hero is beloafered and an easy bleeder, and he doesn’t rescue much, but he knows his Latin!

While in the tank, he realized that Mal’akh is after the MAGIC WORD! That’s what this has all been about! He’s run off with the pyramid, but RL figures out that he is going to Heredom (which is Greek, actually). Heredom is a mythical mountain in Scotland! But it’s ALSO the nickname of a building in Washington DC!

In the interests of time, I realize I must seriously condense what happens from here on in.

While becoming an initiate in the Masons, bald, shaven Mal’akh was wearing a wig. And in that wig . . . WAS A CAMERA! Yes, the wig cam captured it all, and Mal’akh has edited it together into the most badass and viral Youtube video since Keyboard Cat. This video shows half of Washington drinking what looks like blood out of what looks like a skull, committing what looks like murder, throwing what look like dead bodies into coffins. But, DB goes to great lengths to explain, this is all playacting and the Masons are pretty much the most awesome organization, ever. If this were the prom, you know how there’s always one couple in the middle of the floor that makes out the WHOLE DANCE, even during the fast songs? Well, if you could replace that couple with DB and the Masons, and the prom was The Lost Symbol . . . then HSRL would be the DJ. I think. All you need to know is that THE MASONS ARE AWSEOME EVEN THOUGH THEY SEEM REALLY WEIRD.

So forget Peter Solomon. Who cares if he dies? This wig cam video must be stopped!

Meanwhile, Mal’akh is wheeling Peter Solomon around DC in a wheelchair. Peter has been rebirthed about three times tonight. Having stolen the magical pyramid, soaked Peter in a tank and severed his hand, tattooed himself, fed Trish Dunne to the giant squid, killed a few guards, hooked Katherine up to the bleeding machine, and pickled HSRL . . . the extremely prolific Mal’akh is now about to conclude his evening by getting the magic word he has so longed for. Then all he has to do is tattoo it on his head, prepare the creepy sacrificial table in the skylight of the Heredom, and use the ACTUAL BIBLICAL KNIFE from the story of Abraham and Isaac that he has obtained from ebay. But WHO IS TO DIE?

Meanwhile, HSRL is zooming around the streets of DC, shouting directions from the backseat, and Sato sits in a helicopter, gnawing at her horrible talons. People are running from every possible direction. It’s BEDLAM. Cats and dogs living together, etc.

You aren’t going to believe this, but Mal’akh? Is PETER SOLOMON’S LOST SON ZAC. Except now he’s crazy and tattooed and he wants Peter to sacrifice him just like Abraham was asked to sacrifice his son in the Bible and Peter is all oh nooooooo. But it’s okay, because the helicopter crashes through the skylight and kills Mal’akh with a zillion shards of glass, but not before Mal’akh can hang on for a few scenes of WTF? Because, to be fair, he has gone to a LOT of effort.

Oh, and the wig cam video goes out! Except, it doesn’t! Because Sato stops it with some helicopter-fu! HSRL runs in at the end and is all, “Hey, guys.”

Chapter 125

Key lines between Katherine and HSRL:

Katherine walked up and embraced him warmly. “How can I ever thank you?”

He laughed. “You know I didn’t do anything, right?”

And there you go.

Chapters 126-130

It’s a symbolpalooza! I can’t really remember any of it, but you’re going to LOVE it!

Chapter 131

We learn that many great thinkers were convinced that the Bible contained the Ancient Mysteries, but not in the literal words—that the words on the pages were codes, and that the Bible is comprised of heavy-handed and useless story covering up something much more important and interesting. I get the feeling that DB is trying to tell me something, but I am not biting, reader.

Chapters 132-Epilogue

HRSL gets the best tour of Washington DC, ever, because Peter Solomon can apparently get in anywhere. Like, if he wanted to see the President’s underwear drawer, he could see it. He exacts a kind of passive-aggressive revenge on HSRL by blindfolding him and taking him to enclosed spaces and up high stairs and on to scary balconies, all under the pretense of showing him a good time, which is pretty slick in my opinion. Also, he seems to have recovered from his son’s second death and his own hand-severing/rebirthing pretty well, but then again, it has been four hours or something.

Anyway, we get to see that Washington DC has a lot of high, dark, creepy spaces, and apparently the founding fathers had WAY too much time on their hands . . . which is surprising, considering that they were busy creating a whole new country, and laws, and currency and everything. But they also took the time to make a whole PUZZLE CITY that no one knows about!

Oh, and by the way, the lost word is actually a lost symbol, and that lost symbol is a circle with a dot inside of it. But there also is a word, and that word is buried in the cornerstone of the Washington Monument. That’s the answer. You’re welcome.

THE END

* See Part Two to learn about Stupid Harvard, which is where HSRL teaches. I know this means it should have been SHSRL all along, but it is too late now.

NANOWRIMO DAY EIGHT: BY THE NUMBERS

2009-11-09T08:50:00.003+03:30

shopoholic309 asks: I only have 1000 words written for NANO. Problem? Should I give up already?

Give up? GIVE UP? On the 8th of November? When you have 22 days to go?

Think about it this way: so, you have 49,000 words left to write. Originally, you had to write approximately 1,666.6 words a day. Now you have to write 2,227.2 words a day. Which is a difference of just 560.6 words a day. 560.6 words? That’s, like, a sentence! Okay, it’s like a paragraph. Maybe a page. Okay, it’s like a blog answer. I will MAKE this answer 560.6 words long to show you that it is not a big deal to do that many extra words a day. At the moment, I’m at 109 words. Well, 109 was actually the 110th word. And just telling you that has gotten me up to 128 words! Which is about one-quarter of the way! See how this just zips along?

I mean, maybe you’re thinking of when you get an essay assignment and it’s like, “Write 3000 words on which kind of wood is best for eating.” And you’re like, “Oh my god, how am I am going to write 3,000 words?” Because the task already seems hard (the answer, by the way, is balsa—and also whatever my bed was made out of when I was little because I used to crawl out every night and chew on the footboard) . . . when you add a NUMBER to it, it just makes it seem scarier. But numbers, like guns, cannot hurt you. Numbers don’t kill people—math kills people.

Speaking of Numbers . . . have you ever seen that show Numb3rs? Which they actually spell with a 3? In that show, numbers can solve crime. Like, any crime. You can just feel how that show was pitched: “Okay, so, it’s an FBI show . . . but, like, the one agent? Has this brother? Who’s like, a crazy MATH GENIUS? And the FBI guy pulls in his brother and then EVERY WEEK there’s, like, a MATH PROBLEM at the center of the show? And then all of these genius professors will, like, explain math? And we’ll run some mathy graphics in the background so it all seems legit. It’ll be like CSI, but for nerds. Nerds and shut ins.”

The graphics are almost certainly meaningless, but no one cares.

Numb3rs is not a very good show, but it is an example of how numbers can be our friends. And also how we can use numbers in our spelling. For example, I could start spelling my name “Maur33n Johns7.” I won’t, but I could. By the way, I am counting that caption in the word count, which is now 443—which INCLUDES the number 443, which is a real number and not my attempt to spell a word with numbers. (Or numb3rs.)

My point, shopaholic309 (it’s like you KNEW I was going to start spelling names with numbers!) is that you definitely can’t give up before you even start, and you can’t let a little thing like 560.6 words get in the way of your DREAMS. If you want to write, don’t let yourself be scared off. There are a million excuses to make to keep from sitting down and writing. A big part of the battle is just ignoring those things and getting down to business. Don’t let a little thing like 560.6 words get in your wa . . .

NANOWRIMO DAY THREE: POINTS OF WHAT?

2009-11-03T19:19:00.000+03:30

NANOWRIMO DAY 3: POINTS OF VIEW

Hello, friends! Today I come to you LITERALLY from the middle of the move (on a STOLEN SIGNAL). I am sitting on the floor, in the corner, with my computer on my lap as men come in and out and take my things away. At some point, they may just pick me up and take ME away, so if I cut off abruptly, that is what happened. So forgive if today is a little short. But there is a fine, fine question to be answered:

April asks: How do I decide what point of view to write from?

I’m assuming you all know what POV is, right? A quick explanation if you don’t:

First person: the narrator speaks to you directly. This is the “I” perspective.

Second person: the main character is filtered through you. “You go to the store, but they have no hamster pellets in stock. You return home and do some dancing.” It’s not very common, and I have personally never used it.

Third person: this is the “he/she/it” perspective. Third comes in various forms—you may only tell what the characters do and say, but never go into their minds (third person objective). You may follow the story from just one character’s viewpoint (third person limited), or from a handful of selected characters (third person multiple). Or you may be the all-knowing voice that can get into anyone’s head or any scene (third person omniscient).

Okay, so, there’s that. Now, how do you CHOOSE? This is a question I have been asking myself recently, as I am starting an entirely new book series, and I was playing with both first and third person. And I’ve written five books in third and one (Devilish) in first.

Usually, I ask myself two questions, and not necessarily in this order:

1. How much do I want the main character and the reader to know?

When you write in third, you can be the big, strong, smart narrator who knows it all, and you gain the ability to develop the narrative voice separately from the character’s voice. You can do your descriptions and evaluate the situation from higher perspective. You also gain the ability to move places and to gain information that the main character might not be privy to.

2. How will my main character impact the telling of the story?

When you write as the main character, you have the advantage of just talking like them . . . which means you get their speech patterns, their way of describing and looking at any situation they encounter. If your character has a very strong personality, a clear way of looking at the world, you can really use first with great impact. Also, first person narration can get away with more tangential stuff, as the character can start talking about whatever he/she/it feels like, when it wouldn’t be terribly relevant from a third person point of view.

For example, say you have to describe the main character’s room. Now, the way you do that in first and in third is very different. In first, you have to kind of give the character a reason for describing something they probably know very well, then you have to think about how that room appears to them. What is their attitude toward it? What matters to them? Maybe when they go into their room it makes them think about some time that they went to the circus, or the time they accidentally started a fire, or a philosophical concept he/she/it is obsessed with. Whatever you want, you can do it.

In third, you need less justification for descriptions, and you can filter the room in any way you like. You don’t have to assume familiarity. You can also use BIG WORDS that your character might not really use. Authorspeak is handy like that.

So, I kind of weigh the checks and balances . . . do I need unlimited access and FANCY VOICE, or do I want to tell this story in the voice of the person living it. (Because in first, that voice and view is an essential part of the shape of the story. See Catcher in the Rye, The Great Gatsby, Paper Towns, Liar, or a million other awesome books to see the power of first.)

I COULD say more on this topic and I am writing this very quickly but the room is now EMPTY. But . . . I totally made it! I did it! I blogged on moving day! And since there is much more to say on this topic, WHY NOT DO IT IN THE COMMENTS? Okay, I’ve got to . . .

. . . oh, I’m being put in a box . . .

*sound of stuffing, tape dispensing*

NANOWRIMO DAY TWO: WHERE THE SUCKMONSTER ROAMS

2009-11-02T05:00:00.003+03:30

Listen you guys . . . I am about to lay something critical on you. I am probably not supposed to be telling you this. I am going to get myself in trouble with the League of Real Writers. But you know that I am always compelled to tell you the truth. I won’t tell everyone, but I will tell YOU, friends. Just you. So here goes.

If you want to be a Real Writer, you must learn the fine art of the excuse. Observe:

So, you know how I said yesterday, on the first day of NaNoWriMo, that I would try to give advice EVERY DAY? Well, you may have to cut me SOME slack this week because I am moving tomorrow. Everything I own is in boxes, and after I finish writing this, my desk is going to be taken away and I will have NOTHING. And the cable appointment got messed up so I won’t even have my own internet until sometime on Thursday, so until then I’ll be sneaking around my new building trying to bogart some signal through the walls. Hopefully no one will paint with that special paint that blocks signals, and everyone will have nice, non-password-protected wifi.

Plus, I just found out that the new desk doesn’t come until Friday, so until then I will be a DESKLESS FREAK with NO SIGNAL in a WORLD OF BOXES. Plus my mailbox key doesn’t work. And I have to get this thing for my intercom. And I have to go out and all kinds of STUFF so that I can live like a normal person, like a shiny new trashcan. You guys—I NEED A TRASHCAN.

So this week is a bit special. But will I TRY? Oh, I will try! But if service is a little on and off for a few days, that is why.*

Now, you see, that is a pretty solid excuse. Moving your entire house and not having anywhere to sit and having to let movers in and shove boxes around and not having a buzzer or a key or any clothes or a trashcan . . . sometimes, life happens, and you have to deal with the life stuff completely. Many of you will face a few days this month that are simply so full or otherwise out of control that you won’t be able to write. And that’s fine. Those days often give you something to write ABOUT.

And also? You make up for it. Because when it comes to meeting the mark, aim for NO EXCUSES. Now, I realize that this probably seems like it runs counter to my previous statements about excuses, but hear me out. You have to allow for bumps and problems and days that are just slow or rough going. You can and will make up for them. For all the days I have been moving, I have found and replaced the time in my writing schedule, because my book is still due when it is due. It will still get done at the same time. If you get sick and miss a few days, if you start late, if you have to go away for a weekend, if someone needs your help, if you house is swept away in a tornado and you land in a magical kingdom . . . don’t worry. You’ll get back on track JUST LIKE ME.

Now, let’s get to today’s question.

Rachel asks: I've always loved writing and definitely consider becoming an author a goal of mine, this said, I think it would be a good idea for me to do NaNoWriMo. However, I don't think I have the time to do it (high school is way to stressful) and don't have a clear outline of a book ready at all. I have an idea for a book but I don't know if I like it or where it's going. Should I attempt it, knowing I'll probably fail, or not have the time necessary to complete it, or do it anyways?

I think you should definitely do it. Here is why:

1. No one has the time. (See above story for clarification, and just pretend I never said that part about missing a few days.**) You make the time if you want to write. If you do not want to write, you do not make the time. So if your goal is to become an author, start giving the time now.

2. No one knows what they are doing when they start out. Before you write a book, you do not know how to write a book. Catchy, and true.

3. There is no way of putting this delicately, so I am just going to shove it out there . . . if you are in high school or are otherwise just starting out, MUCH OF WHAT YOU WRITE IS GOING TO SUCK. This is because you learn to write while writing. So for a while, you have to embrace the Suckmonster. Hug it close to you. Love your Suckmonster, because your Suckmonster is going to help you get where you want to go. He is your friend and traveling companion. He’s friendly and furry and Muppet-like. Picture him clearly in your head now. Take a moment.

Do you see the Suckmonster? Isn’t he cute? Why not give your Suckmonster a name? That should kill a few minutes!

You have a friend. He's right there with you!

See, where the Suckmonster roams, progress is often made. A good sentence here, a clear idea there, maybe a great paragraph, and then a great page. But first, you have to try, and you cannot fear or avoid the Suckmonster. Because his presence doesn’t indicate failure. Every good writer I know has a friendly Suckmonster on a leash.

Really, the only way you can fail is not even trying in the first place. So don’t worry about how much you like it or where it’s going . . . just START.

I hope that encourages you, and that if necessary, I can come and live in your house. Until . . . soon. And please, continue to send your QUESTIONS.

* This means if I DO succeed, you should be extra impressed.
** Because, no, seriously . . . I AM MOVING. And I have totally done my 50,000 words many times over. If a marathon runner needed three days to get, like, a new FOOT BONE or something, would you give them @#$%? No. Of course you wouldn’t.

NANOWRIMO BEGINS

2009-11-01T19:26:00.004+03:30

Can you believe it! It’s November, which means it’s time for NaNoWriMo—National Novel Writing Month, in which something like 100,000 people have signed up to sit in a chair (or stand, if you like, or recline, or maybe suspend yourself from the ceiling, as I would like to do) for an entire month and string together approximately 1,666 words per day. That’s 50,000 words by the end of the month.

It’s time to BUCKLE YOUR SEAT BELTS and GET IN THE CHAIR.

Since writing is WHAT I DO, and since I love to provide SERVICES, I will be answering NaNoWriMo advice questions and attempting to dispense some advice EVERY DAY.*

You may be asking yourself, “mj, are you actually DOING NaNoWriMo this year?”

My friends, I am always doing NaNoWriMo. I will be writing many, many words in November, but I will not be listed on the official ranks because I will not be uploading what I write. This is because those 50,000 words belong to a book that is already under contract, a book that is already well underway. I’ll be writing a lot, and you’ll be able to see those words eventually, when the book is out.

But trust me, I’m going to be coughing up a LOT of words.

And now, the first NaNoWriMo question . . .

Samuel asks: Hey! I'd love to read your advice of having/developing a writing habit -- more to the point, I'm curious if you treat it like a job (i.e. always writing at the same time every day, no distractions). For people who work a full time job and struggle with kids/pets/pants, what advice do you have for making sure the writing gets done too?

I like the phrase “writing habit.” All writers start with a “writing habit,” which is admittedly pretty weird and antisocial, but is still better than an “arson habit” or a “loud whistling” habit. If you really want to write, you have to make it habitual—and NaNoWriMo can help you develop it.

It’s ALSO a job. Well, it’s my job. And I do treat it as such, and proudly. Personally, I don’t write at the same exact time every day. My job has flexible hours. But I generally work 6-7 days a week, and at weird times when other people aren’t working. Because writing is my habit as well as my job, it’s just part of the continuum of my life.

But I think your main question is: how can you schedule in all that writing when you have ANOTHER job, and a family, and a life? How can you make it all work? HOW IS THIS GOING TO BE POSSIBLE? There are hamsters to feed and shiny things to collect and people who will want to talk to you and phone calls that need returning . . .
To answer this, let’s return to the idea of the job. When I first got serious about making myself a professional, about making writing my life, I decided to MAKE it my job, even though I had two full-time jobs at the moment. I begged, borrowed, and stole the time. I wrote whenever I could, under whatever conditions, making sure I clocked a minimum of two hours a day, if not four or six. I was a pretty terrible employee, but I was developing the correct attitude about writing!

Writing doesn’t come to you. It doesn’t just hand itself over on a plate. And it’s not magic. I do not, for instance, believe in muses. I believe in work and practice. Writing has always been a craft, and there is nothing wrong with viewing it as a job, something you must do. Shakespeare was a workman playwright (notice the “wright”), after all. It means “maker” or “builder.” It means WORKER.

I realize this idea of writing as a job conflicts with portrayals of writers on tv and in film, where the writers are usually these weird creative types that are always sawing on about something esoteric, hammering away about their inspirations in their special writing studio. Perhaps they are wearing a beret.

Writers on TV and in films are shown this way because ACTUAL WRITING IS VERY BORING TO WATCH. Oh, it’s good to DO, but it is not something you want to see in action. Actual writing involves the aforementioned sitting/reclining/dangling and WRITING. Sure, some places are nicer to write in than others. For example, at this very moment, I happen to be sitting on a lovely porch overlooking some trees and woodland creatures, but this is only because I am at a wedding that is at an inn.

Notice that part in which I am AT A WEDDING. The wedding is in 90 minutes, and I am jamming this session of writing in between a long car ride, some lunch, and the ceremony. I usually write at home, or with friends who are also writers, or on the subway, in a car, on a plane, in the airport . . . I have snuck my computer into my beachbag. I have written in hospitals and on buses and in traffic.

Many of the most prolific writers I know write while raising children or working other jobs. This is because they have to LASER-FOCUS their writing into set times, and they make those times work. When I’m backed into a corner, I tend to get more done. It’s like that old saying about how if you want something done, give it to someone with too much to do. Or Robert Benchley’s quote that anyone can do any amount of work, provided that it’s not the work you are supposed to be doing at the time.

So if you are doing NaNoWriMo while working another job or going to school . . . YOU ARE SET! You simply have to blow off about two hours of your other work every day and write! You will find this kind of finkery is a time-honored tradition amongst writers, who are by nature a sneaky, nocturnal group. You are joining the proud ranks of People Who Write When They Are Supposed To Be Doing Other Things (PWWWTASTBDOT).

We cannot entirely be trusted.

Though 1,666 words SOUNDS like a lot, you will find that it comes easier with time. Because when writing becomes your habit, you’ll be able to press on, press faster, and press harder. You will not be frightened by word counts. You should find that’s true even within this month. NaNoWriMo is a great way of SNAPPING YOU LIKE A TINY TWIG, and I mean that in the best way possible. Use the train. Use the bus. Use lunch. Use 5th period Spanish** Use TV time. Use mindless internet surfing time. Make writing your job. Be proud.

Have questions? Please leave them below! And to anyone who is wondering . . . YES, the final installment of The Lost Symbol Readers’ Guide is coming soon! Why isn’t it done yet? I WAS WRITING!

* Please note the word attempt.
** High school students: I’m kidding, obviously! Stay in school! Study hard! (wink!)

THE LOST SYMBOL READERS GUIDE, PART FIVE

2009-10-13T05:08:00.008+03:30

Chapter 81

Reader, if you have followed along through parts one, two, three, and four, you will know that I have been a strong supporter of Mal’akh from the beginning. Mal’akh is the hardest working bad guy in literature, and he has an evil lair that rivals any James Bond villian’s. In Chapter 81, we get to see more of his crazy house. We learn that while his basement has all of the traditional storage capabilities, it’s also super weird. He’s got rooms and rooms down there full of strange, with blue lighting in the ceiling. Every one of these rooms has a specific, evil purpose.

The room he goes into now has everything in twelves. Twelve are the signs of the zodiac, he italics-thinks. Twelve are the hours of the day.* Twelve are the gates of heaven. This reminds me quite a lot of the Schoolhouse Rock song “Little Twelvetoes.” I was a huge fan of Schoolhouse Rock when I was a tiny mj, but “Little Twelvetoes” was a song I never really got. Watch this and judge for yourself.

Can you see how my little five year-old mind was slightly blown by the concept of “deck and el,” two entirely imaginary single digits between nine and twelve which take the place of ten and eleven? And then twelve is mysteriously renamed “doe.” Schoolhouse Rock got it right so often that I don’t want to belabor my criticism, but still, as a fully-grown mj, I sometimes think about this “deck, el, doe” problem and it stops me cold. I mean, that hillbilly kid seems to get it, so I don’t know why I can’t. And why does Little Twelvetoes’s head come off? I am asking too many questions. I have only analyzed two pages of The Lost Symbol so far. I cannot get off track like this.

Anyway, the room is full of twelves. And also sevens, but I’m not even going to get into that. And Mal’akh is running around in the bluish-purple light, “wearing only a silken loincloth around his buttocks and neutered sex organ.” Mal’akh is a villain who is not afraid to show his butt. A lot. Running up stairs, in the shower, under the heady lights . . . there is so much Mal’akh butt in this book. He’s also got a magic knife from eBay, and all kinds of other evil things.

Chapters 82-88

HSRL takes his bag o' pyramids to the Washington National Cathedral, where they meet the blind Reverend Colin Galloway who feels the pyramid and says, “I totally know what this says, but I’m not telling you.” He then proceeds to play “I know symbols too” games with HSRL for what appears to be about a half an hour, which annoys HSRL to no end. There is nothing worse than a symbol-off. Then he pushes a button, which makes the box open up.** Then there’s more translating of Latin phrases and realizing the previous interpretation was wrong, and more quotes, and more mysteries and numbers. I don’t want to imply that this is making me weary—I merely want to convey the DENSITY of the mysterious words/phrases/numbers/shapes/codes. You only need to weigh this book to know just how much ancient mystery you are getting. Anyone who says this isn’t the heaviest book of the year just doesn’t know his math.

Chapter 89

Continuing their tour of Washington landmarks, HSRL and Katherine go to the Cathedral College. Why? To use the kitchen, of course! They are going to boil the pyramid! Mmmmmm. Boiled pyramid.

Chapter 90-93

It turns out that all you really need to do to get to the bottom of some ancient mysteries is boil a pyramid. Well, not all, because there’s like, ANOTHER cryptic message revealed, bringing the count to about 16. Then the CIA catches them. It turns out Bellamy was working for Mal’akh! But he regrets it. Evil, gremlin-like Director Sato wants to know what they have been doing. They have been boiling a pyramid.

Sensing that the story is lagging, Mal’akh calls and says that he says to get over to his house fast or he’ll kill Peter! Everyone runs for their cars, except for HSRL, because of the loafer thing.

Chapter 94-99

Cautious loafer-runner HSRL doesn’t like how fast the CIA agent is driving. They arrive at Chez Mal’akh only to find pretty much one of every kind of car parked in front of the house with the lights on. HSRL names all of the cars, while Katherine decides that her time might be better spent running into the house. Except you know what? She totally trips and starts flying. Then Mal’akh kills the CIA guy with a screwdriver to the neck, tases the crap out of HSRL, and trusses Katherine up. He’s very efficient.

While recovering from the tasing, HSRL breaks down the origins of the word “sincere” in tedious detail. When he stirs, Mal’akh sits his naked self down on HSRL’s chest and bangs his head against the floor until he is knocked out again. Reader, can you blame him?

When HSRL wakes up, he is totally naked. Where are his loafers?

Also, he’s in a box!

Chapters 100-102

Meanwhile, Katherine is tied up to a chair. Mal’akh takes a moment to explain his evil plan to her. What’s the plan? He’s going to fill the box HSRL is in with liquid. It’s . . . diabolical!

Sure enough, the liquid starts flowing into the box. Mal’akh holds the pyramid up to a small window in the top (which I kind of picture being like the window on a magic eight ball) and tells him that he must solve what’s written there or DIE!

What’s written there is every single wingding and zapf dingbat in existence. (If you are a font person, the only thing that would make you crazier is a book of cat poetry written in Comic Sans, so be careful when reading these chapters.)

HSRL, panicking as the liquid rises, has no idea what all the wingdings mean until the very last moment! He tells Mal’akh what he wants to know, but Mal’akh just laughs and tells him to enjoy the afterlife.

Chapter 103

Did Robert Langdon just drown? It really seems like Robert Langdon just drowned.

Chapter 104

From outside the tank, Katherine Solomon watches HSRL sink to the bottom of the tank. Reader, why am I smiling?

Chapter 105

The CIA are still noodling around doing something with people.

Chapter 106

Having gotten his answer, Mal’akh does another excited naked run around the house, then goes off to his room to do the magic sudokus that will solve this puzzle once and for all!

Chapter 107

We get a flashback of Katherine in the pod. Guess what she was doing in there? She was weighing the human soul!

That won’t help her now, though, because Mal’akh comes back down and hooks her up to yet another one of his evil devices, a timing mechanism that slowly drains her blood into some kind of evil hourglass. Mal’akh has put a lot of work into his evil basement, and it is totally paying off. He also has Peter Solomon in a wheelchair. He’s shaved Peter Solomon’s whole body and dressed him in what sounds like a snuggie. I never said he wasn't freaky.

Chapter 108

Remember how I said DB was writing poetry? Well, if you doubted me, I now present Chapter 108 in its entirety.

Robert Langdon’s mind hovered in an endless abyss.
No light. No sound. No feeling.
Only an infinite and silent void.
Softness.
Weightlessness.
His body had released him. He was untethered.
The physical world had ceased to exist. Time had ceased to exist.
He was pure consciousness now . . . a fleshless sentience suspended in the emptiness of a vast universe.

Do you see what I see? I think you do. It’s an echo of Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself. Take section 22, for example:

You sea! I resign myself to you also - I guess what you mean,  
I behold from the beach your crooked fingers,  
I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me,  
We must have a turn together, I undress, hurry me out of sight of  the land,  
Cushion me soft, rock me in billowy drowse,
 Dash me with amorous wet, I can repay you.

That right there is a thesis topic if I ever saw one. You’re welcome!

Coming next: the final part of the reader’s guide!

END PART FIVE
PAGES COVERED: 301-399
PAGES LEFT TO GO: 109
CHAPTERS LEFT TO GO: 24

* Wait. That one is wrong!
** Okay, there’s a box too. There’s a pyramid, a tube, and a box, and possibly another pyramid. I can’t keep track. HSRL is carrying around a whole bag of shapes.

THE LOST SYMBOL READERS' GUIDE, PART FOUR

2009-10-02T08:00:00.007+03:30

Part four of the series. Parts one, two, and three are here for your reading pleasure.

Chapters 51-52

Chapter 51 begins by answering an important question, first posed in the movie Airplane!: “Hey, Joey, have you ever been in a Turkish prison?”

Except it wasn’t Joey, but Zachary Solomon, Peter’s son. He went bonkers when he turned 18 and got his share of Solomon money and ended up in the Turkish prison because of the drugs.

We find out about this in an astonishing double flashback. Speaking as a professional writer, I can tell you that a double flashback is tricky and dangerous. Like its cousin, the dream-sequence-with-a-dream-sequence, it’s a precision move. I wouldn’t try it. I’m not nearly experienced enough . . . and I have an MFA.

Katherine is thinking back to the night her mother died, and in that thinking back, thinks back to Zach in his Turkish prison . . . and then we come back to some guy breaking into the Solomon residence years later. He points a gun at them and says, “Hello, Solomons.” He was all, “Where’s the pyramid?” But he never found out, because Ma Solomon came after him with a shotgun, but ended up getting shot herself. It is hard work, being a Solomon.

Anyway, that was long ago . . . but that dude that just broke into the pod? He was that guy!

Chapters 53

One thing I love about The Lost Symbol is the room it leaves for wonder. What kind of mysteries is the book about? Ancient mysteries. What kind of discoveries is Katherine working on? Shocking ones! What kind of science? Modern science. What kind of bunny? A fluffy bunny!* DB has certainly unpacked his adjectives!

And still, despite these descriptions, we are left with so much room to imagine. This is not a stuffy book—this is the wide open prairie, where ideas can’t be caged. We aren’t squeezed into overly specific notions about what the hell is going on.

This is why I am not going to tell you what Chapter 53 is about. The moment you try to define Chapter 53, you have lost Chapter 53.

Chapter 54

Mal’akh blows up the pod.

Chapters 55-56

We are reminded again in Chapter 55 that HSRL leads a stressful life, with people constantly making weird demands on his time:

Langdon looked at this Mickey Mouse watch. 9:42 P.M. “You do realize that Peter’s captor is waiting for me to decipher this pyramid tonight and tell him what it says.”

But does Capitol Architect Warren Bellamy care? No. Bellamy doesn’t care about anyone!

“Forget Katherine!” Bellamy said, his voice commanding now. “Forget Peter! Forget everyone!”

You know there is no way HSRL is just going to let Katherine Solomon down! She’s in trouble out there! He has to save her! Luckily, she makes that task a lot easier by choosing that exact moment to drive her white Volvo right up on to the sidewalk of the library and run up the steps and directly into his arms. RL is all, “You’re safe, I have you now.” He’s probably feeling pretty stupid now that she has gone all self-rescuing princess on him. But still, it was probably a good thing, because the last thing he needs right now is to have to run again in those loafers.

Chapter 57

More flashback. We find out that Mal’akh was in that Turkish prison with Zach Solomon, and that Mal’akh killed Zach and stole all his money. Mal’akh then moved to Greece. At first, every part of his new life was great. Reading Homer made him want to lift weights. Lifting weights made him incredibly hot. Steroids apparently . . . made him taller.

But you can only go so far sailing your boat, eating arni souvlakia, and cliff diving off Mykonos.** Soon, Mal’akh felt empty. While channel surfing one night, he saw a special on Freemasons. This made him remember something he heard in passing from Zachary about a pyramid. And THAT is what made him go to America, sneak into the Solomons’ house, point his gun and say, “Hello, Solomons.” Mal’akh is very suggestible. If he had seen an infomercial instead, this story would have been very different. Then we would have been reading The Lost Snuggie.

Chapter 58-59

A special ops team is chasing Bellamy, HSRL, and Katherine through the Library of Congress and blowing things up with plastic explosives, though I would be lying if I said I knew why.

I’m also not sure why the Architect of the Capitol has a key card that operates the conveyor system under the main circulation desk of the Library of Congress. Washingon D.C. is a confusing place. Bellamy tells HSRL to get on the conveyor, and HSRL pulls a John McEnroe-perfect, “You cannot be serious.” This, after the running in the loafers thing?!?

But he is, and HSRL and Katherine just evade their pursuers by riding off on the book belt, in what has to be the nerdiest escape ever written.*** Pwned, special ops team!

Chapters 60-64

Flashback to Zach Solomon’s 18th birthday. Peter is all, “You’re a man now son, so I want you to take care of my tiny pyramid.” And Zach is all, “I don’t care about your tiny pyramid, old man! I want the drugs!” Bellamy watches this awkward family exchange, and waits.

Meanwhile, HSRL and Katherine are riding along in the dark on the little conveyor belt. Katherine has figured out that this all has something to do with the tiny pyramid, and HSRL (again, a day late and a dollar short) reveals that he has Peter’s magical box in his bag!

Katherine is all, “Why didn’t you say so?” She does the thing I’m surprised HSRL didn’t do long ago—namely, she opens the box, which contains a magic tube. (I’m a little confused because I thought the x-ray revealed that the box contained a tiny pyramid. It may have both.) If you liked that cyptex in The Da Vinci Code, it looks like you are going to be rewarded with yet another cylinder! But remember . . . as the song Boogie Boogie Hedgehog teaches us, you have to be careful when you get your head stuck on tubes.

Chapter 65

Chapter 65 is one paragraph. Mal’akh is studying his own naked body in front of the mirror again. He is a beautiful picture, framed in white space.

Chapters 66-67

The number 1514 is found on the box. Most people would think that meant a year, but HSRL knows it refers to a person. If I told you how he knows this, it would blow your mind.

Chapter 68

The first sentence of Chapter 68:

Albrecht Dürer?

The last:

“That’s not just any square,” Langdon said, grinning. “That, Ms. Solomon, is a magic square!”

Try to imagine what happened in between!

Chapter 69

Okay, just one more thing about Chapter 68 . . . you have to respect a huge chase sequence which pauses for a moment because, “Professor Langdon, the art connoisseur, was having an ethical dilemma about using the Internet an original was so nearby.” Or when the obstacle is, “There’s no icon for a browser.”

Also, there’s a paragraph that just reads:

Science . . .

So great is Chapter 68 that I cannot even bring myself to read Chapter 69, but I can see it has something to do with evil, wizened CIA Director Sato questioning Bellamy. Ever see The Incredibles? She’s just like Edna.

Chapter 70-71

While HSRL and Katherine work on some magic squares, which are apparently “Sudoku puzzles for geniuses,” Mal’akh is at home taking a shower. A really long shower. With a lot of products. I got as far as, “Hanging beneath the archway, his massive sex organs bore the tattooed symbols of his destiny.”

If that is where the lost symbol is, I want my money back.

Chapter 72-75

The CIA guys are very grouchy because they have lost HSRL, who rode off in triumph at speeds upwards of 8 mph. Outside, the city is going crazy trying to find them. There are helicopters and spotlights. Where could they be? They seem to have left heat signatures everywhere.

I’ll tell you where they are! They’re out front! Katherine and HSRL get in a cab, but the driver (who is somehow patched into CIA headquarters) gives them up.

Meanwhile, Bellamy has been hauled off to the Jungle! No, really! You see, the U.S. Botanic Garden is known as the Jungle! Can you believe that? It’s true! Why is he being interrogated at the U.S. Botanical Garden? That, I could not tell you, but if he breaks into the “I am the Lorax, and I speak for the trees” speech at any point, I am going to cry.

Meanwhile meanwhile, Katherine Solomon realizes that like the pyramid, the U.S. one dollar bill is also a map and that they are going the wrong way! “To Freedom Plaza!” she says. The CIA totally overhears.

Chapter 76

Freedom Plaza is also a map.

Chapter 77

I’m not sure if I’ve really been clear on the general course of events in this section of the book, so let me sum it up. There are two pyramid things, which apparently lead to a spiral staircase. HSRL and Katherine have these two pyramids (I think) as well as some kind of magical tube. I know they have at lease one pyramid and one magical tube. And there’s writing on them that has to be decoded. For some reason, everyone is in a big rush to do this tonight. That is why Mal’akh captured Peter Solomon and cut off his hand and sent HSRL on this scavenger hunt. Mal’akh also wanted something in Katherine’s lab. I’m not sure what, but in the process, Trish Dunne ended up in the tank with the giant squid.

Bellamy is especially urgent for HSRL to find the staircase, though I don’t know what his rush is. And fhe CIA is chasing them with plastic explosives, though I am not 100% clear on the details of that either, but I am sure there is a reason. Anyway, Bellamy gave himself up so that HSRL and Katherine could go on, and now he is being interrogated in a greenhouse by a woman who is no bigger than a pumpkin and is entirely made of anger.

What I haven’t mentioned is that there is also a Redskins game going on on this particular night, and absolutely everyone else is watching this game. Security guards, computer hackers, everyone.

I hope that clears everything up.

Oh and Chapter 77 is a flashback about a time that Mal’akh fell into a lake, and then moved to New York, and then a bird flew into his apartment, and he got a bunch of tattoos.

Chapters 78-80

The CIA just cannot catch the beloafered HSRL and Katherine! This makes them really mad. Evil CIA Chief Sato is going to make someone pay, and it looks like that person is going to be Bellamy. Sucks to be you, Bellamy!

END PART FOUR
PAGES COVERED: 201-300
PAGES LEFT TO GO: 286
CHAPTERS LEFT TO GO: 50

* My apologies. That last one is not from The Lost Symbol.

** I have a mild suspicion that DB spent some time vacationing in Greece while working on this book.

*** I am sure Ron Howard will make this look exciting in the movie.

THE LOST SYMBOL READERS' GUIDE, PART THREE

2009-09-28T06:08:00.004+03:30

As promised, here is the third installment of the read-along series. Parts one and two can be found here. Because this book is 500 pages long, and I am now only 200 pages into my guide, I have started to condense some of the chapter summaries together into a more flowing narrative. I hope this will enhance your virtual Dan Brown experience!

Chapters 24-34

At the start of Chapter 24, HSRL has just figured out why he has been dragged to Washington. He flashes back to a meeting, many years before, when handsome Peter Solomon snuck up on him while he was swimming in the Harvard pool* and gave him a magic box of secrets. Even though it is creepily sealed in wax and has been delivered to him in the strangest way possible at the crack of dawn at a pool, and Peter Solomon is all “you are the only person in the world I trust with my magic box,” RL locks it away thinking it must be nothing.

Anyway, when HSRL got that weird phone call and fax this morning? He was asked to bring along the magic box! HSRL actually has it in his bag—the one in his hand! But he has somehow forgotten this for the first 100 pages, probably because of all the excitement.

Flashback over, HSRL snaps back to the present, where CIA chief Sato is standing there all, “Can you stop having long flashbacks in the middle of my case?” They figure out the weird message on the palm of the handequin corresponds to a room in the basement called SSB 13. Getting to the basement takes from chapters 27-35, because the basement is totally deep. Every time you think you have a handle on how deep this basement is, it gets deeper.

We also learn that this search will somehow involve the Masons’ magical pyramid of mysteries! HSRL keeps saying that the magic mason pyramid of mysteries is just a legend, but since it comes up about 39 times, you start to think it just might be true. We will wait and see.

Meantime, genius Trish Dunne has successfully completed a Google search, genius Peter Solomon has successfully sent a text on his iPhone, and genius bad guy has tricked genius Kathleen Solomon into letting him into her pod.

Chapter 35

Much is made of DB’s writing style. In particular, people cite his use of italicized “thought bubbles,” his page and a half long chapters, and his single sentence paragraphs.

The ones that divide up the action.

Like this.

To give you a feeling that something is happening.

Some people suggest that he does this because he is not a good writer, or because he assumes that his readers haven’t really gotten past the single-line, compacted story form usually used in elementary reading books. These people are wrong. What DB is actually doing . . . is writing poetry.

It took me a while to figure this out, but I see it clearly now. I feel that he is following in the tradition of William Carlos Williams, a critical American poet. Consider “The Red Wheelbarrow,” Williams’s most famous work.

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

The language and the style are so simple. The lines are short, and so is the work as a whole. And yet, in those eight lines, sixteen words, you can find an entire world. Compare this to the end of Chapter 35—which you at first think is this noodley, pointless chapter about the arrangement of the Capitol Building’s basement—but then you are hit with the last four sentences:

“My God,” Anderson shouted.
Everyone saw it and jumped back.
Langdon stared in disbelief at the deepest recess of the chamber.
To his horror, something was staring back.

Do you think that this has been chopped up by accident? Do you think this same effect could have been achieved in a single, flowing paragraph? Do you think it needs more detail?

Of course not.

These particular lines also strongly echo T. S. Elliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”:

I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker.
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

It’s uncanny how these two men could communicate such similar ideas in a similar form—and yet, DB manages to cleverly plant these moments in a considerably larger work. T. S. Elliot never wrote anything nearly as long as The Lost Symbol.

Think about that, English majors, before you judge. Just think about it.

Chapter 36

SSB 13 has been reached and it is a totally weird room. It is full of skulls and crap.

Chapter 37

I guess the one complaint I have about The Lost Symbol, if I have any at all, is that it seems like Mal’akh is seriously overworked. If there was a Union of Bad Guys, there is no way they would let him work this long and not have a break. He does everything bad in the book. Everything. No one helps him.

So far, he’s had to: call Kathleen Solomon and pretend to be Dr. Christopher Abaddon, hack off Peter Solomon’s hand, stash Peter Solomon, and lead HSRL on this treasure hunt . . . all at once. And he does this, mind you, while wearing full makeup and having to constantly change costumes and juggle cell phones and manage at least three different identities. Would have it been so much to ask to give him one henchman? Just one?

This is why I am annoyed by the fact that in Chapter 37, he has to corner Trish Dunne, get her access code out of her, and drown her in the tank of ethanol with the giant squid all by himself. That right there could have been the work of one henchperson. It’s not like extra characters cost money. I’m just saying.

Chapter 38

For many chapters now, HSRL has been saying, “Look, there is no magic pyramid, okay? How many times do I have to tell you? No magic pyramid!” And then they move back a curtain in SSB 13 and there is a hole in the wall and in that hole is a pyramid. CIA director and professional HSRL hater Sato is all lolz.

Chapter 39

They are still looking at the pyramid.

Chapter 40

Chapter 40 is ¾ of a page long. Kathleen Solomon calls the front desk to ask where Trish Dunne is, and the desk is all, “I thought she was with you.” Neither knows that Trish Dunne now sleeps with the squid.

Chapter 41

I decided not to read Chapter 41. I’m not sure why. I was just moved by the Reading Muse, which landed gently on my shoulder and whispered, “Skip to the end!” in my ear. I went right to the last sentence, which is:

“Grab the pyramid!” the man commanded. “Follow me!”

This is why Dan Brown is a great man.

Chapters 42-43

Okay, I glanced at chapter 41 just now and saw that someone breaks into the room and starts swinging around a femur and knocks over Sato. Femur fight!

This person is Warren Bellamy, the Architect of the Capitol. He has rescued HSRL from Sato, who is suddenly a very suspicious character. It is implied that she wants the pyramid for herself! Also, we learn that the pyramid is a map!

Chapter 44

Chapter 44 is probably my favorite chapter of the book so far, because in this page and a half, DB drops the mask and lets us know a little about his life. The scene takes place in the Manhattan office of New York editor** Jonas Faukman. HSRL calls Faukman’s office, begging for Kathleen’s phone number, and Faukman is all, “Where’s that book you promised me? Why aren’t you writing? What the hell is wrong with you?”

There is a ring of truth to this, reader, which I cannot deny. And I salute DB for including this last sentence, “Book publishing would be so much easier without the authors.”***

Chapter 45

HSRL calls Kathleen and is all, “The calls are coming from inside of your pod! Get out of your pod!” But Mal’akh has used the key card and is now in the pod! Have I mentioned that the pod is pitch-black, and you can only find your way around by walking on a strip of carpet, and if you step off the carpet, you step into the void? You should probably know that. So you can imagine how alarmed Kathleen is when someone pounces on her in the dark. Very alarmed!

Chapter 46

While Kathleen Solomon is fighting for her life in the pod of doom, HSRL and Warren Bellamy have gone to the Library of Congress. In DB books, there is always time to be civilized, even in the middle of a huge chase scene. HSRL lists statues, and ornaments, and every possible kind of marble.We are told of the library’s beauty, and how many people think it contains one of the most beautiful rooms in the whole world. In fact, we first learn this in the opening sentence . . . and then we learn it again a page and a half later when both men stop and comment on the fact, one out loud, and one to himself.

“Some say it’s the most striking room in Washington,” Bellamy said, ushering Langdon inside.

Maybe in the whole world, Langdon thought, as he stepped across the threshold.

Chapter 47

Mal’akh is still chasing Kathleen Solomon around the pitch-black pod. Once again proving himself to be the most resourceful character in the book, Mal’akh thinks up a way to find her in the dark—he strips off his clothes and throws them at her. I know you are probably thinking that does not sound like a good plan, but it actually works. You might have to read Chapter 47 to see for yourself, but it does. Then there is a chase scene outside, and Kathleen gets to her white Volvo, and Mal’akh—who never gives up—jumps on it and puts his hand through the window. Through the window. She still gets away, but points for effort!

Chapter 48

Don’t even worry about chapter 48.

Chapter 49-50

Back in the library, Bellamy is lecturing RL about pyramids, and ancient mysteries, and statues of Moses—and RL is actually getting annoyed by this. Oh ho ho! The worm has turned! Then there is a bunch of stuff with codes and ciphers and coded ciphers which I kind of skipped.

Back at the CIA, Sato is recovering from where she has been hit by a femur in the femur fight, and we see that she has her own nerd working on the cipher, because it has been photographed. How was that possible? Well, when RL went into the Capitol, he was carrying the magic box, and in the magic box was a magic pyramid, and on the magic pyramid there was magic writing. Apparently, the magic x-ray machine could pick this up.

And yes, this means there are two pyramids. One is nine inches tall and the other is made of gold. Oh, and in case any of you, like me, wondered when someone would finally bring up the magical Masonic pyramids found on the dollar bill? According to my notebook here, it happens on page 161.

END PART THREE
PAGES COVERED: 101-200
PAGES LEFT TO GO: 309
CHAPTERS LEFT TO GO: 83

* Much is made of this swimming in the Harvard pool and DB really wants you to know that RL does it EVERY DAY. It’s like he is a merman.

** This is an honorary, city-wide title, like “Poet Laureate,” “Queen of Pop,” or “Mayor.”

*** It’s a nice sentiment, for sure. But then I thought about it and realized that it would sort of not be easier, because then the editors would have to write ALL the books, which is not only hard but that would MAKE them authors. Did DB mean to blow our minds with this paradox? Probably.

THE LOST SYMBOL READERS' GUIDE, PART TWO

2009-09-22T18:10:00.004+03:30

In today’s reading of The Lost Symbol, I’ve realized that I have to go a lot faster, or we are NEVER going to get through this. So here are the next 75 pages, taking us up to page 100, all read and commented on in real time. You can read part one of my guide here.

Chapter six

I have some issues with chapter six.

It starts off well enough. At the top of chapter six, HSRL’s car pulls up to the curb. HSRL’s main concern at this point is that he must run 400 yards, in the rain, in loafers. Never before or since has an action hero ever been so distraught about his casual footwear! My loafers! he despairs. My loafers!

Still, our beloafered hero manages to run the whole 400 yards to the Capitol Vistor’s Center. We are reminded that HSRL does not like enclosed spaces because he was once trapped down in a well. We are also reminded that HSRL always wears a Mickey Mouse watch given to him by his parents, because, as he helpfully tells the guy at security, “I wear it to remind me to slow down and take life less seriously.”

All to the good, right?

But then . . . he has a flashback, one that lasts pretty much the entire chapter. And this is where I start to get agitated. As RL looks around, he remembers a generalized classroom experience he had at Harvard. It forces me to come to one of two conclusions:

1. Harvard is not nearly as hard as people make it out to be. In which case, I totally could have gone there. Where did I go? The University of Delaware, home of the Fighting Blue Hens. I mean, it was fine, but it doesn’t have the same ring as Harvard.

2. There are two Harvards. One is for the people you typically think go to Harvard, like Bill Gates and my friend Robin Wasserman, and the other is Stupid Harvard. Stupid Harvard PAYS for real Harvard. This, I suspect, is what puts the H in HSRL’s name. The students in RL’s classes, as he remembers them, are the kind of people who have to use the plastic scissors. They annoy him by drawing all over their maps. They don’t know the meaning of any useful words. Witness this scene, as RL meets his new class and shows them a slide:

“How many of you recognize the building in this picture?”

“U.S. Capitol!” dozens of voices called out in unison. “Washington, D.C.!”

“Yes. There are nine million pounds of ironwork in that dome. An unparalleled feat of architectural ingenuity for the 1850s.”

“Awesome!” someone shouted.

Langdon rolled his eyes, wishing someone would ban that word.

He hates these idiots, even when they follow his lectures with a cult-like devotion:

“If you’re curious, you should take my mysticism course. Frankly, I don’t think you guys are emotionally prepared to hear the answer.”

“What?” the person shouted. “Try us!”

Langdon made a show of considering it and then shook his head, toying with them. “Sorry, I can’t do that. Some of you are only freshmen. I’m afraid it might blow your minds.”

“Tell us!” everyone shouted.

Oh, how he despises these awful, dimwitted creatures. How glad he is to be rid of them! Now he is in this fine, fine building full of fine things. He runs to the hall where he has to speak. Run, loafer man, run! And then he gets there . . . and . . .

Wait. Something is wrong!

Chapter seven

If you have ever wanted an entire book of people going into buildings, look no further, because this is it. In chapter seven, Katheleen Solomon goes into one of the Smithsonian storage buildings. Is it as cool as going into the Capitol Visitors’ Center? You BET it is.

Chapter eight

The one thing HSRL has failed to notice as he has been remembering and running is that there is absolutely no one around. So when he winds up on a stage facing absolutely no one—just a dark, empty room—you start to think that maybe Stupid Harvard is where he belongs.

Or so suggests the person who calls him on the phone at that moment and cackles that he has gotten HSRL to do his evil bidding! He has summonded HSRL, tricking him into calling 202-329-5746. *crack of lightening*

Chapter nine

Chapter nine starts off . . . well, exactly where chapter eight left off. HSRL is still standing on the empty stage, holding the phone. I guess it is expected that a page and a half of that kind of excitement is all we can reasonably be expected to handle.

Anyway, this lunatic on the phone is rambling about how he has brought Robert Langdon here to do his bidding, and if he wants to save Peter Solomon’s soul, he had better comply! At first, HSRL thinks this is yet another symbology groupie, but then, there is a scream!

Chapter ten

Chapter ten gives us a wonderful word that I plan on using in conversation as much as possible: handequin. It’s a mannequin . . . of a hand! How have I never heard this word before? And why is my first thought that instead of Harlequin romances, we should have Handequin romances, which would be torrid love stories that revolve around or otherwise involve fake human hands!

Oh, and the reason this is mentioned is because there is an actual, severed human hand on the floor. It has been mounted on a stand and decorated in tattoos and it belongs to Peter Solomon.

Handequin!

Chapter eleven

In chapter eleven, Katherine Solomon tries to call her brother and he doesn’t pick up. Presumably, she doesn’t know that his awesome (sorry HSRL) severed hand is causing all kinds of excitement at the Capitol Building.

Also, we learn that three years ago, as a gift, Peter Solomon gave her a football field-sized, sterile, Hydrogen fuel cell-powered pod in the Smithsonian. It’s called Pod 5.

You just know that was the year she decided to just keep it simple at Christmas and just get him a tie and some books, and then he turned around gave her this thing that you can keep a fleet of planes in. I bet on one hand she was really appriciatative, and on the other, that she really just wanted to punch him in the jeans.

Chapter twelve

We meet Captiol police chief Trent Anderson, who is only slightly more functional than RL’s much-hated students back at Stupid Harvard. He manages to actually find and question the man who is responsible for the severed hand and is tricked by the “they went thataway” ploy. Meanwhile, the man escapes out the back door, takes off his wig and laughs. Can you blame him? Can you?

And we see it’s our old friend Mal’akh! Good for you, Mal’akh! You know who he reminds me of? Emperor Ming. Does that mean that HSRL is Flash Gordon, and instead of saving us by zooming in on a flying treadmill, he will come on his magic loafers? Maybe!

Chapter thirteen

HSRL has figured out that the severed hand represents The Hand of the Mysteries, which is a super-secret invitation to something super-secret. Also, you’re just supposed to DRAW it, not actually give someone a severed hand. He tries to tell someone that it is Peter Solomon’s hand, but resident incompetent Trent Anderson and his band of morons are making everyone’s life difficult, so you know we aren’t going to get anywhere for a while.

Here is a video I think will give you the basic idea of what Trent Anderson is like. For some reason, it’s in German, but I feel this actually adds to the experience. I just watched it three times.

Chapter fourteen

Mal’akh drives off in his limo, thinking about his own superiority and how he will soon rule everyone! I think I was right about this Ming thing.

Chapter fifteen

Page 55. This is not good. I should be further than this. We press on. Quick summary: Katherine is in her Pod. We find out more about her kooky, “you are the spoon” science. So concerned is DB that we get this that he even includes research quotes, book titles, and websites in her thought bubble.

We see a flashback of her talking to her brother Peter, which only serves to confirm my theories about her feelings toward him. She comes home from Yale, where she studies physics, and he makes her stand in the library and list everything she’s read, but whatever she says, it isn’t good enough. Everything she thinks is new has been done before. Entanglement theory? Well, just read the Tao Te Ching! Superstring theory? Well, that was covered in the 13th Century in Don’t Mess with the Zohan!*

Oh you think you know things, he schools her, but you know nothing! Nothing!

Ho, ho, say I. Where are you now, Mr. Peter Solomon? You’re a hand on a stand!

Chapter sixteen

Speaking of hands, Captiol police chief Trent Anderson clearly couldn’t find his ass with both of his own. But that doesn’t matter, because CIA chief Inoue Sato is on the phone . . . and wants to speak to HSRL! The CIA knows he is in the building! THEY KNOW EVERYTHING!

The phone is passed over, and Sato proceeds to grill RL relentlessly until RL has to pretend that they have a bad connection because he is so flustered. But it’s no good, because during the conversation, Sato has actually SNUCK UP BEHIND HIM!

Chapter seventeen

And guess what? Sato is a woman! Bet you weren’t expecting THAT! Not just a woman, but a tiny, wizended, mustachoed woman. Aside from the mustache, she appears to be a dead ringer for Gollum.

CIA Chief Inoue Sato

Chapter eighteen

Back in The Pod, we meet Trish Dunne, Katherine’s mad genius assistant. We find out that both Trish and Kathleen share the same debilitating condition—namely, they must explain everything they are thinking, out loud, to people who clearly know these things already.** They both have a terrible attack of this condition, with Kathleen explaining the entire nature of her work, and Trish explaining in excruciating detail the process by which she will create a search program called a delegator. It is a sad and lonely world in which they live.

Chapter nineteen

It is impossible for me to express just how much Sato hates HSRL. She oozes disgust. She cuts him off at every opportunity. She doesn’t even want to hear his lecture on Ancient Mysteries. She is small and full of rage.

Chapter twenty

Is again the same scene, with Sato hating RL even more because he will just not shut up about his Ancient Mysteries. He tries to lure her in by telling her that the Capitol is based on the Temple of Vesta in Rome, but she just doesn’t care. He finally gets her, however, when he tells her there is a painting of George Washington being depicted as a god . . . and, he points, it is RIGHT OVER HER HEAD!***

Chapter twenty-one

Even mustache-faced Sato can’t resist the lure of HSRL’s pointy ways.

We find out that the Founding Fathers were massively crazy and did all kinds of cool stuff that no one ever tells us about. Like, for instance, paint 4,664 square foot frescos of George Washington turning into a god on the ceiling of the Capitol. HSRL explains that whoever has done this dasterly deed believes that this painting somehow leads to a magical portal.

In his one moment of usefulness, Capitol police chief Trent Anderson says that there is an actual, secret door up there that pretty much no one knows about . . . but everyone just ignores him because HSRL has revealed that there used to be a statue of a half-naked George Washington standing RIGHT HERE, pointing at the ceiling in the SAME EXACT WAY, but they took it away because it was too freaky. He is so smug about this knowledge that he actually makes her Google it on her blackberry. Here it is:

He’s winning her over. You can feel it.

Chapter twenty-two

Katherine gets a call from Peter’s doctor. You find out that Peter was seeing a psychiatrist. The doctor invites Katherine over. It’s Mal’akh! In makeup! Oh, Mal’akh, whatever are you up to!

Chapter twenty three

HSRL is sure that Peter’s handequin has been tattooed on the palm. Sure enough, it has been! RL thinks the tattoo is a bunch of runes. You find out that his expertise “only extended to the most elementary runic alphabet—Futhark—a third-century Teutonic system.” No wonder they make him teach at Stupid Harvard. Somehow, in all of this, RL knows why he was chosen and what he must do. I do not, but I would venture a guess that we are going to be following a lot of pointy hands!

END PART TWO
PAGES COVERED: 23-100
PAGES LEFT TO GO: 409
CHAPTERS LEFT TO GO: 107

* My apologies. The text is actually The Complete Zohar.

** You may think HSRL suffers the same condition, but he does not. He suffers something similar, in which he delivers entire, unasked for lectures on the fairly obvious. But, instead of being put into a pod, this has gotten him his job at Harvard and thousands of rabid fans.

*** I feel obligated to link to this video, which claims the same thing. I warn you, it is VERY PROFANE so if you are under 35, I forbid you to click this link. But as far as I can tell at this point, this video pretty much sums up where this book is going.

THE LOST SYMBOL READERS’ GUIDE, PART ONE

2009-09-20T21:18:00.003+04:30

A few days ago, I suggested on Twitter that I was going to read The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown and produce a complete readers’ guide. Now, I wasn’t SERIOUS. But I was overheard, and a copy of the book was placed in front of me today with the admonition that I had to put up or shut up, so now I am going to read The Lost Symbol and give you a chapter-by-chapter breakdown, even if it kills me.

You can read this guide any way you like. You can read it AFTER reading the book, or WHILE reading the book, or BEFORE reading the book, or INSTEAD OF reading the book . . . whatever you want. I am just warning you that I am reading this and recording my guide in REAL TIME, and there will be spoilers.

So now, without further ado . . . the first part of my LOST SYMBOL READERS’ GUIDE.

******************

The book begins with a FACT, which states that in 1991, the CIA locked up a document about something secret and it contains the sentence “It’s buried out there somewhere.” That is genuine truth. So get ready, because this is about to get real.

Prologue

We are at a Renaissance Faire. A 34 year old man in a floppy shirt and a noose around his neck is drinking wine from a skull cup.

No, wait. We are NOT at a Renaissance Faire. We at just BLOCKS AWAY FROM THE WHITE HOUSE! And we are at an initiation ceremony and it is super, super secret and super, super weird. We don’t know who is being initiated, but he is clearly up to no good. He is thinking devious things in italics the whole time. But he is also thinking, "The secret is to know how to die.”

Just think of something really creepy and secret society-like and multiply that by eleven and you will get a sense of just how creepy and secret-society like this is. There is a man in charge. We know he is in charge because he is called The Supreme Worshipful Master, which is about as clear an indication as you are ever going to get. That is clearly a job that comes with some kind of a hat.

The initiate is thinking that his devious, italicized thoughts are going to be found out! But then they aren’t. In books, no one can hear you italicize.

Chapter one

A small boy and his dad are on the Otis elevator (Otis is, in fact, the largest manufacturer of elevators—a fact you probably knew already, but this can only be a sign of quality) . . . well, of COURSE it’s an Otis! We’re in the Eiffel Tower! The boy is having a panic attack and thinks he can’t breathe, and his dad is doing the “shut up and don’t be such a coward thing” that parents sometimes have to do in public. But then the cables snap and bottom drops out of the car! Omg!

Fooled you! Dream sequence!

Harvard Symbologist Robert Langdon wakes up from his dream. He’s on a private jet (a Falcon 2000EX, to be specific, which is the BEST kind of Falcon 2000 because that EX probably stands for EXCELLENT) flying to see his rich friend Peter Solomon—his other father, as it were. Robert Langdon doesn’t want to disappoint this man with the “soft grey eyes” by being a huge, huge coward, so he bravely sits on the plane like a fully-grown symbologist. He calms himself by obsessing over the 555-foot obelisk* in the middle of Washington DC.

A professional waver named Pam (one suspects that she is not so much an employee, merely someone who likes to wave at planes and the airport has just accepted the fact that she is not leaving) greets Robert Langdon on touchdown. She immediately wants to know if he is THE Robert Langdon who writes the books on symbols and religion. It’s Pam’s lucky day because he IS that Robert Langdon! Pam has recognized him because of his “uniform”: a turtleneck, a tweed jacket, khakis, and loafers. It’s possible that Pam has asked every single person she has ever seen wearing this outfit if they are Robert Langdon and has been disappointed for YEARS. It just goes to show . . . you have to hold on to your dreams and keep trying!

We also learn that Robert Landon is afraid of ties! He calls them “little nooses”! (That’s TWO nooses in six pages! This is going to be important. I demand a prize if he ends up hanging later in this book. MARK MY WORDS.)

Anyway, Pam is still greeting HSRL** relentlessly and telling him how to dress and going ON AND ON about his books and saying that he probably gets this all the time so maybe she should shut up. But she does NOT shut up, because you know how you get when you meet your favorite symbologist. You just start freaking out.

HSRL has places to be, and he wants her to leave, so he gives Pam the customary tip you give to people who wave at you (usually $20, or a small cake, if you have one on you) and meets Charles from Beltway Limousine. HSRL doesn’t take no cab! Inside, Charles has provided him with bottled water and tiny, hot muffins. (I don’t want to seem cynical, but I am starting to suspect that DB*** wrote some of this on a book tour and is literally just describing his own media escorts and crazy readers and drivers and hot, tiny muffins, but that is neither here nor there, and we must get right back to the fact that HSRL is now IN A CAR.)

Chapter two

I must try to make this chapter summaries a bit shorter because we are never going to get anywhere at this rate. Brevity. That’s what I’m going to aim for. Which is a good thing, too, because this chapter is two and a half pages long.

A tall, shaved, naked man named Mal’akh is tattooing himself and quietly saying under his breath: I AM A MASTERPIECE. Mal’akh is single, by the way. The book doesn’t say that—but I know it to be true.

We get a brief history of tattooing, and then the clock chimes six thirty and Mal’akh stops tattooing himself, so I am guessing that perhaps tattooing himself is his job, and like Fred Flintstone, he stops immediately when the bell rings and slides down the dinosaur to go home.

Except Mal’akh is already home, so he puts on a fabulous silk robe and runs around his house, blasting Verdi’s Requiem. He bounds up the stairs and goes to his bedroom and confronts himself in the mirror. He is so overwhelmed that he drops the robe and again considers his naked self and ital-thinks: I am a masterpiece.

I fully admit that as a kid and a teenager, I dressed up and ran around the house blasting music when no one was home . . . For me, there was a lot of dark makeup and The Smiths and The Cure, so I am not judging, per se, but I kind of feel that Mal’akh has taken this to a whole new level and is scaling the Kilimanjaro of weird to its creepy peaks and probably he needs a friend or a dog.

Mal’akh is now a 33rd level warlock in World of Warcraft**** and he is going to do something really, really important. He leaves the house (I’m guessing he’s gotten dressed, maybe in the HSRL uniform) and is going to do something to the Capitol building which is guaranteed to be exciting. Good for Mal’akh! I will be rooting for him.

Chapter three

Back in the car, Robert Langdon looks up because he can tell from the sound of the tires that they are already on Memorial Bridge. Normally, this would be a kind of pointless detail that you might leave out of a book, but it tells us that Robert Langdon can navigate by sound. He is just that observant. Shaken back to awareness, he once again starts staring at the huge obelisk which he can now see out the window. He really loves that obelisk.

We find out that HSRL didn’t think he was going to be here at all! He thought he was just going to have a quiet Sunday at home! The last time he thought that, the sky exploded over Rome and the quasi-pope parachuted out of a helicopter! Time to stop answering the phone on your day off, Robert!

It turns out that Peter Solomon’s assistant called him that morning and left a message to call back at the number 202-329-5749. And then he got a FAX asking him to call 202-329-5749! And then we hear all about how Peter Solomon is totally like the richest and most important guy ever! He turned HSRL into the HS he is today! And he’s totally been calling all morning trying to get Robert to dial 202-329-5749! And in case you think it is boring to read someone’s messages when all they say is “please call 202-329-5749”, well, you might be right, but guess what? Peter Solomon totally needs HSRL to be the main speaker at a private gala at the Smithsonian. And guess when it is? It’s tonight!

HSRL decides he needs coffee! I’ll bet you do, Robert!

Chapter four

Mal’akh goes through security at the Capitol Building. That’s the whole chapter.

I could tell you more about how he’s wearing a sling, and a ring (hey, that rhymes!) but I really have to go faster. All you need to know is that he goes through security and he makes it even though you know he is carrying something that is probably totally not allowed. I’m just glad to see Mal’akh out of the house.

Chapter five

In chapter five, we meet Katherine Solomon, who is Peter Solomon’s sister. And if you liked hearing about how Mal’akh went through security, you will love hearing about how Katherine Solomon drove her white Volvo through the gate of 4210 Silver Hill Road, just outside of Washington DC.

Katherine practices something called Noetic Science, which sounds totally made up! But I just looked it up on Wikipedia. It’s real! DB is always doing that! Making me look things up on Wikipedia! Noetic Science, from what I just read, is basically fancy New Age healing, mind-potential stuff. So whenever Katherine comes on, I am totally going to hear Enya in my head. Katherine has just gotten some shocking news about Peter. We don’t know what it is, but it doesn’t sound good. I fear that we are going to have a death sequence in our future.

Then we jump over to Mal’akh who calls her on the phone to tell her that whatever it is that Peter thinks is hidden in DC . . . it’s real! And it can be found! Katherine is all omg.

As are we all, Katherine. As are we all.

END PART ONE
PAGES COVERED: 1-23
PAGES LEFT TO GO: 486
CHAPTERS LEFT TO GO: 130

* It is entirely improper to giggle at the fact that he has such a thing for huge obelisks and I am, frankly, a little ashamed of you. Who doesn’t like to stare at and constantly think about HUGE OBELISKS?

** Henceforth, this will be short for Harvard Symbologist Robert Langdon

*** Henceforth, this will be short for Dan Brown

**** That may be wrong, but he is definitely a 33rd level something. I think that’s only in WOW, right? Or is that D&D as well?

THE 4AM ADVICE BLOG

2009-09-07T09:36:00.004+04:30

Hello, everyone! I write to you from England, where it is 4 in the morning. Why am I blogging at 4 in the morning? Because my body decided that it would be fun to wake up at 3:00. I hung around in bed until 3:30, and then just gave in to the challenge.

“Fine,” I said. “Have it your way, body. You won’t think it’s so funny around 6am.”

My body ignored this and demanded a bowl of cereal and a cup of tea. So here I sit, poised in front of my computer, with several hours to go before sunrise! Exciting!

Now, you may have noticed that I have been A LITTLE BEHIND on the blogging this summer. This isn’t because I’ve been napping on the job. QUITE THE OPPOSITE. My silence was caused by the fact that I was working overtime on an exciting new project WHILE working on 13 Little Blue Envelopes 2. Plus, I was DOING STUFF.

But it’s all to the good, I assure you. And I will be able to tell you about the EXCITING NEW THING this week. And I’m not waiting just to be annoying. There’s going to be a general announcement made, and I have to stay in step with that. But I am BURSTING to tell you. Maybe that’s why I’m awake at 4am.

Anyway, since I’m up, I felt like it was time to do a blog! So I went on Twitter to ask if anyone had any questions they needed answered. I’m not sure you should take my advice on any occasion, but I can say without hesitation that you should not take the advice I dispense at 4am. Will that stop me from giving it? Of course not!

It's always time for ADVICE!

rawrlol asks: What does one DO at 4AM?

One writes a blog and gives out advice.

Elenisilelf asks: why are there no cute boys in any of my classes?

Possibly you go to MY former high school? Look around you. Is it all girls, in all directions? Are they all dressed head to toe in fireproof navy blue polyester?

Diamondelight92 asks: should i buy a snuggie or a slanket?

Wow. This was a hard one. I had to do some research before I could make a call.

The Snuggie is pure informercial magic. It unabashedly goes for the “are you too stupid to live?” audience, which I appreciate. It takes some serious chutzpah to get out there on national television and say, “You know what are hard to figure out? Blankets.” You can’t make a statement like that without VISION. That they offered a free booklight with every purchase was simply another sign of their genius. Because what does “blanket too hard” imply if not “serious reader”? I can smell that copy of Chicken Soup for the Snuggie Soul from miles away! This is why we, as a nation, immediately saluted them. We know our kind of greatness when we see it.

The Slanket people come at it from a totally different angle. They know that we all, even if we won’t admit it out loud, want a Snuggie or a Slanket. We want one very much. We all KNOW it’s just a backwards robe and that it makes you look like an insane, lazy cult member, but it’s still AWESOME! We want to drape ourselves in sleeved fleece and recline, slack-jawed, on the sofa. If offered one for free, we will greedily accept it. I wish I had one right now, to write this 4am blog! If only I could get over the shame of ordering one!

The Slanket people have tried to figure out a way to make this okay. They have done this by filling their website with weird, quasi-hip descriptions and by giving small donations to eco-friendly causes. They are the thinking person’s Snuggie. And while I like the concept to giving money to charity, and I prefer the colors, I feel this makes the Slanket too self-aware.

I feel I’m going to have to come down on the side of the Snuggie, though you really can’t lose either way. And now matter what you choose, one thing will always be true . . . if you buy a wearable towel, the Snuggie and Slanket’s bastard cousin, you are clearly some kind of an a$%&*#e.

lalibrarylady86 asks: What are Bacon Bits really made of?

Many bacon bits are, weirdly, vegetarian. (Bac-o definitely are. You have to check the labels brand by brand. An easy rule of thumb: if they are crunchy, like fish gravel or Pop Rocks, they are vegetarian! If they are kind of quasi-moist and chewy, they are real!) The fake ones are made of soy or textured vegetable protein, often flavored with soy sauce and colored with red dye. In all cases, they make delicious cupcake toppings and are wonderful to toss at weddings in lieu of confetti.

VoraciousReader asks: Pls do not think I took your 'follow me' button overseriously but am also visiting UK atm and also up at 4 am. Advice?

Would you like to come over? Perhaps I can start a 4am club!

Failing that, if you are in London, I would go and stand in line for the FIRST LONDON EYE RIDE OF THE DAY! I mean, why not?

EJ_Hope asks: What is more appropriate in a literary work - tongue in cheek, sarcasm or in you face comedy?

There’s no answer to this. There are no rights or wrongs or appropriates. What’s important is a strong, clear, distinctive voice that tells its own truth in its own way. Also, vampires. Have you tried vampires? They are like Bac-os, but for books!

springtosprung asks: I have lots of fears that keep me from doing things i wish i could. social interaction is top of the fear list. any advice?

While I would normally encourage the development of a Fear List (I have written several of them myself!), I can see the problem here. While most things (jellyfish, the sun, birds, butterflies, shelving, water slides, etc.) are out to get you, other people generally aren’t. the one thought I always find reassuring—whatever you are going through, whatever weird feeling or problem you have, you are not the only person who has experienced it.

KWMomo77 asks: My whole family thinks I am going to be a literary great but, SMeyers crushed my dreams. HELP.

How has Stephenie Meyer crushed your dreams? And why is it that your family thinks you are going to be a literary great? The one thing I notice left out of both these statements is YOU. Nine times out of ten, the only person who can raise you up or keep you down is YOU. So while it is great that your family thinks you will do AWESOME, you are the only one who can make that happen. Likewise, it’s actually really hard for other people to keep you down—especially people you don’t know who have nothing directly to do with your life.

Unless, of course, Stephanie Meyer comes into your house at night and deletes your files. This is the problem I have with J.K. Rowling, who has been my nemesis for some time. I have told many stories of how she sneaks up on me, eats my snacks, follows me, and crashes through my windows. Of course, I don’t have it NEARLY as bad as Alan Rickman, who is trapped in her basement, forced to survive on jam and swim with her dolphin, Fatso. Even so, I thrive DESPITE Rowling’s attempts to bring me down. ARE YOU READING THIS, ROWLING? YOU’LL NEVER WIN! (And kudos to the brave people who fight to FREE ALAN RICKMAN.)

sushiitrain asks: how do I deal with my crippling tendency to procrastinate when I have so many things to do?

The best thing to do is to spend a few hours on the internet researching personal organization software, downloading free trials, and learning how to set them up. I find that the only thing better than an actual, physical list of things to do are about thirteen different computerized versions of the same thing, except with long, complicated menus and functions and lots of choices of colors and themes. This is what I do and it has LITERALLY NEVER FAILED ME!

koriannespeaks asks: How do you get a hamster in your brain?

Hamsters cannot live inside your brain. This would kill both you and the hamster. Hamsters control your brain remotely. They can do this from up to 500 miles away. So don’t worry if you can’t SEE the hamster who controls you! Trust in the fact that that hamster is there, bending you to its will, even if that will is that you wake up at 3:30am and write an advice blog. TRUST THE HAMSTER.

ASmilingVillian offers: I think they're talking about you, but it's hard to tell

Certainly not me! I never respond to critics! I only respond to YOU, the hamsters, and the moonlight. But I do like how CRANKY this guy is! I also like how he’s extrapolating based on one incident involving one person which was generally acknowledged by everyone, everywhere to be COMPLETELY NUTS! One person doing one thing somewhere does not a TREND make! But why let that stop you, article writer? If there’s one thing we can always use, it’s another article complaining about the internet . . . on the internet.

But wait . . . am I responding to a critic using Twitter? I mean, he said nothing about me, and I’m responding in a blog. But I did get this link FROM Twitter. And I am responding. OH NO! I am going DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE!

Whatever the case, I think that in the future, we will solve all internet disputes with dueling cat videos. This way, EVERYONE WINS!

Ah! It is sunrise over England! I see it creeping over the horizon with its rosy fingers. So I bring my advice to an end. I must now run into the streets, heralding the morning and waking the inhabitants with my morning song. Look for more from me SOON. Maybe even TOMORROW.

16 LIES ABOUT JOHN GREEN

2009-08-19T22:28:00.003+04:30

Remember when you told all those lies about me on Twitter? Well, THIS is like THAT, but with John Green. You have TWO HOURS to vote! That’s until 4pm NYC time! To the winner, a SCARLETT FEVER!

1. mighty_mouse720 @realjohngreen believes it's not butter.

2. erinv@realjohngreen will knock three times on the ceiling if he wants you, twice on the pipes if the answer is no.

3. Loisunpublished @realjohngreen has never really looked for Alaska

4. mighty_mouse720 @realjohngreen dropped an infant into a well, trying to teach it how to swim.

5. Helena2011 @realjohngreen gets a pedicure every tuesday. His toenails say 'i <3 Maureen!'

6. Loisunpublished @realjohngreen invented the Slap-Chop.

7. erinv @realjohngreen is currently writing a book on the fine art of 'manscaping'"

8. K_elli @realjohngreen's main form of transportation is a bike with a flowered banana seat and sparkly pink tassels

9. mighty_mouse720 By day John Green is an author/vlogger, but by night he is the Emerald Arachnid, saving populations in a giant spider suit.

10. lonesome_pine There is no @realjohngreen. Only Zuul.

11. chipmunk2011 @realjohngreen is selling maureen johnson collectibles on ebay. they have her real hair

12. Sergium @realjohngreen is actually just Maureen Johnson before she puts her makeup on.

13. lcrosbie @realjohngreen once tested new medical product called Viagrogaine...now puff levels can never go down.

14. ImaginaryGel http://twitpic.com/eddxy - @maureenjohnson John Green and @coollike got into a fight over who would play Keith. John lost.

15. deanocarroll John Green installed Death Panels on his roof and now all his electricity comes from old people and puppies dying

16. nickmcrae @realjohngreen John Green wears Drakkar Noir.

UPDATE: It was quite a battle, but the winner was NUMBER 15.

ASK MJ: HOW TO GET A JOB

2009-07-30T23:05:00.004+04:30

James asks: What is good job interview technique, and what should I do to make the right impression on a prospective employer?

I am glad you have come to me with this one, James. Perhaps you may think of me as a dashing author-about-town,* but I was not always gainfully employed as a writer. Like many scribblers, I have had many, many jobs, and I am pretty much an expert on how to get them. I have been, in rough chronological order: a Burger King employee, a snack bar attendant, a telemarketer, a nanny, a sandwich-maker, a writing center consultant, a barista, a school secretary, a ball-pen and climbing net supervisor, a caterer, an administrative assistant, a literary manager of a theater company, a bartender, a waitress, a waitress in a haunted house themed restaurant (which is different from just being a waitress, trust me), a fake employee, a rehearsal room and costume attendant, a PowerPoint presentation expert, a speaker’s aide, an in-house dramaturg, a research assistant, a freelance writer, a freelance editor, a layout editor, a writing instructor, an editorial assistant, an “education specialist,” and an editor.

I think I’m missing a few, but that’s about the size of it. I have had a lot of jobs, some good, some bad. Hey, I worked here. And remember the time I told you about this?

Clearly, I know how to get a job. And now, I will pass some of my wisdom on to you. This is a tough economic climate, and I want to make sure that YOU are gainfully employed. Because if YOU are not gainfully employed, YOU cannot buy my books, and I have to go back to one of those other places. And trust me, I am not going back here, even though I still have my nametag.

Now, everything I am about to say only applies if you are trying to get a job where you have to wear a nametag (or a nametag equivalent, such as a themed t-shirt or hat). If you are applying to become, say, the head of cardiothoracic surgery at Boston General, the rules may be different.

I am going to tell you something very, very important—something most people will not tell you. This lesson will save you a lot of time and will help you score the job you are after.

There are only two kinds of bosses.

Type one (kind of rare, but not so rare that you won’t encounter them): people so into the job that they are just hiring because upper management has told them that hiring people is part of their job so they will do it with GUSTO!

Type two (most bosses): people who want someone who will do their job for them. (When I was a boss, this was my type.)

You may think that there are other kinds of bosses, but you would be wrong. There are only two. There are certainly a lot of subcategories like:

- clinically insane boss
- chemically dependent boss
- accidentally promoted boss
- son/daughter of the boss boss
- distracted by personal drama boss
- terrified that people are about to discover his/her incompetence boss
- applying for another job as we speak boss
- involved in an illicit relationship with someone at the company boss
- on the wrong medication boss
- unaware of his/her own ineptitude boss
- thinks you two will be great friends and so keeps telling you things you don’t want to know boss
- suspicious of everyone boss
- sarcastic for no reason boss
- does over of everything you do boss
- actual spawn of Satan boss

Oh, and sure, the occasional good boss.

These are all very popular kinds of bosses, but trust me . . . they are either type one or type two, and everything else is just FLAVOR. You need to figure this out early in the interview. Everything depends on it. I have complied the following list of conversational clues that will help you determine which you are dealing with.

SIGNS OF A TYPE ONE BOSS:

In the interview, this kind of boss will tell you a lot about him or herself and his or her management style and background. You will not have asked, and it will not be relevant. In fact, it will be incredibly awkward.

Let’s say you are applying for a job at a coffee place. A conversation with a type one boss might go something like this.

TYPE 1 BOSS: So, you want to work at my branch of Snarlbluck’s? Well, let me tell you a little bit about what kind of store I run. I’m a really hands on manager. I’m really good friends with all of my employees.

*pause*

YOU: Oh . . . uh . . . great! I like . . . friends.

TYPE 1: (not listening) And I know how to run every single piece of equipment behind that counter. I can do every job. I’ve been with the company since . . . oh, let’s see, since 2006 . . . and I can make every variation of every drink.

*pause*

YOU: Oh, uh . . .

TYPE 1: I’m the kind of manager who expects people to tell me how things are going, and . . .

SIGNS OF A TYPE TWO BOSS

TYPE 2: So you want to work at Snarlbluck’s. Why?

See the difference? The Type 1 boss is off to the races with the personal resume, and the Type 2 boss wants to know, correctly, why in God’s name you would apply to work in this place. And all they want is . . . someone who will do their job for them.

You have about one minute, maybe two, to figure this out.

If the boss in question is a Type 1, getting the job is actually really easy. All you have to do is pretend to listen VERY, VERY INTENTLY to what they are saying. This interview is not about you—its about them. Don’t treat the interview like a job interview—treat the meeting as though you were meeting a foreign dignitary at an embassy . . . someone charming and wonderful. This isn’t about anything so crass as getting a job. No. This is about meeting someone worth meeting. Your application? Let’s not even waste time discussing it. Let’s get back to what’s important. YOUR NEW BOSS.

If you must speak, make sure to pepper your conversation with references to them. Say things like, “You seem like a great person to work for.” “Do you REALLY know how to make every kind of Coffeecino?” Even better . . . quote them once or twice. Ask for clarification on something that they said. “So what did you do when you ran out of large mugs?” you ask. And make your expression mirror theirs. Smile and nod when they talk about their huge success getting corporate to send three extra boxes of promotional hats. Look grave when they tell you the story about the time the credit card swipe on the cash register broke during Christmas season.

If you play your cards right, this will not be the last time you hear these stories!

But if your boss is Type 2, you are going to have to prove yourself. And what you need to prove is that you are both ready, willing, and able to do their job for them. Because anyone with a grain of sense would rather spend the day talking to friends, reading, or watching cat videos online. They have done their time in the trenches.

It’s a fickle business, this part. Let’s get right to what your new boss is after.

ARE YOU AN IDIOT?

This is question #1. Your application probably doesn’t have much information on it aside from your name, your address, and your school. They are looking at it just to see if you have filled in the right words in the right places, and not, say, drawn pictures of unicorns or pineapples or pineacorns or uniapples. You should get through this part just fine.

DO YOU HAVE EXPERIENCE?

With very few exceptions, experience is completely irrelevant in most nametag jobs. This is awesome news for you! Don’t work yourself into a teeth-grinding frenzy worrying whether or not those three months you spent working in the copy center will be enough for the high-flyers at Snarlbluck’s. It all goes back to the all-important “Are you an idiot?” question. If anything, they will ask just to make sure you weren’t fired for being an idiot. If you did get fired because you made some goofy mistake which you now regret, you sweep in with a “I had to quit because of schoolwork” or somesuch. This will show that while you have been an idiot in the past, you have fixed it now, and you know to make smooth cover statements.

Now, I am not saying YOU should do this, but I got at least six of those jobs on my list above by . . . well, lying is such a harsh word, and as I have told you many times, I do not know how to lie. I do, however, know how to spin a compelling narrative.

I mean . . . here’s a for instance. When I moved here, I was told that it was VERY HARD to become a waitress in New York City and that to get hired you had to have New York City waiting experience. “But how,” I asked myself, “do you get New York City waiting experience unless someone hires you?” It was like that time my mom told me I couldn’t get my learner’s driving permit until I had more practice. The system was against me!

Obviously, I realized, what they were looking for were people who could creatively think themselves around this problem—this minimum wage Schrödinger's cat scenario. Obviously, what they wanted me to do was construct a resume of experience that was LOOSELY BASED on reality, full of references in another country that I knew they would be too cheap and/or lazy to check. Had I worked as a waitress before? Not in New York, but in London (true!). How long? Oh . . . a while. You know, like how long Edward has been seventeen. Where? I had prepared a well-organized paper full of places and addresses and phone numbers. Preparation! I was not an idiot. Did I actually work at those places? Were they even real? Come now. Let’s not get ourselves all wound up over nothing.

And was a good waitress? Yes! Did I return a large roll of cash I found on the floor, completely as I found it? Yes! Did I steal them blind like everyone else was doing? No! Did I scrupulously check every check to make sure it was accurate? Yes! Did ever rip off a customer, even for a single dollar? A single penny? No!

I was one of the only honest people in the building. All I had to do was convince them to hire me. These are the kinds of paradoxes you have to wrap your head around in order to achieve JOB SUCCESS!

And in several other jobs, when asked if I could do the things I was being asked to do . . . well, in some of those cases, I didn’t even know what those things were and had to Google them as soon as I left. But my answer was always, “OF COURSE I CAN.” And I said it like I meant it. Does this mean that I once almost blew up an entire magazine because the only working copy was kept on the server and could be changed by anyone, at any time (who would do this?) and I did a “change all” and basically blew up the typeface and made the layout explode? Perhaps. Perhaps I did. But I provided ADDED VALUE in many other ways, I assure you.

So, what I am saying? I am saying you must be confident when you are asked what you are capable of!

Confidence!

ARE YOU A WEIRDO?

There’s usually some question in an interview that goes something like, “Why do you want to work at ________.” Unless you are crazy, or deep undercover, or are stalking another employee, the only reason you would want to work at _________ is because you would like to earn some money to buy books and feed your hamsters. And while you’ve considered selling your own organs, a job seemed like the best way of getting that money.

This is why I suggest that you shouldn’t seem CREEPILY EAGER for the job. You should seem practically eager. You should radiate: “I am a normal, non-idiot who wants this job for all the reasons you might expect. I will do it well. But I am not a freak.”

You don’t want to convey, for instance, the impression that you are just someone who really likes to fold sweaters and is just thrilled that there is a place where you can actually get paid to do it, because you have been going to all your friends’ houses and folding their sweaters for years even though they have asked you to stop! And maybe you can just fix that collar? Because your collar is just sticking up a little on the left and it is kind of freaking you out—ha ha!—and you won’t be able to concentrate until the collar is fixed so can we just stop and fix the collar before this goes any further?

This kind of thing puts the interviewer on edge.

Yes . . .but are you normal?

I hope this has been helpful! Now get out there and GET A JOB! Feel free to use me as a reference. I am a wonderful reference. Employers love to talk to me!

And remember to buy my books, because a lot of people are counting on you to keep me from coming back to their places of employment. Don’t let them down.

* Though other descriptions might spring to mind.

LIAR IDOL

2009-07-21T20:58:00.004+04:30

I am incapable of lying, but I admire the ability in others.

Yesterday, on Twitter, I challenged people to tell some lies about me. I’m not sure what made me do this. Perhaps I was thinking of my friend Justine Larbalestier’s new book, Liar.* Perhaps I was just thinking about how ACCURATE everything is on the internet. In any case, I threw down the challenge. To the winner, I promised a shiny new ARC of SCARLETT FEVER, months before the release of the book.

I have always known that you are exceptionally clever, but I got a powerful reminder of that when I read the entries. It took me quite a while to read them all and to select just 25 of them. In fact, I BROKE MY TWITTER trying to access replies, there were so many of them.

Now, for your consideration are 25 LIES ABOUT ME. Like its predecessor, Zombie Idol, LIAR IDOL will be judged by YOU.

Here are the rules:

Vote in the comments. You may only vote once. This is an honor system. (And if you sign in anonymously, please put your name on your comment.)

Throughout the day, I will count the votes. The winner will be called at 5 PM, New York time.

GOOD LUCK, Liars.

THE LIES

1. @NinjaFanpire If @maureenjohnson says your going to die at a certain time and place, you'd better get there and you'd better already be dead.

2. @susie130 Guns don't kill people; @maureenjohnson kills people.

3. @JayOrDan23In the event of a water landing, @maureenjohnson can also be used a flotation device.

4. @itokro The Pope reads @maureenjohnson, and broke his wrist trying to re-create a Spencer stunt.

5. @livin4hymn Amy Winehouse isn't addicted to drugs, she just experienced too much of @maureenjohnson at once and hasn't been the same since

6. OSUBrit They say @maureenjohnson never blinks, and that she roams around the woods at night foraging for wolves...

7. @creativemachine Kids check under their beds for the boogieman. The boogieman checks under his bed for Chuck Norris. Chuck Norris checks for @maureenjohnson

8. @sophienotemily If you need to find the nearest @maureenjohnson... there's an app for that.

9. @lalibrarylady86Top Editor at Us Weekly Departing http://bit.ly/vvgdH because of @maureenjohnson Editor's final quote: "That woman will put me in my grave"

10. @granbookpub @maureenjohnson shocked to find the opening sentence of SCARLETT FEVER won the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest. @realjohngreen submitted it.

11. @pumpkin0core@maureenjohnson walks into a bar. Now laugh.

12. @omgitsoml14 Always be sure to use protection when having @maureenjohnson

13. @pumpkin0core In the latest Mortal Kombat, @maureenjohnson is an unlockable character. Not even the programmers know how to unlock her.

14. @lunar321 @maureenjohnson has a whole poe statue, @realjohngreen only has a bust. and since poe was a guy, his bust is miniscule.

15. @calliebeth The Bible as a collection of written works was entirely authored by @maureenjohnson. This explains the immense popularity

16. @granbookpub Every fall @maureenjohnson stops writing & tweeting for 2 days straight to try for tickets to Oprah's Favorite Things! She's not giving up!

17. @digitalcable @maureenjohnson was once on "Cops" 3 times in the same episode; cocaine is a hell of a drug.

18. @firecracker704 @maureenjohnson is the hooker that beat up Vince.

19. @MasonWinsauer @maureenjohnson has been determined to be the cure of 99.6% of the worlds ailments. However, she is too highly volatile to mine safely.

20. @NinjaFanpire On her birthday, @maureenjohnson randomly selects one lucky child to be thrown into the sun.

21. @SpinachPuffs Prior to becoming an author, @maureenjohnson auditioned for a part in the Lord of the Rings movies. She was in the top 3 choices for Gimli!

22. @WordsLikeRoses @maureenjohnson has taken all her followers souls and sewed them into curtains. Tough luck for us.

23. @worldgirl84 In the original line-up of the Spice Girls @maureenjohnson was going to be Creepy Spice

24. @rhondastapleton @maureenjohnson invented the Internet, tight-fitting chinos, the color yellow, and the concept of leap year.

25. @jrg1990: @maureenjohnson steals plot from @realjohngreen! Read all about it!

THE WINNER . . .

YOU have spoken, and while the competition was FIERCE, #25 emerges as THE LIAR IDOL. All hail!

* I am interested in lies out of artistic curiosity. Justine is interested in lies because she has no morals.

LIFE BY THE NUMBERS

2009-07-16T23:32:00.003+04:30

I have conveyed my hatred of graduation speeches before, but there was one graduation speech I heard that actually meant something to me. When I was at the School of the Arts at Columbia, the great philosopher Bill Murray came and spoke to us.

The gist of his speech was: “Look, people thought I was going to be a huge failure, but then I got kind of lucky and made it. And I had and have lots of amazing friends, and we’ve seen each other’s careers go up and down. Take my advice: don’t go comparing yourself to other people. You will go insane. It’s pointless. Your fortunes may rise and fall, depending on all kinds of things you have no control over. Keep your friends. Never compare all the outward markers of success. Do what you love, because that’s all you really get and that’s all that matters and that’s all that will ever really work. And don’t be an as$h&^e.”

It was the only useful graduation speech I’ve ever heard. And it was much longer, funnier, and more nuanced than that—and it was specifically geared to us, because we were the School of the Arts. So this was advice to people about to go out and try to become actors, directors, musicians, visual artists, filmmakers, and writers . . . which is a little like addressing a group of swimmers about to do the 500 meter shark tank event.

Getting into the writing game can be kind of hard, and it’s an arena where you’re often judged by things that either you can’t control or things that have very little to do with your book itself. How your book will sell, what people will think of it, what cover it will get, what money will be spent to place it in prominent places in the bookstore . . . it's generally out of your hands. You will get unexpected bursts of luck from unlikely corners, and at the same time, people will slam you sideways in scathing reviews. All par for the course.

Nothing you can do about any of this.

If you are following the advice of Mr. Murray, the thing that matters is quality. It’s the only thing you can control. And quality is a slippery, slippery eel. For example, some people think that if something is popular and sells well, it must be kind of bad. There are other people who think that if something is popular and sells well, it must be kind of good. Neither of those things is universally true. Good things sometimes become popular, sometimes they don’t. Bad things can become raging successes, and sometimes, they slip back into the ooze. You must write the thing you love, and then you hope. You can play your cards smartly, but there’s no way to determine the outcome.

But we do live in an age of RANKING! Of POPULARITY! Editors sometimes buy books out of sheer love, and other times, just because they think they might sell. This has caused some people to worry (rightly) that we’ve entered a blockbuster mentality—where the trick is just to throw everything you have at a book if you think it might generate some sales.

And the truth is, when a publisher decides to put its chips on a book (and they usually do for one or two a season), that book is probably going to do well, and probably make the bestseller list. If they buy ads, if they spend loads on shiny promotions, and if they throw down some serious bank to buy premium space in stores . . . then people are going to see the book, see the shiny, and perhaps buy it.

This is the reality I personally live in, and I respect it. It’s the game I chose to play, because this is the game that allows me to write. And I’m not immune from it. Good sales mean I can do more writing! And I have causes to fund, like my Institute for Disco Studies and my Home for Wayward Hamsters** What defines good? Well, for me, anything that allows me to continue with these grand plans of mine.

But in general, I stay away from the numbers. Most of the writers I do the same, and these include some people who are pretty massive bestsellers. They avoid it because they know the numbers make you crazy in the coconut, and they distract you from the important things, like writing things you love, reading awesome books, eating snacks, and spending time with friends. Sometimes I hear of people who have a book about to come out who get a little nuts about looking at numbers. I can understand how this might happen. But, if you ask me (and I am fully aware that no one did): don’t do this. Because then your life will become about the numbers, not the books. And they are two very different things. And trust me, there are enough people looking at those numbers for you that there’s no reason to drive yourself up a wall about it.

Now, perhaps you are thinking, “But mj, I am not an author. I see what you are saying about the books, but what about ME? What about MY LIFE?”

Fair enough. Once again, you’ve dazzled me with the way you bring me back to the point.

I get a lot of e-mail (which you know I love, even though I sometimes have trouble replying). Some of you write to tell me about the books, but some of you write just to tell me about your lives, or your desire to become authors, or things that are happening to you in school. And the one thing I have definitely noticed is that you are not immune from these kinds of pressures.

There are a lot of numbers out there. Your SAT or standardized test scores. Your GPA. Your number of Facebook or Myspace friends or Twitter followers and whatever comes next. For some people, like the characters in Wintergirls, it’s all about the number of the scale or in that snack you want to eat. I know sports people have all kinds of numbers of their own, but I know nothing about sports, so you have to fill all that info in here.

The numbers all have a kind of meaning within their own realm, but when spread out over the world, they lose a lot of significance. The number on the scale tells you how much you weigh, not what you are like or what you are worth. Your SAT score tells you how good you do on that particular type of standardized test, and sheds a certain degree of light on your current skill level in math and English, right now, given all of your current life conditions. If you’ve been raised in an affluent household where academics are considered important, you’ll probably do better than someone who didn’t grow up under those conditions. Maybe you worked hard. Maybe you’re just good at standardized tests. Maybe you got lucky. Maybe you were sick, or upset. Your number of Facebook friends probably reflects the amount of time you spend on Facebook.**

You have to do things because you want to do them and because you love them (or at least LIKE them). The numbers themselves are innocent, merely offering a measure of whatever it is you wanted to know. When you stay obsessively focused on them, you tend to miss the bigger picture. You may end up like this:

“Okay,” you say, “I do that a little, but not NEARLY as much as other people I know. In fact, they are obsessed with EVERYONE ELSE’S numbers. What do I do about them?”

I know who you mean. You mean the person who comes up to you in the hall after some test you know they’ve aced and they ask you, all sweetness, “So, how did you do?” And you say, “I got an 83.” And they say, “Oh, that’s too bad. I got a hundred. Oh god. You must feel so awful.”

Obviously these people have problems, and a quick punch in the throat would probably be very educational for them . . . and while it is always tempting to perform a public service like that, forget about it. Life has a way of sorting these people out. Yes, it’s true. Some of them get to be rich and successful. But if they keep that up, no one likes them. Period. They do not live on the fun side of the street. They have their own kooky ranking system for the world, and they cling to it, and if the slightest thing goes wrong, they go insane. I HAVE SEEN IT HAPPEN! Have faith, friends.

It’s like Bill Murray said, the one thing you can’t do is start obsessing about how other people do—as if the successes of others somehow diminish you.*** Of course, there are all kinds of things that annoy me. There are people I have wanted to see go DOWN. But I’ve noticed that every time I dwell on this, I go radically off the path and down the bumpy, sure-death side of the mountain. And for what? This stuff never matters for long, if it matters at all, which it usually doesn’t. When others do well, celebrate! When they are down, help them up. If you follow the opposite of that, then you are probably an as$h^&e. Which means you should go back to the beginning of this entry and re-read Bill Murray’s final point, “Don’t be an as$h&@e.”

And love what you do.

* So why not buy a few copies of Suite Scarlett today! Do it for the hamsters.

** Twitter numbers, however, reflect your worth as a person so please follow me on Twitter immediately.

*** Unless that person is someone like Hitler, in which case you must absolutely worry about their successes and thwart them wherever possible. I’m just saying that you have to make a pretty clear distinction between “Actual Evil People Who Keep Freeze-Dried Orphans In The Basement” and “Other People Just Living Their Lives In Close Proximity To Yours.”

ASK MJ: WRITING IS LIKE COOTIE

2009-07-13T03:16:00.006+04:30

Has it really been THREE WEEKS since I blogged last?

But soft . . . I should explain where I have been. Or rather, where I AM, for I am still there, in the place where I am. I am in England. I’ve been here since the 24th of June. I come here a lot, as you may know if you have read this blog over time.

What have I been doing on this particular trip? Well, seeing a lot of people. There was the London Gathering. I’ve also been working on the SEQUEL TO 13 LITTLE BLUE ENVELOPES, and another project for AFTER that. I’ve been spending a lot of time doing research around London. And I will be going to Ireland later this week, if I ever get around to making the arrangements. I’ve also been watching Torchwood and have eaten some cookies and had some tea and got a tan in the hot English sun.

But I wasn’t always busy, friends. Which brings me to today’s question.

Kira902k asks: How do I survive this entire summer doing NOTHING?

Kira, I know your pain. When I was in high school, I had a few summers of such excruciating boredom that when I even think about them, my teeth begin to strike together and my shoes get too tight. It was horrible.

The reason for this was a complicated matrix of badness. Thusly:

- I went to school in the city, and thus, lived kind of far from my friends. (And I went to a girls’ school in a convent for the rest of the year.)

- I didn’t drive in high school. This was partially because I was kind of young, and because car insurance was expensive, and I generally wasn’t allowed to get it even though I wanted it more than I wanted anything. This was a great divide at Chez Johnson, one we don’t even talk about TO THIS DAY, and I am totally grown up and everything. Bottom line: I was never allowed to do ANYTHING.

- So I was totally stuck in my podunk suburb. This, remember, was BACK BEFORE THE INTERNET . . . or, at least, it was back before there was anything good to do on the internet. I am sure it was AROUND. So all I had was the phone and friends with cars who would rescue me as often as they could. Which wasn’t often enough.

- Compounding the problem was the fact that for my junior and senior years (from when I was 15 until I was 17), my father’s job transferred him around the country, first to Louisville, Kentucky (where we knew no one) to Houston, Texas (where we knew no one).

I will never forget my 15th summer, simply because it was so excruciatingly boring that it seemed to warp time and space. I sometimes wonder if that summer isn’t the reason I tend to write books about summers. Suite Scarlett, for instance, is about Scarlett’s 15th summer. Perhaps I am on permanent redo on that one.

That was the summer my dad was in Kentucky, and it was about 105 degrees every single day, with a heat index (that was the summer I learned what a “heat index” was—it means “how much you will actually suffer”) of about 115. We had to go visit my dad for six weeks, so I couldn’t plan to do anything else that summer, like get a job, or give myself up for medical research, or sell myself as a child bride. We flew to Kentucky, and we spent SIX WEEKS sitting around in my dad’s apartment. SIX WEEKS.

I could have been doing so many other, more useful things.

It was too hot to spend any time outside. Seriously. Your lungs would just explode. Not that we knew where to go, or had anyone to see. We were Philadelphia people, and this was a new, strange place. We had my dad’s car during the day, so my mom and I just went to bookstores, often used, where we would buy up huge piles of books, crank through them, and then resell them at the end of the week. I know I read a lot that summer . . . but for some reason the only books I clearly remember reading are the entire Fletch series up to Fletch and the Man Who. Somewhere in there, I also remember reading The Great Gatsby for the first of what would be about 200 times. So that was a summer romance that LASTED. And I think that’s probably when I read Roughing It by Mark Twain, to try to give my westward journey some exciting context. There were a lot of books, but a strange proportion of them seemed to be Fletch-related.

And I wrote. There was that.

When not reading, we baked cakes. One week, we baked a cake every day. We didn’t even want the cakes. We just baked them because it was something to do. I remember my mom saying, “I have never been so bored.” And my mom has 105 Cat’s Meow decorative houses, if this gives you any idea of what she can withstand.

Throughout it all, I missed my friends. To quell the pain, I would bake YET ANOTHER cake and put it with the others, which we lined up on the kitchen bar, using the same display method used in olden times, when countries used to line their architecture with the severed heads of their enemies to send a message. Our message was: we are bored.

What I’m saying, Kira, is that you have come to the right person. I understand. But you know what? It’s almost impossible to do NOTHING. I feel I came pretty much as close as I am (hopefully) ever going to come to doing nothing during that summer, and in retrospect, I was doing things. They just weren’t the things I necessarily wanted to be doing at the time. But all of that reading and writing . . . it paid off! There is something to be said for dealing with this nothing. Creative acts come out of the quiet—when you simply must make something.

What I am saying is, if you spend the summer doing nothing, you will end up EXACTLY LIKE ME! Think about that!

Badhandwroter asks: I have a lot of ideas for stories that I'm currently working on but I can't seem to buckle down and work on just one and fully develop it. What are some ways to keep my focus on just one idea?

We writers have a saying, Badhandwroter. Well, not a saying. More of a commonly accepted idea that has yet to be assembled into an easy-to-carry quote. I will attempt to correct this now: “There is nothing so appealing as the next thing you want to write.”

When you first start writing something, it is all sweetness and joy, because you are skimming those awesome ideas of the top of your brain—that delicious sweet cream. Sometimes it’s an idea for a first scene. Sometimes just one character. Sometimes you get a cluster of ideas: a location, a bit of dialogue. Some people ride high on just a title and a mental image of a cover.

Oh, it is a fine drug, this “first idea” stuff. The unwritten story or book is always SO GOOD. Sure, when you flip the pages in your mind, you can’t actually SEE ANY WORDS, but you know when you fill them in, they will be like NECTAR.

Thing is . . . once you actually start writing, you have to live up to that Shangri-La in your brain. So you sit down and start working, trying to produce that wonderful, shimmering stuff. And while it may go well for a while, you are probably going to reach a point where it DOES NOT, and you have NO IDEA what is supposed to come next, and you take a DIM VIEW of what you’ve done so far, and it’s all HOPELESS and you are TERRIBLE.

This is usually when the new shiny thing comes into your mind . . .

Your innner LOLcat comes out.

This is also where the writing BEGINS. This is precisely the point where you press on. You can jot down the note about the other shiny thing, but if you want to write, you keep going.

Now, you may ask, “But mj, don’t some ideas just die because they have no legs?”

Some ideas are maybe a little shaky. That’s true. But stories are like Cootie. Ever play Cootie? That game where you get the plastic body of a Cootie bug, and you have to keep playing until the thing has eyes and a mouth and antennae and legs to stand on? The more you work on a story—the more you press on—the more you’ll find that you get new parts. New ideas will grow.

Cootie.

But your question is: HOW? HOW do you keep focus and press forward?

My friend, I feel your pain. It’s hard. But the only way is JUST TO DO IT. The most useful technique, aside from flat-out discipline, is to be accountable to someone. Joining a writing group, for instance, where you have to produce a chapter by a certain date for the others to read. More hardcore people might chain themselves to their desk using a time lock or deny themselves showers or food until they have met their daily writing quota. These are also very effective methods.

And then, when you are done your story or book, you get to TAKE IT APART and MAKE IT COOLER. Because now that you’ve made it once, you can get a good look at the thing and see where improvements and changes are necessary. Then you enter into another time-honored writerly period, the opposite of your first problem: namely, the endless revision . . . which is sort of the literary equivalent of projectile barfing.

Trouble ahead and trouble behind, Badhandwroter! Happy writing!

ASK MJ: YOU HAVE GOOD REASON TO WORRY

2009-06-21T07:20:00.003+04:30

Katie asks: Maureen, Any ideas on how to convince my mother that I, at 18 years old, can go camping in the world's most controlled environment (Disney World) without dying or injuring myself?

Camping? Are you out of your MIND??? Have you learned NOTHING from me?

Listen to a story.

Last night, I was out with Justine Larbalestier and Scott Westerfeld. I am often out with Justine and Scott, because we, for lack of a better term for it, work together. Last night, we went to see an excellent New York Liberty game, and then we all went for dinner at a fancy restaurant, because that is the way we roll. (Or, that is the way they roll, and I just like following people whenever I think there might be food in it for me, because otherwise, I might end up as I did today—slicing my finger open while cutting the head of Swiss chard I had for lunch, and then just forgetting to make dinner and eating crackers and a smoothie. I am still enjoying the smoothie as I type this with one finger wrapped up in a big band aid, so I keep hitting all the wrong keys.)

Anyway, we rocked up to the restaurant, all smiles and city manners, and took our seats next to some large, open French doors that lead to the outside patio, letting in the lovely night breeze. We ordered a five course tasting menu and proceeded to enjoy five (sadly tiny) courses. (Everyone got a different thing, and I swear to god, I kept getting the smallest ones, which was sad because I was so hungry I could have eaten my napkin.) Scott was telling us all about the conversation he had had with the producers of the still-hypothetical but nonetheless awesome in concept Uglies movie just that afternoon.

Anyway, I hope I am conveying the ambiance of class and style—writers sitting around, drinking wine and having very tiny plates of fancy food, talking about movie deals—when all of a sudden my brain started feeding me information. I was sitting directly across from Scott, and I noticed there was a huge black stripe on his white shirt that I was sure had not been there before, and that the stripe was moving, and then finally my brain concluded that it was not a stripe at all but a THREE INCH COCKROACH climbing down from his shoulder and down the front of his shirt.

Now, as it happens, I have quite a high voice. Maybe not my speaking voice, which is a medium girly-high. But my singing/screaming voice is quite high in pitch. I have a bit of a natural whistle register. This is why I can do such a good impression of a seagull and such a very bad version of this song. And when I scream when I, say, see a three inch cockroach climbing down someone’s shoulder, it is both VERY HIGH and VERY LOUD—enough to cause everyone at the table to leap out of their chairs and ALSO start screaming and to bring all activity in the restaurant to a temporary halt.

Scott, of course, has a deep man-scream and was mostly just screaming because we were all screaming at him and staring in HORROR, and mostly everyone was screaming because I was screaming, and he was looking around for whatever it was that was about to DEVOUR him (as he later explained, “I thought it had to be some kind of a rat, a dog, a rat-dog, something about to, you know, eat me in one bite”). Justine flicked bravely at the roach and it went away, and Scott was still looking for the source of the screaming when I saw it had merely flown around and on to HIS BACK, which made me scream AGAIN.

So, Katie, what I am saying is if this kind of thing can take place AT THE VERY HEIGHT OF CIVILIZATION, just IMAGINE what horrors await you at a campsite. Even at Disney World, which IS the world’s most controlled environment, camping is guaranteed death. The Disney corporation wants you to think they can control the environment through their ridiculously clean and manicured parks where music comes out of rocks and nothing ever rusts or even loses its shine, but they are lying to themselves and to you.

I mean, when the snake armies come and the ground goes soft and swallows your tent, do you think MICKEY MOUSE is going to come running out of the bushes to save you? Do you even WANT that to happen if that’s an option? Because I wouldn’t. Can you imagine it, Katie? There you are, insects swarming, rain pouring down on you, beating your pathetic excuse for a shelter into a new and sinister form . . . because that tent of yours will be about as useful as a paper boat when the Rains come, and come they will, Katie, because Florida is hurricane country . . . and then, as you sink into the fecund earth, crashing out of some freaky bushes manicured in the shape of giant mice comes a REAL, MASSIVE, HUMANOID MOUSE with ears the size of dinner plates, screaming in a keening voice that is neither male nor female but distinctly toonish, “I’ll save you!” And then, it will be reaching for you with those big, white, mitted hands, which are the last thing many children see before they descend into the Caves of Madness. Because nothing can hold back the forces of chaos, Katie. Nothing at all. Except, perhaps, the walls of a hotel.

Have a good trip!

The last thing many children ever see.

Starlysh asks: I'm a paranoid person. I think people talk about me. How do I become less crazy?

It’s difficult for me to say for sure, Starlysh, because I don’t know for a fact that people AREN’T talking about you. But there are ways to find out. Have you witnessed any of the following behaviors?

When you enter a room, do people stop talking?

Do they start talking?

Do they continue talking as if your entrance didn’t change the way they talked at all?

Do people look at you?

Do they sometimes not look at you?

Do people sometimes take phone calls around you and then go outside or a few feet away to talk?

Do you sometimes hear your name mentioned?

Do you sometimes notice that your name has NOT been mentioned?

If you have seen any or all of the above, then I think it is pretty safe to say that all your worries are valid. I don’t know what they’re planning, but whatever it is, you need to get out of there before they hatch that plan. They will probably strike when you are least expecting it, using some innocent ruse. For example, they may all gather together by a phone and call you, trying to lure you out. One person will be assigned the task of making the call, and they’ll say something like, “Hey, Katie, want to go on an awesome camping trip to Disneyworld?”

They may be gathering now.

Now, if you’re smart and you’ve read the above, you’ll know to turn that down. You’ll use some clever excuse, like, “Sorry. I’m taking place in a highly experimental treatment for my compulsive homicide disorder. I just can’t seem to fight the urge to chop everyone into TINY, TINY PIECES with a GIANT AX and I am running out of places to put the bodies. But thank you for asking!”

In some cases, they won’t be this obvious. They will never call and make their demands known. They’ll just lurk . . . talking, not talking, looking, not looking, saying your name, not saying your name. They are doing this to test you, to try to weaken you. Don’t give in. You have to throw them off guard.

For instance, you could make up 200 fake Facebook profiles, using stock photographs of people. Make all these people friend you AND each other. Create a group called “The Army of Sekrits.” Spend several days having your new, fake friends write on your wall, leaving messages like, “Last night was best one EVER. I can’t WAIT until the BIG EVENT!” Or, “Yeah, it got out and bit three people but that won’t be a problem for long, lol!” Or, “The injection stings but you know, it is SO MUCH BETTER than YOU KNOW WHAT! CHOMP, CHOMP, CHOMP! <3 YOU!”

When your “real” friends ask you who all these people are and why they keep leaving these creepy messages on your wall, just smile enigmatically. At this point, your phone will ring, because it goes without saying that you’ve gotten a second phone that you have programmed with your number, which you keep in your pocket at all times so you can just hit a button and dial yourself whenever anyone comes near you, and then go off and have mysterious conversations with yourself during which you laugh a lot and look over at your “friends” sadly, like you know about some terrible fate that is about to befall them and there is simply nothing you can do about it.

Or it could be nothing.

Cortney asks: As a very soon to be college graduate, what do you suggest I do to get myself ready to live in the big, scary, real world?

There is no way of avoiding the real world, Cortney. Sure, the collapse of the world economy might make it a hair tricky to do things like eat food that is not from a trash can and live in an apartment, instead of an old refrigerator box or in a van down by the river, but where is your spirit of adventure, anyway? We Americans are a plucky people. We made our country based on nothing! Nothing! Why, when the American Revolution started, we were a simple tree-dwelling people with nothing but a dream. Our forefathers hired someone to make a piece of paper, and on that single piece of paper, they wrote the Declaration of Independence. Then we fought off the evil British (sorry, British people) by throwing anything we had at them! Sticks, bricks, tea, cats, pineapples . . . we gave all we had. And look at us now!

So think of that and be INSPIRED! And then lie on your resume! Tell them you went to Harvard AND Yale AT THE SAME TIME where you majored in EVERYTHING! Tell them you’ll do anything! Wait for your competition to turn their back and then shove him/her into the nearest closet/stairwell/tar pit and GET THAT JOB! It’s what George Washington would do.

The competition needs to get out of your way!

I hope this has been helpful. I look forward to answering more of your questions.

CATCH SCARLETT FEVER!

2009-06-09T07:22:00.000+04:30

When I wrote about the LONDON GATHERING yesterday, I said that my next blog would be an advice blog. But I didn’t know that when I woke up this morning, the advance uncorrected proofs of Scarlett Fever would be READY TO GO. It was a huge shock.

I have them here.

Scarlett Fever, as you may or may not know, is the sequel to Suite Scarlett. These Scarlett Fevers could not be ANY HOTTER OFF THE PRESSES. No one has these. Reviewers don’t have them. MY AGENT doesn’t even have hers yet. And I just finished going over the corrections and page proofs YESTERDAY.

I am offering COPY #1. A hot ticket indeed!

And what do you have to do to SCORE THIS AMAZING PRIZE?

Well, I am going to have a little contest. I need you to make some GUESSES about what happens in this book and e-mail them to me.

“What do you mean?” you may be asking, because you are always asking clever questions.

I mean, take what you know about Suite Scarlett, and TAKE A FEW STABS AT WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN NEXT. I will choose the MOST AWESOME GUESS.

Unlikely things may happen.

“Wait,” you are probably saying, because you are also very good at choosing moment when I should pause and clarify. “Define awesome. Do you mean crazy? Do you mean accurate? EXPLAIN YOURSELF.”

I mean awesome. Awesome may mean that you guess correctly. Awesome may also mean that you’ve just cooked up the most insane thing I’ve ever heard. Awesome may mean that you’ve written a scene you think should be in the book, and that scene turns out to be awesome. Or maybe, you will DRAW what happens. Or make a video. I do not know what YOU will do because YOU are full of wonders. All I can say is, you must make some kind of guess, and do it in whatever format you want, and make sure I get it by THURSDAY (the 11th) at 8PM, NYC time.

That's:

1AM in the UK
5PM in California and PARTS WEST
6PM in Denver, where my agent is
7PM in MIDDLE US
8PM in New York City, where I AM

I will then REVIEW the submissions and give the book to one of you.

How will I choose?

Copies of the book are currently rare, but I will give away some more as the summer goes on. But only one copy can be copy #1. Just imagine that. The very first one.

People will covet what you have.

“One more question,” you say, because you are nothing if not thorough. “Do I have to have read Suite Scarlett to enter?”

Well, technically no. But the book will mean more if you have, because it’s a sequel. And your guesses will probably make more sense, because you’ll know who the characters are. If you haven’t read it, you can do so NOW.

Why not read the book now?

The next blog, I promise, will be AN ADVICE BLOG. Now, GET TO IT!

THE LONDON GATHERING

2009-06-08T06:36:00.000+04:30

HELLO FRIENDS! This post differs from the norm in that it is specifically about the London Gathering on June 27th. I will return, probably tomorrow, with MORE ADVICE. So you can leave QUESTIONS in the comments.

A year and a half ago, in January 2008 . . . practically a LIFETIME AGO . . . Charlieissocool (otherwise known as Charlie McDonnell, the most famous person on the intertube) and I convened a UK Nerdfighter gathering.

Now, we are doing it again. We are simply GATHERING on a summer’s day in London. To what end? BECAUSE WE CAN. And I’m doing it because 13 Little Blue Envelopes is FINALLY out in the UK. By a complete coincidence, the 27th turns out to be the day that the book will be available all over. Until the 26th, it’s only available at Waterstone’s. This is something I did not know when the date was first picked, so ISN’T LIFE FUNNY?

Here is how the day is going to go:

The first activity is optional! We are planning a trip on the LONDON EYE. You don’t have to go to this. You don’t have to go AT ALL. I’m just saying, if you don’t want to go on the London Eye with us, it doesn’t put you out for the day! If you do, you will need to purchase a ticket, and probably soon. Each pod on the London Eye holds 25 people. We will try our best to cling together as a group, but there is a chance we could be split. Still, you will be with OTHER PEOPLE FROM THE GROUP. But we will try.

So, first, you get a ticket for the 12 noon flight on June 27th. Then:

11:30 at the LATEST: Gather at the check-in area of the London Eye. Check in. Shuffle over in crab-like group formation to line. Attempt to talk them into putting us into one pod.

12:00-12:30: Go wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee! over London. Point at things.

If you do not want to come to the London Eye, THIS IS WHERE YOU COME IN. Because we will meet all who do not want to come to the London Eye NOW.

12:45: Meetup along the river side of the Southbank Centre. (Extremely precise location TBA, slightly dependent on weather. I hear it sometimes rains there.) We will then find a SUITABLE LOCATION for our group.

Now, the last time we did this, we started at the National Gallery and ended up going all over the city, climbing things, going to secret magic shops, playing video games, having lunch, going to the Apple Store . . .

We could do the same this time! But the one lesson learned is that we need to give people time to get to the location. So we PROMISE to stay in the area of the Southbank Centre at least until 2:30. We could stay there all day! But we will stay there AT LEAST until then. And after that, we will Twitter our locations, so you can always find us.

And perhaps we will have an adventure. Maybe we Charlie and I will take off and TWITTER YOU SOME CLUES and we can have a LONDON-WIDE SCAVENGER HUNT. (Like 13 Little Blue Envelopes, but WITH PEOPLE!) Or maybe we will sit on the grass or a coffee shop and chill THE WHOLE DAY.

We just don’t know. That’s the way the Gathering rolls. Anything could happen.

At 7, the Gathering will break once again! From there, some people will continue on to another optional activity! Namely, Julia Nunes’s show. You will also need to get your own ticket for that separately.

Here is the info:

The Luminaire
311 Kilburn High Road
London NW67JR
UK
+44 (0) 20 7372 7123
Price: 10.00 GBP
http://www.junumusic.com/londontshirt.php

So that’s the deal. Here are our disclaimers:

We think you should be at least 15 to come. This just seems sensible. We also assume that if you are under 18, you’ll have gotten whatever permissions you need from whatever life form you take orders from. We think you should come with a friend, if you can. No matter what, be safe. Tell people where you are going. Secure safe passage to and from your place of residence. The entire day will be spent in public places, with all kinds of people. We, of course, are cool, and we think everyone else will be too. But just be aware that this is a random group of people, however cool, in a city, and we don’t know everyone. You will probably make some friends that day, and people will watch out for each other. I’m just saying all of these things so that you are aware that YOUR SAFETY is our concern. Not that this is in any way a DANGEROUS OUTTING. We’re just saying, be smart, and tell people what’s going on. That is all. You get the point.

The last Gathering was awesome, and we expect this one to be MORE SO.

Other things you might ask:

“If I bring a book of yours, will you sign it?” With more pleasure than I can express.

“Will Charlie sign stuff?” That’s up to Charlie, but he is a nice guy. I am guessing yes.

“Do you have to be 18 to go to Julia’s show?” I don’t know, but I think the answer to that is yes. That’s sort of the “adult” part of the day, and I’m guessing people will be having drinks at the show. Just FYI.

“Will you love me more if I purchase a 13 Little Blue Envelopes before this event?” It is hardly possible for me to love you MORE, but every copy of 13lbe purchased in the UK adds to the potential that they will publish my OTHER books in the UK, and that will lead to my ENDURING HAPPINESS.

Because it will be interesting to know who’s coming, why not drop me an e-mail, letting me know? This is especially true if you are coming with us on the London Eye.

ASK MJ: COUGH SYRUP EDITION

2009-06-05T06:44:00.000+04:30

Oh hello, friends. As many of you know, I have been recovering from the flu for several days, and my doctor has just prescribed me a massive bottle of codeine cough syrup to help alleviate this rib-shattering cough that I’ve been enjoying so much. He has also ordered me to rest for a few days, so here I am, at my desk, resting.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t answer some of your questions, now, does it?

Itokro says: I was at a largish UK bookshop today. They had half a shelf devoted to 13 Little Blue Envelopes.

This is NOT an advice question, but something I wanted to put in because I am SO EXCITED to finally be out in the UK. It has been my DREAM to have a book out there, and now, that dream has been realized. 13 Little Blue Envelopes will be available exclusively at Waterstone’s until June 26th (where it is part of an awesome 3 for 2 promotion, so it is practically FREE!), and after that, it will be available EVERYWHERE. (Well, everywhere with books. Not at Argos or Tie Rack.) And I'll be having a LONDON GATHERING, location TBA, on June 27th.

ON TO THE ADVICE! Off goes the cap! Glug, glug, glug! Medicine taken!

I am now ready to advise.

Neil asks: How to do I, a math nerd from Scotland, survive a summer in Canada?

Here’s a math problem for you, Neil. 78% of all the meat consumed by Americans comes from Canada. 56% of all UK tourists who go to Canada are never heard from again. Pieces of British passports are found in 17% of all burgers served in the United States. Mathematically speaking, how do you think you’re going to taste when you’re served up with French fries? Good luck with your trip!

McChrista asks: How can I figure out if the guy I like likes me back if we don't talk that often?

The first thing you have to do in a case like this is ascertain whether or not the guy in question actually speaks English. Because this could be your whole problem. The way to get to the bottom of this is by going up to your love interest, getting close into his face, and saying DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH? really slowly and loudly. If doesn't react, then your problem is essentially solved, and you should just start making out at once. Wherever you are.

Making out starts now!

If he says, “Yes” then things are a bit more tricky, because he’s probably wondering why you asked if he speaks English. He’ll feel like you don’t know him as well as you should. Start laughing IMMEDIATELY. LOUDLY. Like it was all a joke. He won’t get it, of course, because there is nothing to get. This will make you seem clever.

The laughing makes you seem smart.

Follow this up with something smooth, like, “What is your favorite flavor?” or “Do you follow the shipping news?” or “Would you like to see my calendar of adorable kittens dressed in people outfits?” Any of these questions should get you on an even conversational keel for a few moments. You should use this time to search his pockets for pictures of you. I realize that this can be hard to pull off, so this is why you knock him out with a lamp while he’s answering you. If he has a picture of you, feel free to make out with him the moment he looks even remotely conscious. If he doesn’t have a picture of you, plant one and run away quickly and hide. Approach only when he seems to be regaining consciousness. Say, “I can’t believe that man hit you over the head with that TIRE IRON! Let me NURSE you!” If he appears to remember that you hit him with a lamp, hit him again and keep repeating until he doesn’t remember and then get in there with the nursing line, which always works.

Or just send him an e-mail asking him out for coffee. Whichever.

Anonymous asks: I need advice on how to steal Snape back from the magical frogs named Elmond who are using him in their evil plot to mesh headphones with Twinkies and use it to infect the entire printer force with Frolic Disease.

Someone had better give me back my codeine syrup!

Sarah asks: How should I make money without doing anything?

Sarah, this question has haunted me for years. I like to think I’ve come pretty close, but this is an elusive prize. ABBA, of course, explores this question, because ABBA thinks of everything:

Shrieky asks: There is a girl (who we shall call GirlWhoMakesCoffee) who bugs me. She is in my German class and she comes early EVERY morning and makes COFFEE so my teacher doesn't have to. (Our teacher lets us have coffee and tea in class because she is made of win.) When we were in middle school, GirlWhoMakesCoffee learned the first names of all the teachers and would refer to them in conversation ONLY BY THEIR FIRST NAME. That is the kind of person she is. Not one single teacher sees through her, they all luuuuuuuurve her and think she's the best thing since Scantron cards, etc. Now, unfortunately, my German teacher thinks my friends and I like her, so we are stuck doing our final project with her. There is no way out of this situation. It wouldn't be so bad (well actually it would be), but she keeps looking up literal translations for things in the dictionary. THIS IS BAD. We cannot trust her to write anything because we would have to do it all over again. We're going to have to put up with this situation next year too. What should we do?

I’d switch to French.

Anonymous said: I secretly love a small Asian boy who is moving away next year. Any ideas?

How small? Because if he’s as small as you seem to be implying, you could just CATCH HIM IN A SHOEBOX and keep him forever, like a talking hamster!

I hope this helps! I’ll be answering MORE questions later, after I talk to these NICE BUTTERFLIES that have just come in. Please leave yours below.

Oh, and if you follow me on Twitter, here are the answers (in CODED INITIALS) to today’s BLIND GOSSIP ITEMS: C.C, K.N., S.W., L.B., H.B., J.L. C.C., J.L.B.

HOGWARTS REVEALED

2009-06-01T06:42:00.000+04:30

I have seen Hogwarts.

No, I am not making this up. I HAVE SEEN HOGWARTS.

“Unpossible!” you exclaim. “You are telling tales, mj. Tales made of lies interwoven with untruths.”

Oh, except it IS possible. Listen to my story. It starts . . .

OVER A YEAR AGO

Many of you have asked me why I go to England so much. There are actually loads of answers, including, “I went for the food but stayed for the weather.” But ONE of the reasons is that I worked on the Harry Potter 6 video game. I was the scriptwriter for the PSP and DS versions. The story of how I ended up being the scriptwriter for the Harry Potter 6 videogame and the GLORIOUS THINGS I SAW is a story for another day—specifically, a day AFTER the release of the film and video game. Until then, I am legally bound to keep quiet.

But I can tell you that I saw Hogwarts—the full and awesome virtual version. And I thought then that that was the last time I would be so immersed in the world of Harry.

I was wrong. Flash to . . .

LAST THURSDAY (WELL, LIKE A WEEK AGO THURSDAY)

So there I was, sitting at table, writing with The Others*, when I noticed many people Twittering about Leakycon, the big Harry Potter convention in Boston. I had known about this for a while because my friends John and Hank Green were speaking there, but didn’t think I would be able to go. “I’m too busy,” I thought. “I have THINGS to do.” But as the day went on, more and more people asked me if I was going, so I wrote that I would go if my “Accio Leakycon pass and hotel room” spell worked.

A half an hour later, Melissa Anelli, author of “Harry, A History” and one of the main organizers of Leakycon, wrote to me with passes and hotel room.

I looked to Robin Wasserman (one of The Others) and said, “What do I do?” And she said, “Clearly, you go.”

I was scheduled to be out late that night, and the train I would need to take was early in the morning, which meant no sleep. But still . . . I had asked, and I had gotten the answer.

“Okay,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

FRIDAY

I boarded an Acela express train from New York City to Boston—a zippy 3 hours and 40 minutes. It was so freakishly beautiful that I decided to walk to the convention center. I got there just in time to hear John Green speaking with Cheryl Klein, one of the U.S. editors of Harry Potter. During the presentation, I started to realize I hadn’t eaten that day at all. As soon as it was over, I had to get up and get food. But when it was over, I found myself surrounded by several people, including the band The Luna Lovegoods.

“Let’s go get food,” I said. So we all went down to Au Bon Pain, where I bought every snack I could get my hands on and ate so fast I got cheese spread on my forehead.

My escorts.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. There was a massive Nerdfighter gathering, and then we watched a screening of “We are Wizards.”

At some point, I began to the feel strongly that I needed to claim a house as my own. But this didn’t seem like something I could do by myself—I needed help. So, I turned to what has become my source of all information. I went to Twitter. “Twitter,” I said, “what house am I?” Twitter was pretty sure I was either Ravenclaw or Slytherin. I decided to go for Slytherin because I actually RAN INTO THE MALFOYS in the merchandise room.

HOLY CRAP IT’S THE MALFOYS

Once I had my house tie and my Harry Potter glasses, I felt a lot more relaxed and ready for the big Wrock show that night. I was told that this was in The Castle. And I was all like, “What castle?” Imagine my surprise when I turned the corner and actually saw A CASTLE behind our hotel. I have no idea why there is a castle in the middle of Boston, but there is. Part of it is taken up by a Smith and Wollensky’s steakhouse, but the rest of it can be rented out. It had been made up to look like the great hall at Hogwarts, with illuminated banners from the four houses, and a huge stage, and a big clock. I saw The Whomping Willows, Gred and Forge, and Tonks and the Aurors . . . and they were all AWESOME.

John, Hank, Katherine and I hung out at the show. I ended up meeting LOADS of people—people I’d been corresponding with for ages. It was like THE INTERNET CAME TO LIFE. I spent some time with Alex “Nerimon” Day and Kristina Horner. I met bloggers and vloggers and Twitterers and Facebookers.

I noticed many things in the crowd, like this girl, who has the Harry Potter call numbers TATTOOED ACROSS HER BACK in Harry Potter font. (The other tattoos are of the state of Texas and some Care Bears sitting on a rainbow, so you know SHE has some good stories to tell.)

Hardcore.

For some of the night, I realized I was standing next to Paul, aka Harry 7 from Harry and the Potters.

Harry and the Potters WROCK OUT.

“Hey,” he said, “do you guys want to be our dancers for the big final number?”

I didn’t have to be asked twice. When Harry and the Potters ask if you want to come on stage with them and do awesome backup dancing, you go.

There were five roles up for grabs in the backup dance: sexy Santa lady, 2 hip-hop wizards, and rubber chicken and rubber owl. Katherine and I passed on sexy Santa lady because the skirt was about two inches long. (This was eventually taken by Lauren from 5 Awesome Girls.) John and Hank took the hip hop wizards. Katherine and I took rubber chicken and rubber owl, which were large rubber masks that went over your head. Katherine was the owl. I was the chicken, which I didn’t really understand. Where is the magic chicken in Harry Potter? But I do not question Harry and the Potters. I am sure there is a magic chicken in there somewhere, perhaps in the epilogue.

Anyway, once Katherine and I had on the rubber chicken and owl heads, we realized we could not see AT ALL, because the things were so big they immediately spun around and blinded us completely. We might as well have had bags over our heads. So we each took a wizard escort. She went with Hank, and I went with John. In fact, I clung to John’s arm SO HARD that I think I bruised him.

So we heard someone scream, “Now! Now! You guys, now!” And I felt John move and I went with him. I made it up the ramp to the stage just fine, but immediately crashed into and fell over an amp. But I was so full of Harry spirit** that I felt no pain. I lurched forward and started jumping up and down while Harry and the Potters played “Smells like Harry Potter.” (I THINK this is what it was. It was a Nirvana cover, but at the end, everyone was screaming HARRY POTTER.)

Then I lost John, who was also pretty blind in his hip hop wizard glasses and bounced away in confusion. At some point, someone screamed, “Face the audience!” so I guess I was turned completely around and was rocking away to the back curtain. I attached myself to Hank, who had accidentally left Katherine to die by falling off the stage. (This was barely prevented.)

Katherine the Owl rocks out dangerously close to the stage edge, while I cling to a Brother Green.

When that was all over, we returned to the Leakysuite with something like 200 people. I remember falling asleep somewhere around 3am with a meeting going on right next to me on the bed.

SATURDAY

Saturday started three times. The first was at 4am, when we both woke to find a nice man from hotel security standing by the foot of the bed. He was there to tell Melissa that an attendee had just been taken to the hospital. She got up and went right to action, and I helpfully rolled over and went back to sleep. We woke up again right around 8 when the fire alarm went off and our floor was evacuated. This time, I had to get up as well. We dressed and picked up our laptops and stole glasses of ice water from a catering tray and made our leisurely way down to the sidewalk, where we were immediately told we could go back up again. I think I slept for a few minutes once we got back upstairs. Melissa, of course, was long gone, off running 25 events at once.

A little while later, I caught up with Hank in the Imperial Ballroom, and we sat around for a while, discussing the events of the day.

“Hey,” he said. “Harry and the Potters want to show me the best hot dog place in the world. Want to go?”

Having become a die-hard fan of Harry and the Potters the night before, I immediately agreed, even though I don’t eat hot dogs.

“I don’t eat hot dogs,” I said, “but I’d come to watch.”

So we all piled into the Harrymobile to drive around Boston in search of the world’s greatest hot dog, which was apparently in a very elusive cart in an industrial park. Well, first, Joe and Paul (Harry 4 and Harry 7) had to release the Harrymobile from the grips of the garage, which charged them billions and billions of dollars in Muggle money. After feeding a machine an endless succession of twenties, we headed out and almost IMMEDIATELY got lost. This is because Harry and the Potters usually travel by broom or flying car, and the streets keep them down. But we finally got back on track, and we got to the industrial park, only to find that the cart was not there.

There were sounds of despair from all around the Harrymobile. But Paul quickly changed plans and said that there was ALSO an awesome Vietnamese sandwich shop we should go to. So we did a few more laps around Boston and eventually took the Harrymobile back to the same exact spot we had started from and walked to the restaurant, which Paul described as having, “the dirtiest door you will ever see on a place where you would actually want to buy food.”

They took us to Boston Common and showed us their favorite sights, including a monument to anesthesia.

By this point, I was supposed to be on a train home to New York. But Hank said, “You can’t leave. You have to go to the ball.” And Paul said, “You have to stay. I’ll play Ghostbusters for you.”

So I missed my train and stayed on for the ball.

I sat around with Hank Green in his hotel room for a little while, telling the story of how the “in your pants” got started. We also noticed that one of the sessions at the conference was run by a psychologist who specialized in helping people overcome their obsessions with fictional characters, and in the last few years, she has focused her practice on people obsessed with Snape. We noticed this just too late, as I would have gone to that IN AN INSTANT.

We went to dinner with Chellie and Monica The Short Sisters, Paige, and Rachael. Then we met up with Joe DeGeorge of Harry and the Potters in the lobby and went over to the ball. Joe was so ready:

Joe DeGeorge was ready for the ball.

The ball, dear readers, was an epic, epic thing. I can barely describe it. There was so much dancing. Paul, Hank, Melissa, and I broke into the restricted area and got up into the clocktower and danced for the crowd. Melissa did some major dance numbers. Hank and I did a tortured romantic number to “Total Eclipse of the Heart” that ended with Paul pinning Hank down on the floor. Then we once again returned to the Leakysuite, this time with I think 500 people.

I took my place on the enormous bed and decided that I wanted to have a “lounge party,” which was just me being lazy and a party forming around me.

“I’m having a lounge party,” I said. “People should come in and lounge.”

For the first few minutes, it seemed like this idea might not take hold, but I am a persistent person. I invited everyone who even poked their head in to “come lounge.” And when I say “invited,” I mean, “ordered.” Pretty soon, the bed was completely full. I remembered seeing another rollaway bed in the main room, so I left my spot and went and got that bed and ADDED it to the big bed.

The lounge party.

Pretty soon, we had filled both beds, and all the space around the beds. We had about, I’d say, maybe 35 people on or around the beds. I got up to do something and LOST MY SPOT, and didn’t get it back until around 3 in the morning. At some point, I entered into a texting feud with Hank Green. A brave man named Colin stood up as my defender, and a wondrous battled ensued.

A wondrous battle.

Having given up on the bed, I took a rogue party into the main room of the suite to build a fort out of chairs and sheets we stole from other beds. This went pretty well for a while, but then the fort fell down, largely because we were holding it together with drumsticks and bits of a Rockband video game kit we found, and too many people tried to get in, and we got lazy. And then we locked Hank Green in a bathroom.

At some point after that, there was sleep. Once again, I think there were about ten people on the bed. When I woke up the next morning, I stumbled over the sleeping form of Voldemort by our door, and saw the ragged remains of our fort.

A sleeping He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and the ruins of the fort.

Though I caught Leakyflu, the virulent illness that overcame many people who were in the room that night, it was still 100% worth it. I may have infected many people at BEA (Book Expo America, a major publishing event) this weekend, but that’s just my way of KEEPING LEAKYCON ALIVE!

To see more scandalous photos, please friend me on Facebook. They are all there.

And next time . . . ADVICE POST. So if you need ADVICE, leave your questions in the comments.

* An unspecified gang of writers who will remain unspecified
** Butterbeer

I AM CHICK LIT

2009-05-15T22:31:00.001+04:30

[Note: I originally posted this when I was guest blogging at Insideadog on February 6th, 2008. I'm so hopping mad* about something I read today that I am reposting it. It will be new to a lot of people, I think.]

Today’s post was inspired by the lovely ladies at Trashonista, who quoted my beloved agent, Daphne. Let’s talk Chick Lit. Why not? Everyone else has done it!

The first and most important thing about this blog post is the TOTAL LACK OF RESEARCH that went into it. I have worked hard on not researching this entry, so don’t go spoiling it for me by sending me links to intelligent articles and posts. My hands are unsullied by the virtual ink of information, and I plan to keep them that way.

When I was both a tiny and a medium-sized mj making my way through writing school, I had two handy categories:

1. Things I thought were useful for writing
2. Things I did not find useful for writing

My two category system has worked like a charm in my professional life.

I like books by writers that are written well and say interesting things about writing. I like books that point out, in lovely, concrete ways, why other books are good and how to make your writing strong. I tremble in awe before essays like “Politics and the English Language”by George Orwell. I enjoy Edmund Wilson explaining his thoughts on why people read detective stories. Vladmir Nabokov’s essays on Russian and English literature will cause your brain to melt in delight.** These things are useful.

Generally, as soon as I see an “ism,”I go and curl up on the carpet for a nice nap. “Ism’s” are not useful to me. I write every single day, and never once has an “ism” helped me to put together a better sentence. “Ism’s” seem useful only to people who like to talk to other people about “ism’s,” which I don’t, so it all kind of works out.

And same goes for labels. I pay zero attention to labels for books. I prefer not to know how a book is classed. I had no idea what Urban Fantasy was when I read an Urban Fantasy that I thought was terrible. Luckily, I had no idea what I’d done . . . because I might not have read more! I might not have known that I love Urban Fantasy! I might not have read Holly Black, Scott Westerfeld, Justine Larbalstier, or Cassie Clare (to name just a few).

So when everyone was debating about “Chick Lit,” I was probably off eating a sandwich somewhere and missed the whole thing. Which was fine by me. Except that I kept getting these interview questions over and over again, people asking me about my favorite “fellow Chick Lit writers” or how I felt about something “as a Chick Lit writer.”

And I was all . . . “I’m a Chick Lit writer? What the @&#$^ is that?” I am always the last to know.

My true confession is . . . I was kind of insulted. I mean, I went to a Fancy Ivy League University Writing Program and everything. I have shelves full of Serious Books. I had only a vague idea what Chick Lit was, but as far as I could tell, it dealt with three things: marriage, romance, and shoes. And I had a strike against each.

Romance: When my first boyfriend showed up at my door with flowers, my first response wasn’t to swoon. I believe what I said was, “What are these for?” He said our one month anniversary. And I just started laughing at him . . . because, one month anniversary? What? ***

Shoes: As I have revealed in the past . . . I kind of hate shoes. I pointedly look forward to the day when we can get rid of feet entirely and just have cool hoverboard-like things welded to our ankles.

Marriage: I have only ever owned one book on marriage. It was called Loving: Marriage and Family Lifestyles and it was one of my required textbooks for senior year religion, and all I did all year long in senior year religion was deface my copy of Loving: Marriage and Family Lifestyles.

Evidence: a page from the Loving book belonging to Maureen Johnson, classroom 2A. I was not being particularly subtle on this occasion. Some of my graffiti over the pictures is highly nuanced.

The only thing I really did know was that a lot of people spoke derisively of Chick Lit, basically using it as a synonym for trash and often connecting it to the word “mindless.” I heard there was a whole book dedicated to NOT being Chick Lit, and that Gloria Steinem was quoted on the cover and everything.

Why was everyone lumping me in with this? What a conundrum! I figured I’d better ask around and get more information.

“It’s your covers,” someone told me. “It’s because the girls have no heads. Well, they have heads, but they don’t have tops of heads.”

I wrote this down.

“It’s the romance,” someone else said.

I wrote this down.

“It’s the light, breezy tone you adopt,” said someone else. “Humor."

I wrote this down.

“You should just put zombies in your books,” Justine Larbalestier said. “I don’t care about your question. Just put in zombies. Zombies make everything better.”****

Someone else told me that Chick Lit is about shopping, but I don’t write about shopping. And yet . . . I am Chick Lit. Yet another person told me it was about sassy young women in the city, which I never wrote about until Suite Scarlett. And yet, I am Chick Lit. Person number fifty-seven told me it was something about women who work for magazines, which I have never written about. And yet, I am Chick Lit.

“Oh, most important,” said the last person. “You’re female. Guys don’t write Chick Lit. They tried to make up a male equivalent term, but it never really took off.”

The only real defining characteristic is that it means books written by women.

Literary terms and theories are pretty jelloid at the best of times. Unlike scientific theories, they can’t be tested or proven—not in any cool ways. You can’t, for example, “prove” new historicism by putting it in a hyperbolic chamber with a weasel. (I assume that this must be the scientific test for something. It sounds very scientific.)

Where is our science when we need it?

When you write about books, you can talk about of your butt a lot and no one can do anything about it. If you’re wrong, no one will die. Nothing will explode. Being busy/lazy, I am generally all for this kind of thing.

If established literary terms are stable as jello molds, then Chick Lit is a soufflé sitting on a fault line. It only means whatever the latest and most effective argument says it means. Or whatever you guess it means. Or whatever Wikipedia says it means. Whether the books under the banner are in any way similar (except for the sex of their authors) . . . well, that’s another question. I’ve seen all kinds of weird and wonderful books that have gotten stuck with the label. It’s very arbitrary.

Normally, this issue would instantly fail my “is it useful?” test. By rights, I should be curled up in my favorite spot, ignoring it. I do, after all, have many fears to cultivate and shiny things to covet. My time on this earth is not infinite, you know. Besides, I don’t mind being classified with other Chick Lit writers. Meg Cabot, for instance, is the queen of YA Chick Lit (or so I hear). And if you want to lump me in with Meg, GO RIGHT AHEAD.

Some people are adamant that I am not Chick Lit, which is fine too. The only problem I see is . . . there is so much negativity around a term that can really only be pinpointed as meaning female-centered. The rest is just waffle. And that does bug me.

You know, there was a very good reason that Dorothy Parker wrote (or at least was rumored to have written) “Please God, let me write like a man.” She was a great writer, but as long as she wrote about women as a woman, as long as she cracked her jokes, as long as she made her sly observations about female society . . . she wasn’t creating literature. Or so it was often perceived. Many of her male friends thought she was and promoted her relentlessly. Dorothy Parker was one of her own harshest critics.

And so it seems to be with Chick Lit. The harshest words about this term seem to be coming from other women, often under the guise of promoting the work of women. *****

Ladies, why the loathing? Do we really have nothing better to do than slap each other around over some bogus umbrella term?

Anyway, if you want to call me Chick Lit, that’s fine. I’ll just take it to mean that I write like a woman. And there ain’t nothing wrong with that.

It’s when you start calling me “Jellyfish Lit” that we’re going to have a problem.

* and lazy

** I put in these fancy names to make it sound like I know what I am talking about. This is a sure sign I have been to graduate school.

*** If any of you have read The Key to the Golden Firebird, I basically give May my response when Pete shows up at the door with flowers. Poor Pete.

**** She is right.

***** Make sure to reread that first paragraph about not doing any research. It is really quite critical to my argument.

HOW TO GIVE A GRADUATION SPEECH

2009-05-09T01:43:00.001+04:30

Ravenclawgirl asks: Maureen! I’m the valedictorian of my class and I have to give a speech! I don’t know what to talk about! HELP!

Ravenclawgirl, I am glad you came to me with this. I hope you know that I am always honest with you. So today I must lay some heavy truths on you in order to assist you. Here is what you must know: Graduation speeches are boring. They’re pointless. This is ESPECIALLY true of high school valedictory speeches, which are sort of just a setup for disaster and misery.

The valedictorian, for those of outside of North America, is student who gives the farewell speech at graduation. The word comes from the Latin vale dicere, “to say farewell.” However . . . and this may just be me . . . I have always said it (and if I comb through my mind, I feel like everyone says) valevictorian, which would mean something like “a farewell win.” Which is much closer to the reality.

The job of valedictorian is normally given to the person with the highest grades. Sometimes, this goes to a really nice, hardworking person who quite frankly deserves the title. Quite often though, the battle for valedictorian is a combination of outright tooth-and-claw viciousness and cold, calculated schemes right out of old KGB manuals. Phones are tapped. People are stuffed into trunks of cars. Or, at the very least, school rules are scrutinized to figure out the exact calculus needed to be named The Best Student—some arcane mix of classes and ancient rules written on parchment and stored in the school basement. It’s ugly.

Now, don’t think I am making light of your achievement, Ravenclaw. I’m not. Had I not been so very lazy and otherwise preoccupied in high school, I would have entered the ring and fought for my chance. And I wouldn’t have made it. If you’ve been asked to give this speech, you have probably worked very, very hard. And if you’re calling yourself Ravenclawgirl, you are an awesome Harry Potter nerd, and obviously one of the good people. You have earned that time at the podium.

But what is that prize, exactly? It’s the chance to make everyone in the room suffer for ten to fifteen minutes. That, I will admit, is a pretty sweet privilege. But that precious opportunity is too often frittered away in a boring speech. And I don’t blame the boring speech givers for this. Not really. A boring speech is expected. At my high school, I think the administration DEMANDED it. You’re supposed to go up there and drone on about how much you’ve learned and how much you’ll miss everyone but you’ve all grown and must move on, and you have to make a lot of analogies to long roads, paths, and journeys. This is how it must be.

But to what end? Who is this canned speech for? Not you. You lost sleep over it. Not your classmates—they just want to get out and go to the party. Not your parents—they’re too busy messing with the video camera. Not your teachers—they’ve listened to dozens of these.

So why do they make people do it? Why do they sometimes demand to see them in advance to make sure they are BORING ENOUGH?

This is why I’m so glad you’ve come to me.

Whatever you do . . . WHATEVER you do . . . do not read any books on speechmaking by people who consider themselves good speechmakers. Self-styled speech coaches give BAD ADVICE.

They typically follow a pattern. First, they want you to say something that expresses that you are looking back on your four years of school. Believe me when I say that the second you utter the words, “As I look back on my high school years . . .” everyone in the entire room goes into a coma. Unless your very next words are: “ . . . I most remember the day that velociraptor attacked the school and we were all killed and then reanimated a week later using that highly experimental serum . . .” you are done.

Then, they usually suggest that you throw in a few random memories. You know . . . the time so-and-so had a pizza delivered to class, or that time all those people got together and sold all those baked goods to raise money for the local hamster home, or the time the basketball team won the championship. What this REALLY is is a cheap ploy to say people’s names into a microphone. So maybe the popular people get one last taste of microfame. Like they haven’t gotten enough attention in the last few years. Maybe you can work in the names of your friends, but you’re going to leave some people out, and that will make them hate you. You can’t win.

The public is fickle

THEN, they usually advise that maybe you should use examples from your own life where you have overcome something or learned something. This invariability turns into a litany of your own accomplishments and has you saying things like, “When I was captain of the swim team, I learned about the value of teamwork. Even though when I was out there in the pool it was really just me winning all those races by myself, I knew I was a part of a team, even when the other team members really did nothing. That’s what teamwork is. Me being the best, and other people sharing the credit. And that’s something I will take with me as I go on in life.”

I have achieved many things . . .

FINALLY, they always want you to close with a quote. Don’t get me wrong, I like a nice quote. I wrote papers in college that were almost entirely comprised of them. But this step is a cop-out. The implication is that you can’t come up with anything good to say on your own, so you should just scout around online to find someone else’s words—someone you’ve probably never heard of, from something you’ve never read. You can go to sites that have large collections of quotes just for this occasion, so you can REALLY make the speech as generic and typical as possible!

Now that I’ve pointed out the problems, Ravenclawgirl, I want to get to the solutions. Because I have them. I have created some frameworks to make your speech AWESOME and give people what they really want!

THE “INSPIRATIONAL WORDS” SPEECH

Read your boring speech as normal. When you get to the end, to the part with the quote, say, “I would like to conclude with a few words by William Shakespeare.” Start reading from the beginning of Henry V. Keep reading from the entire play, including all stage directions, until they shut off your microphone.

THE “I HAVE SUFFERED A TERRIBLE HEAD WOUND” SPEECH

What you will need: a blood pack (corn syrup, water, and red food coloring in a plastic bag with a zipper seal)

As you go up to the podium, pretend to fall and smack your head hard. Quickly dip your hand in your blood pack, then slap the fake blood to your head. Close the bag and conceal it back under your robe. (Don’t use TOO much blood or you will be immediately taken away in an ambulance. Unless that’s your goal. It’s a viable option and highly satisfying to the audience.)

Insist that you are fine and demand to be allowed to give your speech, because this is your big day. And since you’re supposed to be up there to show how you’ve grown and overcome, people will cheer for you. When you get up there, struggle with the pages of your speech. Keep the first page on top, but give the rest a good shuffle. Start reading unsteadily. It will sound all right for about a minute, but then you will get to the shuffled pages. Just keep reading. Do the whole speech this way, until you nearly reach the end, then realize your mistake and request to start over. Reshuffle the pages and repeat. Do this until the school nurse comes and/or they shut your microphone off.

THE SUSPENSEFUL SPEECH

What you will need: a friend in the AV department

For this speech, you have to start off really boring. Go up to the podium and start reading the usual, “When I look back on my four years of high school, I realize how much I have grown and changed. But the road of life is long and winding. We have come this far together, but today we are at a crossroads. And though we may all be going in different directions, we can look back and see where we’ve come from. We have all gathered here today to mark this event, but since I have you all here, I can now reveal that one of you in this very room . . . IS MY MURDERER!”

WHO IS THE MURDERER?

On that, your friends in the AV department will cut all the lights and play a loud sound effect of a gunshot and some screaming. When the lights come back up, you will be gone. If you want, you can have a friend from the theater department come running in, claiming to be a police detective and demand that everyone remain where they are. You, of course, will have run out a back entrance into a waiting car.

Need more help? LET ME KNOW!

MAY DAY

2009-05-01T21:52:00.000+04:30

GOOD MORNING! It is time to give out some prizes from last night.

First, for a random question in the comments:

Lily asks: Hey Maureen, I have a question for you… If you had a choice between blogging everyday for the next ten years (including your birthday, Christmas, talk-like-a-pirate-day and times of all other celebratory events) OR blogging about twice a month from a platform SUSPENDED 100 FEET IN THE AIR… which would you choose?? Loves xxxxx

Lily, I think I will find out that answer in a few weeks when I am on a platform hundreds of feet in the air trapezing myself to death.

Second, for a surprise! There were many, and I loved them all. FOR INSTANCE, there is now a BEDA BUDDIES Youtube channel. There was this video, and this one, and this poem. There were photos and letters and stories, and I loved THEM ALL. It took me ALL MORNING to go through them and APPRECIATE them.

However, I think I was MOST surprised by this. Neil has created something truly special here.

(In case you are wondering, he is referencing this video I made with Libba Bray. Also, I think Neil may be very, very tired, and this exhaustion has brought out his GENIUS.)

Third, the review. Thank you to EVERYONE who posted one! I had to pick randomly. Lauren, who posted one in Amazon, came out the winner!

So Lily, Neil, and Lauren . . . please e-mail me all RELEVANT INFORMATION so that I can send you your books!

I want to thank everyone who joined BEDA, or read, or left comments . . . basically, everyone reading this now. Because there is no way I would have made it through without you.

Also, for those of you who have written in and seem sad that my BEDA is over . . . DON'T WORRY. My blog is NOT OVER. This was just something to KICK START a whole new era of LOTS Of blogging and the new Ning. And I am RIGHT NOW working on something new for the SUMMER.* So I'm still here, things are still rolling, and YOU should keep blogging and buddying. This was only the start!

For EXAMPLE. Kasey is looking to start a group blog with people, with each person taking one day of the week. WHY NOT JOIN?

Do YOU have other BEDA-related projects you are starting with other people? Let me know!

So, I'm just going to take a day or two off IS ALL. I have to go do some Scarlett-related things, as today is her OFFICIAL paperback release. Since it is also Buy Indy Day (in support of independent bookstores), perhaps you would consider getting a copy at YOUR LOCAL STORE? Perhaps? It is up to you.

I will see you guys on MONDAY.

* Hints coming soon.

THE END? OR JUST THE BEGINNING?

2009-04-30T20:30:00.000+04:30

So, for the last day of BEDA, I thought I would do something I did on Christmas Eve. Namely, I blogged for MANY HOURS, answering questions and giving things away on a rolling basis. I’m doing this today from noon to six.

So this blog will change ALL DAY LONG. Keep checking back to find answers to questions and maybe catch a SPONTANEOUS Scarlett giveaway!

This morning, I went down my street to buy something and I noticed that the house next to my apartment building, smack in the middle of the street . . . was gone. GONE. I was out yesterday, and they TOOK IT AWAY. Which means that we must start the day on this musical note, with Madness, one of the all-time most awesome bands, singing about their house in the middle of the street:

I look forward to your QUESTIONS. See you SOON.

QUESTION #1

Kali asks: When are you going to TRAPEZE SCHOOL? And can we come with you? I think we should have a small gathering in which we go together. Moral support and the likes.

The current plan is that I will be going around the time of BEA (Book Expo America), which is a massive publishing event here in New York. This is because my agent wants to watch. But because I'm not TOTALLY stupid, I have enlisted someone who is POSSIBLY AS SCARED AS I AM to come with me. Yes, I will be taking Twilight Boy Kaleb Nation up to the platform with me. As the scheduling firms up and things are put into place, I will update on this. TRUST ME. I will be talking about it ALL THE TIME. I don't actually know if people can go. It's a private school. I'll talk to them. But WHO WOULD COME TO THAT???

QUESTION #2

Hilary asks: As a fellow catholic school girl and someone from the Philly suburbs, how do you give a class presentation WITHOUT FREAKING OUT?!

The important thing to remember about class presentations is that pretty much no one in the entire class cares what you are saying. Everyone is: a). freaking out for the presentation THEY are about to give, b). recovering from giving a presentation, or c). sleeping with their eyes open.

The only exceptions to this rule are:

YOUR FRIENDS: Who are watching to make sure you survive
THE GRADE OBSESSED: Who think everything is a competition
THE PERKY PEOPLE WHO PAY ATTENTION TO EVERYTHING: Who are far too awake
THE PEOPLE WHO HAVEN'T FINISHED PREPARING: Who are watching you for hints
THE EVIL: Who like to mess with people at the front of the class
YOUR TEACHER

Looking at that list, I realize that in fact MANY people are watching, all with different motives. I offer three suggestions:

1. Go early
2. Make it short
3. Show a video/give out candy whenever possible

That's just the survival plan. If you are asking how to give a presentation with STYLE, that is a different matter! Is that what you are asking?

QUESTION #3

TiffanySchmidt asks: My 6th graders requested ABBA for writing music. They call it: "the musical form of caffeine" Wonder where they got that? ;)

Some days I truly feel like my work is done.

QUESTION #4

Death Pixie asks: As an author, how do you react to criticism especially when the critic is another author??

It's actually pretty rare (in my experience) that another author offers criticism.* Not to your face, anyway. Unless they are writing a formal review with a byline, just slamming your book randomly is pretty bad form. At least, in my world. People may be saying ALL KINDS of things about your book in private that you will never know. And it's really much better that way.

But reviews, in general? Honestly, it's best not to give them much time. People have opinions about everything. Reviews are just some specific people writing down some specific opinions. Reviewers themselves vary wildly as well. You don’t need to take a test or anything to be a reviewer. Depending on where you are reviewing, it might not be that hard at all to get the job. I was hired as a reviewer in grad school. They gave me $50 and a book and I used it as a chance to show off and take out my frustrations, which is pretty common. Some reviewers are excellent. Some reviewers are really bad. Some reviewers are great, but just aren't right for your book. Some reviewers praise your book unfairly, or dismiss it because they are having a bad day. Good reviewers write poor reviews sometimes, and really awful reviewers occasionally hit the nail on the head.

No matter what, it’s a lot of noise. You can’t listen to what everyone thinks. You just can’t. You’ll go insane. It won’t help you. (I discussed this once here.) You have to learn who to listen to, and how to trust yourself and your own voice.

Think about it: what if you asked a hundred people to give opinions on what you are wearing today. A hundred totally random, opinionated people who like to tell other people what they think. You’d get a hundred or so different reports. Some people would be nice. Some people would just be mean because that’s how they get their fun. Some people would try to “help” you by suggesting things that THEY would wear, things that you don’t like and don’t have and wouldn’t suit you anyway. What would you do with all of that information? You’d go and hide under your bed. Because that much random input is meaningless. You couldn’t put on an outfit that would please them ALL. It’s UNPOSSIBLE!

It’s useless when too many people are talking.

Which doesn’t mean to say that you (and by you, I mean me) ignore what everyone says about your book. It means that you just have to be very selective in what moves you, and you have to have confidence in what you are doing, and learn to find useful pieces of information in all of the things being thrown at you.

That being said . . . if you like Suite Scarlett, why not take the time right now to leave a nice review here or here? "But why?" you ask. "You just said it was TOO MUCH!"

For the author, it is. But for people looking for things to read, your positive recommendation is VERY VALUABLE! I am ENORMOUSLY grateful when people leave nice reviews. And if you didn't like the book, well, you can say that too. But you can also just go HERE instead!

I'm in the mood to give out a book soon. Very soon. I should propose a challenge of some sort to win it . . .

*thinks*

OKAY . . . FIRST prize giveaway of the day! FIRST one! It's a SIGNED SCARLETT to a random commenter. I'll choose at 4:30 (that's one hour and 15 minutes from NOW). So ASK MORE QUESTIONS!

I'll make the next challenge into an actual challenge. But for now, it's time to just give away a Scarlett to celebrate.

QUESTION #5

brnh asks: Any suggestions for making OUR last post of BEDA special? I've reached a blogging lull and could use the help...

Here are just a FEW things you can do:

1. Go and read some BEDA blogs at random. Write a FULL RESPONSE to someone you don't know.
2. Write a letter to me or a review of Suite Scarlett. I WILL READ IT IF YOU SEND ME THE LINK VIA E-MAIL.
3. Make up a recipe. Test it out. It does not have to be GOOD.
4. Write some FAN FICTION.
5. Write an open letter to something of yours that doesn't work right. Tell it off.

QUESTION #6

Tobias asks: Should I grow a beard?

This is really up to you, Tobias. I have to admit that I am not personally a fan of beards. Oh sure, sometimes I see one that looks right. But in general, I admire clean-shavenness. I think it makes you guys seem very, very clever, the way you debeard yourselves! I like a nice CHIN. I can't help it. It is just the way I am. My personal preferences come through.

Why not ask yourself this question: WHAT WOULD JOHN BARROWMAN DO?

[NEWSBREAK! It looks like someone read what I wrote above and left a new nice review of Scarlett on Amazon! I LOVE YOU! In fact, if you leave a nice review of Scarlett on Amazon or BN, I will MARRY YOU. That's right. MARRY YOU. Think of the joy we will experience together!]

Okay . . .

QUESTION #7

rubber ducky asks: The guy I have a crush on forgot my name today. I am trying to be optimistic and saying it's because he only knows my nickname. Am I delusional?

This is the BEST POSSIBLE NEWS! You see, when you REALLY LIKE someone, you sometimes lose control of some of the finer functions of your mind. Which is why conversations like this happen. Say you're working at, oh, I don't know . . . Starbucks. And the person who you like comes in for a coffee.

PERSON WHO IS LIKED: Hi.
YOU: *blank stare*
PWIL: Um . . .
YOU: (overly loud) Oh HI! HI!!!!!!!!!!!
PWIL: Can I have a grande latte?
YOU: What?
PWIL: Can I have a grande latte?
YOU: What?
PWIL: Can I have a . . .
YOU: OH MY GOD! I thought you said GRANDMA! *burst of inappropriate laughter* Yeah. I thought you said . . . um, what? Hi, by the way!
PWIL: Hi. Can I have a grande latte?
YOU: That . . . is my favorite drink.
PWIL: Oh really?
YOU: Yes.
PWIL: Can I have one?
YOU: What?
PWIL: A grande latte.
YOU: Oh, right! *more laughter* Sure. SURE! Let me just. *random hitting of keys, accidentally charge $49.99* Oh, um . . . forget that! It's on me! What's your nam . . . oh, I know your name. I mean, I don't, like whisper it to myself at night before I go to sleep or anything!
PWIL: *just kind of looks at you*
YOU: *panic*
PWIL: *just kind of looks at you*
YOU: Any . . . pastry?
PWIL: I'm good.
YOU: YEAH you are!
PWIL: *just stares at you*
YOU: So . . .
PWIL: Can I have my coffee?
YOU: What?

So, not worry, Rubber Ducky! I have no doubt that the person in question was actually singing this to himself in his head:

[NEWSFLASH! The first WINNER of TODAY is Mrs.JasperHale08. Send an ADDRESS! Another book will be given away SHORTLY! But I think I will make it MORE CHALLENGING. Ideas?]

[SONG BREAK]

I think we need some more Madness, don't you? Here's another one of their MOST AWESOME SONGS. I dedicate it to YOU.

QUESTION #8

Laura asks: I am in a Creative Writing class full of people who are clearly better than me. It is embarrassing to read my stuff out loud. And too late to drop the class. Although the class is in many ways fun I leave it feeling like a untalented person. What should I do?

First of all, one of the things about loosey-goosey classes like creative writing is that you honestly CAN'T FAIL. Well, you can, but you kind of have to make an effort to do so. For example . . . setting fire to the building. That might do it. But even then, some teachers will be into that.

And this feeling of "everyone is better than me" is something a lot of people experience when it comes to their writing. It sometimes has nothing to do with reality, and everything to do with your own fear. NO, REALLY. I have heard amazing, famous writers cry out, "I suck. I can't write. I should just KILL MYSELF."

So don't give up on the class. Push through. If necessary, make the pushing through THE ENTIRE POINT!

[NEWSFLASH]

Okay, I REALLY HAVE TO PUT ON PANTS SOON. I know, I know. It goes against everything I stand for, but I am going out to one of those places where pants are required. Or skirts. I will probably wear a skirt. Or a TOGA.

Actually, if you are stalking me (and HELLO if you are! I hope you liked those things I left in the trash for you!) . . . I am going to this tonight. It's a benefit for 826NYC, which is an awesome writing program.

I think what I will DO is leave a SERIES OF CHALLENGES on this blog shortly. Then, when I return later tonight, I will look at the results and answer a few more questions.

Also, to those of you who wrote to say you will miss my daily posts . . . THANK YOU! And also, I am cooking up something NEW and potentially MORE STUPID.

QUESTION #9

JD asks: Maureen, what do you do to spice up a desperately boring blog?

Why not throw in a few threats? It worked for the Zodiac Killer. I mean, what was the Zodiac Killer if not just a really determined blogger in the days before blogging?** He also used KOOKY SYMBOLS, and then went out and killed lots of people . . .

*thinks this over*

OR.

Or, you could give stuff away! Like this!

All right . . . I have to go out for a few hours, but when I come back, I will conclude this post! I leave THREE CHALLENGES and chances for you to WIN!

1. Challenge one: Best question. Leave it in the comments. This is pretty much like normal, I know. But today is the last day of BEDA, and I MUST GIVE OUT SOME PRIZES to YOU!

2. SURPRISE ME. You have about six hours. I have many ways of being reached, and many little TENDRILS of myself to surprise. Do something on Twitter, or on this blog, or the Ning, or some other site. I don't want to give you any suggestions, because that would not SURPRISE me. But you have been CHALLENGED.

3. I will give an additional SPECIAL PRIZE to someone who has read Scarlett and leaves a review on the places I've linked to above. It will be a SPECIAL prize.

All right! See you around midnight OR SO! I am off to RAISE MONEY FOR WRITING PROGRAMS!

* I am assuming you mean flat-out negative remarks here. If someone I respect gives me comments I can use, then I'm very happy.
** I guess the answer is: He was a crazy, crazy, crazy serial killer.

ASK MJ: IDIOTS IN LOVE

2009-04-30T07:01:00.000+04:30

CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? This is the 29th day of BEDA. Twenty-nine days of straight blogging. There was a time that I thought this would kill me. And yet, here I am. I spoke at a library conference today, along with John Green and E. Lockhart, so I’m just getting this in under the wire, but I MADE IT!

Let’s get right to your questions.

NOLADawn says: my book (your ticket to TRAPEZE SCHOOL) arrived today!!! yippee!!!!

I have noticed that many of you have written in today to see that your BLOOD MONEY SCARLETTS (the ones you ordered to send me to the trapeze) have been arriving. I have exciting news! These first copies have something UNIQUE in them.

Digsbooks asks: You're going to put a $100 bill into each of them, aren't you?

It’s actually MORE VALUABLE than that.

There is an excerpt from Scarlett Fever in the back . . . except, IT’S WRONG. For some reason, the excerpt printed is kind of a random chunk of a MUCH EARLIER DRAFT, and it doesn’t appear in the book. (Not in that form, anyway.) It’s also kind of a bizarre selection—a snippet of conversation that really isn’t the kind of thing you excerpt. You get to see something I was working on, and changed. Something that was never for public consumption! This will be corrected in later printings, so the ones you buy now will have this error, and will be WORTH A LOT OF MONEY, like an Inverted Jenny!

Erin asks: my question refers to romeo and juliet: why were all people such BIG FAT IDIOTS back then?

This question suggests that fat idiocy is over. What’s Romeo and Juliet about, anyway? Romeo and Juliet, both teenagers, fall in love after meeting each other once and get really obsessed. They get SO obsessed that they have to marry each other AT ONCE. When their love is thwarted by outside forces, they end up putting their friends and families in danger because they are oblivious to everyone else’s problems. When threatened with separation, they become suicidal. I’ll give you a moment to think about that and see if it reminds you of anything.

By which I mean to say . . . it’s not really idiocy. It’s about obsessive first love.* Obsessive first love has always been with us and will always be with us. And obsessive first love . . . is often kind of . . . stupid? I have already flagged this as dating fail in a previous post. Romeo and Juliet are not a model you want to follow.

I know that some people really do fall in love with and stay with people they meet as teenagers. It DOES happen. But those successful couples generally weren’t threatening to do themselves in if the other person had to go away. And after the first rush faded, they put a lot of work into their relationship. But most people I know went through this rush of love several times and just learned to deal.

And you know that Romeo and Juliet’s friends thought they were being TOTALLY ANNOYING. This comes through in the play. Mercutio, in particular, is deeply annoyed by Romeo. And remember, Romeo met Juliet while he was obsessing over ANOTHER GIRL and Mercutio keeps trying to cheer him up and Romeo ignores him. (And he gets Mercutio killed in the bargain. Romeo’s a REALLY IRRITATING GUY to know.)

So basically, I’m saying that Romeo and Juliet—while idiots—are familiar idiots. And everyone is an idiot now and again. You get a big crush, you get stupid. If you haven’t gotten stupid yet, I am sure you know someone who has. Do you know that friend of yours who clings to their phone and checks for messages every fourteen seconds and can’t stop talking about their new significant other until you just want to beat them over the head and stuff them in the trunk of a car and drive them to the middle of nowhere just so they have no signal and just have to shut up for a second and get a grip? That’s Romeo and Juliet. It would be so much worse if they had phones and the internet. Except they probably wouldn’t have had to die, because they could have talked online and maybe made each other videos on Youtube. It would be a different play, I think. Possibly not as dramatic.

Look, just don’t kill yourself or get your friends killed. Is that SO MUCH TO ASK? And if you need help getting a grip, or if you need to help someone else get a grip, just come see me.

Cortney asks: I love the Big Book of Snakes. But what would you do if said guy pulled out his own Big Book of Snakes?

If this happens, you are MEANT TO BE TOGETHER.

luvs2dance asks: I like a guy, but he is a TOTAL player. He just makes me feel so good about myself, though. He tells me that he likes me, but then I just see him flirt with other girls. What should I do??!!

I am reminded of an old French saying: “A popsicle is delightful for one summer afternoon, but a wheel of cheese is forever (or at least for maybe 15 to 18 months, depending on the cheese).”

Now, the French don’t actually say that, but perhaps you see what I mean. Do you want a popsicle or a wheel of cheese? And if you go for the popsicle, will you be sorry when it’s gone? It really depends on what you want. If you REALLY like him, then I think you will only be hurt if you expect to become his one and only. And if someone hurts one of you, then I have to go and cut a b%^ch.

Of course, Abba have discussed this very issue. Listen to what they have to say:

Sebastian Goodnight said: Mo, On Dave "Dude, I cook n sh#!" Lieberman: Be assured. I will get you back. –Sebastian

Crap.

Erin asks: What do you do if the boy you like is a track and field god who is incessantly cool and you are not? And the other guy you like can't make up his mind? And the other guy is four inches shorter than you?

So there are THREE guys you like? I would put it to you that you should probably go with person number two, as you ALSO cannot make up your mind. This is not as sure a match as, say, someone who also has a Big Book of Snakes, but it is a kind of safe bet.

Actually, it’s not. I take it back. Every date you go on will be pure hell. “Where do you want to go?” “I don’t know. Where do you want to go?” “I don’t know. Where do you want to go?” “I don’t know . . .” UNTIL YOU DIE.

Guy #1 and Guy #3 both sound promising, but I’m going to say that you should go for Guy #3. Who cares how tall he is? Height is no measure of awesome. It’s only a measure of . . . well, height. Short guys are cool, and crazy, and they have a lot to prove. They can slip through smaller spaces than tall guys, they can hide in large boxes, and if they are REALLY short, they can even pop out of hats.** And that, my friend, is an excellent way to be.

You can be the Josephine to his Napoleon! The Katie to his Tom! The whoever Jon Stewart is married to to his Jon Stewart!

OKAY!

Tomorrow . . . is going to be HUGE. I’m going to be liveblogging pretty much all day, answering questions that come in in the comments. Let’s end BEDA right! See you TOMORROW!

* Well, it’s about many things, but certainly obsessive love is at the center of the story.
** Depending on the style of hat. Like, one of those Lincoln hats? A short guy can for sure pop out of one of those.

ASK MJ: THE BIG BOOK OF SNAKES

2009-04-29T00:51:00.000+04:30

Melissa asks: Maureen! What happens on Friday when Blog Every Day April is over???

This is an excellent question. While BEDA may be ending on Thursday, very little will really change. The Ning is permanent! The only thing that changes is that I, personally, won’t be blogging every single day. I need time to do other things, and I just need to spend a least a LITTLE time away from my computer. However! Blogging every day in April has been excellent conditioning for me. I’m blogging MUCH FASTER now. So I’ll still be posting quite a lot, I imagine a few times a week. I will still be answering questions and giving out stuff and helping you in ANY WAY I CAN.

People have also been asking if I’ll do this again. I think it’s likely. I also think I might try to work up a NEW project for this summer . . . something ELSE we can all do. I am always up to something. I have a few ideas.

More important, though, is what it means for you. If you’ve started blogging during this month, if you’ve made friends . . . keep that going. If you have a BEDA Buddy, continue on reading each other’s blogs! There’s no reason to stop AT ALL!

Also, I just want to point out that a few BEDA-ers have started the BEDA Awards on the Ning! Check it out!

And if you have any suggestions about what we should do for the last day of BEDA, let me know!

omgsquid asks: I'm wondering what size feet you have?

Women’s 8.5, American size. Also, my feet are flat. Totally and utterly flat.

SIXella asks: I have a question: What is your secret weapon to lure in the opposite sex?

I am a very traditional girl. I just use a gun.

Whyohyou says: I sat on my little sister's birthday cake and ruined my jeans.

Not a question. But I really need to know how this happened.

Raine asks: So. I have heard whispers you and John Green appeared on a Food Network show. It was Molto Mario, wasn't it? Will you please prehaps... share a video? Or at least confirm that it was Molto Mario? The public demands an answer.

It wasn’t John Green. It was ANOTHER friend of mine named John, but for the purposes of simplicity, we will call him Sebastian Goodnight. And it wasn’t Molto Mario—it was a show called Good Deal with Dave Lieberman. Someone who knew of my obsession with cooking shows asked me if I wanted to be in the audience for one. I said yes. I dragged Sebastian along under the promise that we would never be on camera and would just get to watch the show being taped and try the food. What ACTUALLY happened is that we were the ONLY people on the show, aside from Dave and Dave’s actual friend from Yale, and we were going to be “Dave’s other friends who are meeting him for a picnic.” The show featured just the four of us, and it was shot at a brewery, and they kept making us drink and sniff things and bit food over and over. It was all very surreal. Sebastian STILL wants to kill me for that, but I honestly didn’t know we were going to be FEATURED PLAYERS and have to pretend to know the guy.

hilly_wa asks: what do i do when a boy i dont like keeps hitting on me?

Well, Hilly-wa, first . . . be flattered. It is very nice when someone likes you. Some people have a hard time expressing this.

That being said, there sometimes comes a point when you have to let someone know that they really have to stop. There are a LOT of ways to do this. If you want to be friends with the person, then you really have to talk to them and be nice, but honest, so you can get on with your friendship.

If you don’t plan on being friends with the person, really, can I recommend the Big Book of Snakes approach? It takes a little bit of work, but once you’ve done it, it will come in handy again and again! And you can do this for less than $20. In fact, you might be able to make this with materials that are already around your own house! Here’s how it’s done.

1. Get a notebook or scrapbook of some kind. Any kind of blank book with do. Go with your instinct—fancy scrapbook, art pad, flowery, photo album, Jonas Brothers notebook, whatever feels right.

2. Make a cover for it that indicates that this is YOUR Big Book of Snakes. Again, be creative! Write it in colorful marker, stencil it in, use stamp art, cut letters out of newspapers in a ransom-note style. Make it your own.

3. Now comes the fun part! It is time to fill your big book of snakes! Find some old magazines, go to the library and make photocopies, print them out from the internet. Wherever you can find them. Get a bunch of them. They don’t even have to be real snakes. Ideally, you should have some cartoon snakes, or pictures of stuffed animal snakes. Here’s the critical step: you must include one or two pictures of things THAT ARE NOT SNAKES AT ALL. Pictures of sofas, fire hydrants, cement blocks, trees, cats, sweaters . . . these are all good.

4. Now it’s time to assemble your book! Make sure that the first several pictures are all the snake pictures and that the non-snake pictures come a few pages in. This will make for a wonderful surprise! And feel free to write in captions, preferably in spidery, tight handwriting that crowds the page. Here’s are just two sample captions to get you started:

I really like these snakes they live in the jungle, I wish I lived in the jungle, sometimes I dream about these snakes eating everyone I know lol! No not really but okay kind of. They are not poisonous but I wish they were. RWAR!

This is a south American python, native to Canada. It lives in fruit trees and eats seven times its weight every hour. Mostly it eats mice but sometimes it will eat other snakies like it. It likes crackers too. Yay! I like crackers.

You get the idea, I am sure.

Now that you’ve made your Big Book of Snakes, you are ready to go! When the person hits on you again, say, “I have something I really want to show you. I think you’ll like it. It’s kind of . . . I don’t know . . . personal. Kind of sentimental. I feel I can show it to you. I think you’d really get it. I think you’re just like me.”

They are likely to accept. Agree to meet them somewhere nice and public—coffee shop, mall, something like that. All you have left to do is bring along the Big Book of Snakes. Treat it with great reverence. Flip through it slowly. Make sure they see ALL of your snakes.

You should have no problem after that.

ASK MJ: HOW TO WRITE A FINAL PAPER

2009-04-28T01:38:00.001+04:30

Snowaeris asks: What do you suggest for those of us with very large final papers who are getting writer's block (and procrastinating by reading BEDA Blogs)?

There is an expression, “Hunger is the best sauce.” I have a corollary: “Deadlines are the greatest inspiration.”

No great paper was ever written on a timely schedule. Forget everything the dweebs in the writing center* tell you about outlines and drafts and revisions. Forget about collecting up notes on your computer or carefully organized file cards which you lovingly arrange over the course of several weeks until they achieve a pleasing formation which you then use as the blueprint of the architecture of your prose. It makes me laugh just to write that sentence!

Great final papers are born of adrenaline and stink of desperation. Great final papers are the things you create because you don’t have quite enough time to fake your own death. Let’s go through the typical timeline of a final paper and see how YOU can achieve greatness for yourself!

WEEK ONE: Syllabus is given out. You see that, among many other books, you will be reading I, Wombat and The Hamster’s Tale. Being a dutiful and dedicated student, you immediately go to the bookstore and purchase these books. Someone is going to EARN that café coolatta today!

You are serious about learning!

WEEK THREE: This is the week for reading I, Wombat and The Hamster’s Tale. Because it is still early in the semester and you are in a sporting mood, you read half of I, Wombat and all of The Hamster’s Tale. (Because it is shorter, but amazingly, you forget the ending of the book as soon as you are done . . . and the beginning . . . and a good chunk of the middle. But the important part is that you read it, right? You physically HAD IT IN YOUR HANDS and flipped through it page by page and THAT is what college is all about.)

WEEK FIVE: Final paper questions are assigned, with the idea that you now have many, many weeks to reread, research, and plan for writing. You choose this question, because of the good work you put in during week three: “Compare and contrast the themes of I, Wombat and The Hamster’s Tale. What conclusions to your draw from the differing approaches? (25 pages, 95% of your grade)”

WEEKS 6-11: It’s not 100% clear what exactly goes on in weeks six through eleven. Clearly, at some point you went to the library. You’ve been using a book called “I, Wombat: A Critical View”** as a coaster for about three weeks now. Aside from that, it’s all a haze of Youtube videos and attempts at making grilled cheese sandwiches on your overactive radiator.*** All you know is that time has passed and it’s perhaps time to think about that paper that is now due in two weeks.

It is unclear what has transpired.

WEEK 12: “I’m serious,” you say to everyone around you. “I’m getting ready to go in for the long haul. Once I get all the supplies I need, I’m going to lock myself in and I’m NOT COMING OUT until the paper is DONE! Except to go to class, of course!” You’re going to need a lot, though. Coffee, protein bars, paper, pens, ramen noodles, ginko tea, some of those vitamin waters made from the smartberry . . . Oh, yes. Yours is the room of a SERIOUS SCHOLAR!

WEEK 13

MONDAY, MORNING: You can barely move around in your room, you’re so well prepared. You have no money left to buy anything else. You’ve spent it all. But wisely. Wisely. You’re just going to class today, and coming right back and getting to work. Paper’s due on Friday. You can write it in five days. That’s four pages a day.

MONDAY, AFTERNOON: Oh no! HIJACKED! It WAS the first summer-like day of the year, so you really did have to go and get milkshakes and sit in the sun for a little while. That will only help you later. You could probably have skipped those two hours of Mario Kart, but whatever.

MONDAY, EVENING: Well, you have to EAT, too. Paper will be started right after dinner.

MONDAY, 9pm: All right. This is where it BEGINS! This is where the magic happens. You just need to grab your copy of I, Wombat and . . . Where is I, Wombat? Oh no. Moocher from building across campus BORROWED I, Wombat weeks ago. Moocher must be called. Moocher is not picking up. OFF TO LIBRARY.

MONDAY, 10pm: Library all out of copies of I, Wombat. Moocher must be tracked down on foot.

MONDAY, 11:30: Moocher has been spotted! Moocher is sitting on south lawn, blowing bubbles in the dark and playing tambourine. Moocher is not dedicated like you. Bit of a hippie. Doesn’t believe in personal property, that kind of thing.

MONDAY, 11:45: Moocher is happy to see you! Wants to blow bubbles, play tambourine with you. No time for that! You need book. Moocher is sorry. Is not sure where book is. Are you sure you won’t blow some bubbles?

TUESDAY, 1:00am: Okay, Moocher has minor point. Bubbles and tambourine combination surprisingly satisfying. But enough is enough. Maybe book can be found online.

TUESDAY, 3:30am: Book is not online.

TUESDAY, 9:30am: Why did you ever sign up for the 9:30am session of “Important Rocks of Ireland”? What were you thinking? Nevermind. Will have to find copy of I, Wombat after class.

TUESDAY, 11am: Fifteen dollars for a new copy of I, Wombat? The system is corrupt! Back to room to read until 1:30.

TUESDAY, 5pm: Okay, you didn’t read. You had lunch before your next class. Must eat. But you are definitely not going to the dining hall for dinner. You are staying in and reading.

TUESDAY, 7:30pm: It was a relatively quick trip to the dining hall, all things considered. Now reading . . .

TUESDAY, 10:30pm: What the hell IS this book?

TUESDAY, 11:30pm: Feverishly consider other paper options. No, you committed weeks ago. Had to turn in slip of paper saying what your topic was, get approval. Is it too late to change? Examine class documentation minutely.

WEDNESDAY, 2:30am: It is too late to change. Also, turns out roommate HAD copy of I, Wombat. Roommate very smug. Roommate is engineering major. Never has to write a paper. Only has to build functioning robotic arm instead. SLACKER.

WEDNESDAY, 9:00am: Why did you ever sign up for 9am session of “Modern Perspectives on Modernism”? What were you thinking? Trudge, trudge, trudge off to class.

WEDNESDAY, 11am: Trudge, trudge, trudge back to room. You didn’t have enough money for a large latte. Had to get a coffee refill in someone’s borrowed eco-mug. Hope they washed it.

WEDNESDAY: 1pm: The Hamster’s Tale also insane, just slightly less so than I, Wombat. Type two paragraphs of notes that sort of sound like something. Off to “Folktale, Myth, Legend, Parable, and Story: A Cultural Perspective.”

WEDNESDAY, 3pm: Stroke of luck! Friend works at coffee bar in basement of math building. Will hook you up with leftover coffee when they close at 5. Totally worth waiting around for. Will just read in meantime, right outside, in the sun.

WEDNESDAY, 5:30pm: Okay, what is it about reading in the sun that makes you get all sleepy and dazed? Well, that doesn’t matter now, as you are the proud owner of at least two quarts of high-quality, slightly used coffee. You even got about two dozen of those fancy flavored creamers! Now, you are going to ROCK.

WEDNESDAY, 9:30pm: Oh yeah. You’ve been typing for four hours straight now. Eleven pages! Oh yeah. Oh YEAH! Maybe you should read this? No, no. Not yet. Not while you are on a roll! Time for more slightly used coffee and fancy creamer!

THURSDAY, 5:30am: Eighteen pages!!!! Everything is shaking a little bit. Confusion. Darkness. Heartbeat somewhat irregular.

THURSDAY, 9:00am: Must re-read genius work of last night.

THURSDAY, 9:30am: What the @%#^?

What . . . what IS this stuff?

THURSDAY, 12:30pm: Have come to the terrifying conclusion that only perhaps three pages of last night’s frenzy are in any way usable. What happened HERE? LOCK DOOR. WRITE.

THURSDAY, 8:30pm: NO I DON’T WANT FOOD. FOOD MAKES YOU SLOW.

THURSDAY, 10pm: Nine pages. NINE PAGES?!?!?!?!

THURSDAY, 11pm: An entire HOUR wasted playing with font size, spacing, calculating the exact time the paper needs to be sent off, and reading all the fine print on the guide sheet. Back to it, NOW, NOW, NOW!!!

FRIDAY, midnight: The day of the paper has now arrived. You are halfway done. It is customary to spend at least a few minutes berating yourself on letting this happen. But this part is boring, in the same way that all graduation speeches are boring. Skip ahead to the frenzy.

4am: Uncontrollable twitching. 12 pages.

8am: Strange euphoria. 14 pages.

10:30am: Stalled at 16 pages. Bang head on desk a few times.

1:30 pm: Could it be that you’re . . . done? Well, it’s 19 and a half pages, and you sort of had to get a little crazy in that last paragraph to get it over the line, but . . . .

1:45pm: Spellcheck. Print. Stare at paper in amazement. Rub it on face.

2:05pm: Step outside into sunshine, with 55 minutes to walk paper over. Most beautiful day you have ever seen. Moocher is on front step with his bubbles. Wants you to blow some with him and do an improvised dance. Why not? Why not, INDEED?

2:35pm: People love your dancing.

3:01pm: No. No. No. No. No. No. No, you did not just blow the deadline by a minute because you were bubble dancing with the Moocher. THIS IS NOT HOW IT ENDS FOR YOU!

3:02-3:14pm: Running, running, running, running . . . knocking over slow people, crashing through tour groups, running . . .

3:15-3:25pm: After great begging, gnashing of teeth, falling on knees, actual tears, assistant accepts paper. As you leave, you hear him joke that your professor isn’t picking them up until 5 and the 3 o’clock thing was just something he did as a trick to try to get them in a little sooner so he could leave for the weekend. EVERYONE IS SO LAZY!!!!

I hope this helps.

And the winners of the autographed copies of Eternally Yours: The Unauthorized Biography of Robert Pattinson, Savior of Wayward Hamsters by my friend Isabelle Adams are:

From the Ning: Mary Hadac
From Blogger: bluebonnet21

Send in your addresses! More books will be given out later this week!

* I speak as a former dweeb of the writing center.
** This was someone else’s final paper. Final papers breed more final papers! It’s the cycle of life!
*** I wasted half a semester trying to do this. Don’t bother. No matter how crazy the heat may be in your building, you can’t make a good grilled cheese on it.

ASK MJ: THE WEEPING LOVE OF GERMANS

2009-04-27T07:05:00.000+04:30

CeCe asks: You are at a stop sign. Do you go right, or left?

I go STRAIGHT UP.

pugnacioun asks: MJ, I have two questions today: First, and shortest, how do you prefer people who follow your blog but do not personally know you address you? MJ, Maureen, Ms. Johnson, Queen of Sparkles? Second, and more verbose, there is a boy in my German class. I am quite enamored with him - however, I have no experience in the ways of love. I think there is potential here, but I have no idea how to tap into it. Can you help me?

1. I answer to anything. But I DO like the idea of having a title.

2. Of course I can help you. I have experience both in LOVE and in GERMAN CLASS. German, of course, is the language of love, and love born in a German class (or “jugendliche Liebe gebürtiger Germanclass”) is among the most precious forms.

I first learned this from many hundreds of hours of staring at my German textbooks, which were created by some complete maniacs in the 1970s and never updated, which largely featured depressive people weeping and playing guitars in their rooms, waiting by telephones in lederhosen for calls that never came, and going to discos where they would be forsaken (“verlassen”) by everyone they met.

This went against everything I understood about the Germans. Granted, I had learned everything I knew about the Germans from this video*:

Which doesn’t involve any weeping or being forsaken at all! Then I realized that this video was about Mozart, who was Austrian. The Austrians, from what I can tell, eat delicious pastries and write sonatas all day long. But they don’t teach Austrian class, now do they? No, we were stuck with Hans and Gisela, who just cried and strummed and wandered the streets in suicidal loops all day, occasionally stopping to buy some veal cutlets or play football. But they always did it totally alone (“ganz allein”).

Oh sure, every once in a while they would manage to ensnare someone equally miserable, and they would go out to the local café for a sausage (“Wurst”) and the soup of the day (“Tagessuppe”), but they would immediately start discussing the fact that there is no point to anything and drive each other to despair (“zur Verzweiflung treiben”). Which led directly back to more lederhosen-wearing, phone-call-waiting, guitar-playing, and weeping. “Was wird aus mir?” (“What will become of me?”) they would often cry. “Es ist immer so!” (“It’s always this way!”)

That being said, pugnacioun, I would Facebook friend him and take it from there!

Mush asks: My question is probably one you get all the time, but during your time playing Amy Gardner on West Wing, who was your favourite cast member? What? You're NOT Mary-Louise Parker? Well can she play you in the movie of your life maybe? I think she may be your long lost twin.

I used to get Selma Blair a lot. Now I’m getting Mary-Louise Parker. I always aspired to look like this, so I’m clearly way off base. Perhaps we can take a vote, just to get this issue settled once and for all. Mary-Louise Parker, Selma Blair, or [fill in other person here]?

JEM asks: are you ever planning on writing any sequels?

I already have. Scarlett Fever, the sequel to Suite Scarlett, is already done. And then, there will be a sequel to THAT, which I have JUST STARTED. As for my other books . . . *looks from side to side mysteriously* I cannot confirm or deny anything AT THIS TIME.

Karen asks: If you had to design the covers of your own books, what would they look like?

Like they had been created by focus groups of small children on painkillers. That’s if I made the cover at all. I have long been advocating covering my books in brown paper bag material with just the name of the book stamped on the front, and three crayons attached that you could use to draw your own and then eat when you were finished.

Gabby asks: Have you ever used your Poetic License to make up a word, besides beda?

Yes. I say “whycome” a lot. As in “Whycome have I no bananas?” My ultimate dream is to have my own point-counterpoint television show called “Whycome?/Whycome Not?”

Chris asks: Are you working on a new book? Please explain.

Yes, I am working on Scarlett 3 and one other book, but MOSTLY Scarlett 3. The reason for this is because Scarlett 3 comes after Scarlett 2, which is now complete.

Lindsay asks: MY question is, now that you're already trapezing, what (if anything) are you going to do for us if Scarlett becomes a bestseller?

I’ll take suggestions on this one, and if Scarlett DOES become a bestseller, then I will complete ONE of them.

Teyrn asks: Maureen, will you ever learn?!

It seems doubtful.

Joe Friedl asks: Maureen Johnson, how do I get Maureen Johnson to like me?

Just by BEING YOU. Also, buying my book, giving me shiny objects, and killing off all my other friends so I am left with you as the only option . . . all viable tactics.

Allison Taylor asks: Is Zac Effron still eating hamsters (about to go see 17 again)?

I’ve seen no evidence to the contrary. I think we’re going to have to assume that Zac is out there, stuffing as many hamsters into his mouth as possible. I think this is particularly true as he transitions into more mature roles and slips out of his High School Musical comfort zone. The pressure will probably drive him to dark places, places where hamsters get eaten in the dark of night, leaving empty wheels and unoccupied piles of shredded paper.

I’ll tell you who DOESN’T eat hamsters, though . . . Rob Pattinson. Not many people know this, but Rob dedicates much of his spare time to saving wayward hamsters and rehabilitating them in a clinic HE FUNDS WITH HIS OWN MONEY. He wasn’t even going to take the Twilight job because he thought it would take too much time away from his hamsters (which he refers to as his “brothers and sisters of the tiny wheel”). It took a lot of convincing to get him to do the movie, and even then, it was only so he could open up more homes for wayward hamsters. I’m not saying Zac is bad and Rob is good—I just want to talk about this, because it bothers me that not enough people know this is going on.

You’re wondering where I heard this. Well, I can tell you that I have befriended the awesome Isabelle Adams, author of Eternally Yours: The Unauthorized Biography of Robert Pattinson. I’m not saying she TOLD me this. Maybe it’s just something I inferred from our conversation. You get what I’m saying?

Because Isabelle and I are good friends, she’s offered a signed copy or two of her book to be given out on this blog. And I’m going to give one out today (again, both on Blogspot and on the Ning) to a random commenter who leaves a question. I have never given out someone else’s book on my blog before, so you know this is special. I can tell you it is one exciting read, and offers MANY PAGES of color pictures of Rob’s hair! Quick! Get your questions in NOW!!!! Get your Rob Pattison fans over here because this is a ONE TIME OFFER!

* I used to be able to this entire rap in German along with the song, but have lost the ability. It seems like something I should work on.

ASK MJ: THE SOUND OF SCARLETT

2009-04-26T04:23:00.000+04:30

Margaret asks: you said the other night that you would show us the Scarlett playlist. Can you please do that?

So I was on Twitter the other night, and I mentioned that I was listening to Grace Kelly by Mika, and that it was one of the big songs off my Suite Scarlett playlist. I wasn’t entirely sure if anyone CARED what I was listening to when I wrote the book, but the responses I got back indicated that people cared VERY MUCH. Which surprised me.

I’m actually pretty persnickety about my music-listening-while-writing habits. I put together playlists of songs, and I will only play those songs while I’m working. I pay a lot of attention to music when it’s playing. So I need to listen to something about 50 times in a row so that it’s just THERE. It just becomes the background.

And I don’t really know why I pick the songs I do. Only a few follow the themes of the book. They just ARE the right songs. It’s not that these are my favorite songs of all time—I like them. Some of them I love. They’re just the songs that were right. For me, anyway. I’m not suggesting you should listen to them or even pay the slightest bit of attention to this list. I answer only because I was asked.

There are actually three different Scarlett playlists alone—one for each major draft (probably about 60 songs in all). I’ve taken just a few of them, the ones I really remember and associate with writing the book.

Something 4 the Weekend by Super Furry Animals

This is the biggest and most important song, as far as Scarlett is concerned, though I have no idea WHY. I can only tell you that I was sitting at my desk on a cold winter’s morning, trying to figure out what I was going to write my next book about.

Anyway, this song came cycling through on my iTunes—and it just happened that at that moment, I thought of Suite Scarlett. Pretty much the whole thing. And for some reason, this song helped me think of it. I kept it on for hours and hours as I wrote the sketch of the story, and whenever I’m stuck and want to get back to the basics, I play it. It takes me right back to that initial moment. According to the play count, though, this is the #1 most played song on my computer.

Grace Kelly by Mika

I saw Mika on Late Night with Jules Holland, a few weeks or months before his album came out. He played this song, and I went insane for it and started pointing wildly at the television. I needed this song at once.

People I love or hate Mika, which is fair. I love him. And this song, for me, embodies the spirit of the book. If you hate Mika, IGNORE THIS.

I don’t understand this video, but I still want to BE IN IT.

April Fools by Rufus Wainwright

I worship at the altar of Rufus Wainwright, and this song is one of my favorites of his. This is the song I would play whenever I thought about how the Martins all got along (this one, and one called “Little Sister”). But this one was really the big one for me. I will never, ever get bored of the way Rufus and Martha (Rufus’s sister, also a musician) sing together on this song. It reminds me of Scarlett and Spencer.

This video is awesome. In case you don’t quite know what he’s talking about . . . Rufus is a big opera fan, and many of the leading ladies of opera meet terrible, terrible ends. This is Rufus spending a day with some of these characters and basically trying to keep them from biting it. (Martha is the one in the kimono.)

Nobody Cares by The 88

At some point while I was writing, I got a copy of Over and Over by The 88 and I remember playing it over and over for days on end while I was writing. It felt exactly right. The lyric is fairly relevant to Scarlett, I think. It’s basically about how no one actually cares what your problems are.

This video is okay. I think the lead singer should shave off his beard.

Only a Show and As Long As There is You and Me, by I Monster

These were very important songs, but I have little to say about them except that I like them a lot. iTunes has taken them off the U.S. store so booooo.

Pretty much the entire album of “Mobilize” by Grant Lee Philips

Okay, before you even say it . . . no. I didn’t know that Grant Lee Philips was “the troubadour” on the Gilmore Girls. I never watched the show. I was actually just a Grant Lee Philips fan. I was telling someone of my love for his album “Mobilize,” and she said, “Oh, the guy from the Gilmore Girls?” And I said, “No, the musician.” And she said, “Oh, the guy from the Gilmore Girls?” And I said, “No . . .”

And this went on for about six hours (five minutes) until we realized that this was ONE IN THE SAME PERSON. I felt mildly betrayed by this. I’m not 100% sure why. Maybe I just felt like a musician I love shouldn’t be SNEAKING AROUND the background of a television show, LURKING under streetlights, playing SMALL SNIPPETS of songs I adore. You have to admit that is a little coy and messed up.

Musicians should not be permitted to hide in plain sight in this fashion. This is not the witness protection program.* What’s next? Is David Bowie concealing himself on the set of Lost? Is Ben Folds cleverly camouflaging himself as a doorman on Gossip Girl?

Louis Quatorze by Bow Wow Wow

This song is hilariously filthy. It's about a 14 year old girl who is clearly "dating" a boy who is older. (How much older is unclear, but it seems like he is A LOT older, and he calls himself Louis Quatorze, which is also really weird and fabulous, because who sneaks around dating 14 year-olds while pretending to be a long dead French king? It is simply PERVERSE.) And believe it or not, between this and an exhibition of Velazquez paintings in London, I came up with the basics of Scarlett and Eric’s relationship.

Thanks to the movie Marie Antoinette, the awesomeness of Bow Wow Wow (and Annabella Lwin in particular) has been introduced to a new audience. The band was basically a big setup by Malcolm McLaren (who ran the Sex Pistols) to promote Vivienne Westwood’s fashions. Which is a weird way for a band to start, and by rights they shouldn’t be as good as they are, but Vivienne and Malcom had a way with these kinds of things.

And Velazquez? See, Velazquez was the painter of the Spanish court, and one of his jobs was to paint the princess Margaret Theresa, who was betrothed when she was very small to her uncle, Leopold I, the Holy Roman Emperor. He had to paint the princess every year or so to show her uncle/future husband how his wife was turning out.** The resulting series of paintings are remarkable both for their execution and their historical relevance. What’s truly amazing is that this incredibly creepy-sounding couple turned out to be very happy together—had a long and happy marriage.

So what do these two things have to do with the story? Well, I knew that Scarlett’s relationship with Eric was always going to be awkward, that people would have issues with it. And I wanted part of the difficultly to be related to an age difference, enough that Scarlett could always feel that Eric was able to do things that she couldn’t, that there was always a little tension because of it.

I didn’t want it to go from being awkward to being ILLEGAL, though, because that’s a different book. So when the book started, he was 20. Then I knocked him down to 19, then to 18. In the end, I figured that it was sort of enough that he was going off to acting school while Scarlett was still at home, still in high school. That is truly hard enough to deal with.

Nothing, Chorus Line, Original Broadway Cast Album

I reference A Chorus Line in the book. A Chorus Line is a musical written in 1975, though “written” in this case is a slightly loose term. The musical came out of a series of taped conversations with a group of dancers in 1974.*** Their stories were taken fairly directly and molded into the story, which revolves around an audition for a chorus line. So all the characters are based on real performers and the things they have gone through.

This song was always one of my favorites. Moralis tells the story of failing her acting class at the High School for Performing Arts (in the book, Spencer is a graduate of this school). She can’t embrace what she feels are “bullshit” exercises in which she has to feel like a table and an ice cream cone. The teacher allows her to be mocked and tells her that perhaps she isn’t fit to be an actress. I met only one or two teachers in theater school who were like this, but I remember that this song meant a lot to be during a particularly rough period.

Tiger and Dancing Queen by Abba

You knew Abba would be on there. You know you did.

And because I was also asked to publish them as an iMix, I will do so LATER THIS EVENING or EARLY TOMORROW. It will be LONGER than this list.

And, of course, I have two books to give out to RANDOM COMMENTERS! They are:

From Blogspot: Lindsay (aka Daisy Buzzblebee)
From the Ning: Kendyl

E-mail me your addresses and SIGNED COPIES are on their way!

I’ll be giving out some more copies LATER IN THE WEEK! See you tomorrow with MANY MORE ANSWERS TO THINGS!

* Or, if it is, then the witness protection is not very good.
** Things were complicated before the internet was around.
*** Mrs. Amberson claims to have been one of them, and that her contribution was cut out of the story in one of the last versions of the script.

LIFE AND DEATH ON TWITTER

2009-04-25T00:22:00.000+04:30

This is a two-part blog, with a PRIZE at the end!

THE LIFE

Today, friends, I want to pause and reflect on something. This is the 24th day of Blog Every Day in April—an event that kicked off when I causally mentioned on Twitter that I thought it might be good to blog every day in April. I was just sort of talking . . . and by the end of that day, not only was I committed to blogging every day in April, but a few hundred OTHER people were committed to blogging every day in April.

It simply sprouted—this whole community. And now, three weeks in, I have gotten to know several of you. (I may be following you and YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW IT!)
And hopefully, through BEDA buddies and other means, you have gotten to know each other.

Now, as we go into the LAST SEVEN DAYS of BEDA, I want to hit the reset button. You often have to do this in life—in projects long and short, and in relationships. You take a moment when you’re well into the madness to stop and say, “Let’s go back to the beginning and remember what this is all about.”

So during this last week . . . why not make renew your effort? I’m going to redouble my efforts to read as many blogs as I can. And if you have had trouble blogging every day for the month, why not blog every day for the last week? Why not read and comment on a few extra blogs? It’s only a week . . . and you never know what might come out of it. I didn’t know I would be making so many new friends, or that I would be taking a . . .

Well, let’s get to that, shall we?

THE DEATH

Maybe a week ago, I casually made the bet that if the Suite Scarlett paperback made the New York Times bestseller list, I would take a trapeze lesson at the New York Trapeze School. I said this TO ILLUSTRATE A POINT! That by building in a negative consequence to a positive thing, you feel great if it doesn’t happen! I was TRYING TO PERFORM A PUBLIC SERVICE.

Which was bad enough. And then I went to Las Vegas for the week to speak, and clearly the spirit of the place infected me. I don’t gamble on GAMES OF CHANCE, but I am never opposed to a SPORTING CHALLENGE. Which is why I put out my one day BONUS ROUND, in which I promised to go to trapeze school if you managed to get Scarlett into the top 1,000 on Amazon. Vegas makes you crazy. It makes you spontatnous. It makes you “use” “quotation” marks in “weird” ways.*

The concept of authors staring at the Amazon rank is one that has already been deftly examined by Scott Westerfeld in Extras.** I’ve even discussed it myself here and here.*** But again, I was under the sway of Vegas, the glittering lights and the shiny numbers and everything going BING BING BING all the time. I was also operating under the assumption that not many people knew the book had snuck out a week early, and that this was a fair and pretty safe thing to put out there.

“Oh, who will even notice!” I chuckled to myself. “The book is not supposed to be out until May 1st! It is a sporting lark!”

Honestly, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

Oh, sure, I was laughing when it was touching 1,400. “It will get close and back off,” I thought, as I rode home in the taxi from the airport. “Won’t that be funny!”

And then, it updated. And was #673. And then 500 something and 400 something and someone told me it was 300 something while I was sleeping. It hardly matters WHAT it got to, the point is it went under 1,000 which means I LOST.

I mean, certainly I won in the sense that many of you went out and bought Scarlett, and I do love her very much. But I lost in the sense that I CHALLENGED you and YOU WON and now I am going to have to go trapezeing, something I can honestly say was never in my Life Plan. I notice that one of the replies I got from my BEDA-friend Tobias was: “Now I understand why the Romans liked coliseums.” Yes, Tobias, CIRCUSES AND DEATH.

I know that the next big question is going to be: WHEN are you going to die/take this trapeze lesson? It’s important to schedule your own death correctly, so I’m looking over dates now. The most likely time at this second is late May . . . because my agent and several other people are coming to town and they all want to BE THERE to watch me DIE. Even my EDITOR wants to go. So I have to make sure I get the right moment so that everyone can watch the END OF ME.

I also know that people want to see proof. Naturally, this will be provided via video. Possibly several videos. And we’ll have plenty of time for me to build up and have a PROPER nervous breakdown, because it’s no good doing something like this without adequate time to think about your own stupidity, now IS THERE?

God only knows what I’ll do to myself next on Twitter.

But . . . let us go back to the LIFE point. We have a week left to blog every day. And I have just received the first box of Suite Scarlett paperbacks.**** So I am going to give one out to a RANDOM COMMENTER (one on blogger, and one on the Ning). Enter to win by leaving a comment, preferably with an ASK MJ question. Winners announced tomorrow!

* Like you are writing a query letter.

** Many things are examined in Extras, but Scott told me himself that one of the ideas he was riffing off of was a behavior he knew well—authors obsessively checking the Amazon rank. The point is, you should always listen when Scott Westerfeld is talking, because you just might learn something. He should have his own theme music. Like this, but with more hoverboards.

*** It must seem obnoxious to REFERENCE MYSELF. That’s not what I am attempting to do—it’s more that I am trying to avoid repeating myself. With all the blogging this month, I try to keep track of things I have already communicated to you. I want to make sure that I bring you only the FRESHEST information. Also, I am lazy, and linking to myself is easy.

**** At least, I think that’s what’s in the box. I haven’t opened it. Well, whatever it is, two people will win some of its contents.

THE TIGER DIARIES, THE FINAL CHAPTER

2009-04-24T08:19:00.000+04:30

Today, the final installment of the insane, unpublished, unrevised notes of grad school me working in Las Vegas. Tomorrow, I will be back answering YOUR QUESTIONS.

THE TIGER DIARIES, THE FINAL CHAPTER

This part of the story is really the most embarrassing, where I became someone I did not know. I don’t know what did it. The exhaustion. Low blood sugar. Just being around someone with his own television show . . .

I returned to my table. The pyrotechnics guy had tried to claim my seat in my absence, and to add insult to injury—he was eating a sandwich.

“Out,” I said, pointing at the chair and the little red light that I took my orders from. “I push button. I get pellet.”

“What?”

“MY CHAIR!”

He got up, and the aroma of sandwich lingered in his wake. Some crazy music was playing. I looked at the monitor and watched the dancers in the tubey things doing some kind of impossible snake dance. I put on my headset and listened to my boss deliver a steady string of explicatives as he tried to light it without having the slightest clue what they were doing or when it would end.

I was disgusted with myself, posing for that stupid picture. There was nothing THAT wrong with it, but just being around all those people who were selling these medications for so much money, congratulating themselves. And I was so ABOVE getting all crazy about [the famous comedian]. I resolved to be as aloof as possible when his keeper finally let him come backstage.

He did come, just a few minutes later. I could just make out his figure standing across the way, politely talking to some guy who probably worked for us now. A woman had joined us—a nasty, icy piece of work who managed the dancers. She’d been sniping at people since she arrived and lurked over our shoulders. I gave her a “bug off” look and she gave me a “I haven’t eaten a full meal in 15 years and I pull hair” look back.

“Maureen!”

I whacked the com button on my headset.

“Yeah?”

“Is [the famous comedian] back there?”

“Yeah, he’s there.”

“Go tell him he has five minutes.”

Oh GREAT. GREAT. Now I had to go talk to the man again. His keeper would try to shove me aside and he and I would have another awkward moment together.

Aloof, I told myself. Go tell the man five minutes.

So I went up to him, and his keeper tried to block me. I stepped around her and told him he had five minutes, and he very politely said thank you. He talked to me a little bit, even though I could see this annoyed his little minion. I liked that.

I went back to my seat to get my headset to listen for further instructions. Some nervous looking guy in a suit that I had just seen in the back room was floating around, wringing his hands nervously. Obviously, he had to make sure things Went Right, considering he’d just hired [the famous comedian]. I nodded, indicating that we were professionals and On Top Of It. He nodded back his thanks.

Finally, the dancers finished whatever it was they were doing and slithered offstage, one by one.

“Would you just go!” my boss was screaming, largely to himself. “GET OFF THE STAGE. Maureen! They left some kind of crap all over the stage! GET IT OFF!”

I took off the headset and went on to the stage, while my boss made some swirly transitional light effects and the idiot announcer with the book he didn’t write said some announcer things. The dancers had shed some little bits of tubing, and I gathered them up, along with the guy in the suit. (Who was probably a VP of sales or something.) He took his off, and I was just finishing up, when suit guy ran back to me with a pint of bottled water in each hand.

“These are warm!” he screeched, shoving them into my hands. I stood there for a moment, unable to respond.

“They’re warm!” he repeated. “WARM!”

Frenzy is a catchy thing. One moment, I was just a person who didn’t really like [the famous person] very much, standing backstage at a sales conference in Vegas. In the next, I was a person on a stage in front of hundreds of people, devastated by the thought that I was somehow party to the fact that [the famous person] was about to be given warm water. This fact tore this man and I to pieces. We obviously had to do something. I took the bottles from him and pushed my way through the glut of people waiting around the stairs to get on stage, including the dancers covered in the copper tubing and the president of the pharmaceutical company.

(“They’re warm,” I said to the latter, holding up the bottles. He nodded nervously, as if he knew that I had done the right thing by pushing him aside. We all seemed to understand the nature of this emergency at once.)

I dove for the vat of ice on the refreshment table and plucked out two cold waters and ran back up the stairs. As I tried to get on stage, however, the nasty dance lady grabbed me by the arm.

“Where do you think you are going with those?”

“Get your hand off of me,” I snapped.

“Those waters are for my dancers.”

“Your dancers are finished,” I said, “and that water is for all the speakers and performers. Now get your hand off of me.”

She didn’t, so I pulled my arm from her grasp. Another backstage staff member shoved her from behind. I gave him the thumbs-up and made for the stage.

“It’s okay, really,” [the famous person] was saying.

Obviously, the man had also run up to the PA and given her the same message of warning, for she too was running for the stage, having obtained two bottles of water from somewhere out in the dining area. Meanwhile, the man himself had gotten some water. Observers were treated to the sight of three of us all running from different corners, all carrying two small bottles of water, all heading towards one small, rounded stool sitting center stage. The PA got there first and left her two bottles. The man and I reached the stool at the same time and considered the situation quickly. There was almost no room left on the slopped, padded surface, but we had run like hell with our two bottles each and we were going to look pretty stupid if we didn’t do something with them. We looked at each other. We each left one bottle, which overcrowded the stool, causing the four bottles to slide. We ran before they all fell.

I was finished by this point. I could have sat back and watched the show. But I missed [the famous person’s] entire act because I was stalking the back halls looking for the dance lady. I had no plan. I just wanted to run into her and DO SOMETHING. The days of no sleep, the constantly jangled nerves, the fact that you could pick up the phone and get tigers, or explosives, or fog, or fifty cars . . . it had CHANGED me. Now I was the kind of person who stalked back hallways with a headset on, trying to start physical fights with circus folk . . .

The account trails off at this point. The only thing I really remember is that I went outside for the first time the whole week . . . walked out to the crazy, pumping strip in the middle of the desert . . . and it rained. It NEVER rains in Vegas. But it rained that night. The streets flooded and people ran for cover and lightening cracked. I finally had some food, but I was so hungry, I didn’t want it anymore.

My boss came and sat next to me, smoking nervously. I’d had little sleep. He’d had none.

“Hey,” he said, twitching like a bug, “you did okay. We have a gig in L.A. in a few weeks. Wanna come? It’ll be easy. Easy. I promise.”

I stared at him over my sandwich.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure. Why not? I’ll go . . .”

LAS VEGAS CHALLENGE

2009-04-24T00:53:00.000+04:30

This is not today's REAL BEDA post. This is a BONUS post.

I'm about to board a plane to leave Las Vegas, but before I leave the city of sin, I make a bet with YOU, dear readers.

A few days ago, I made a stupid pledge to go to the New York Trapeze School if the Suite Scarlett paperback made the New York Times Bestseller list.

Well! The book is now OUT. It arrived a few days early. And since I am in a SPORTING MOOD, I issue a challenge. (Borrowed from my friend Kaleb Nation.) If Suite Scarlett breaks the top 1000 on Amazon today, I accept the trapeze penalty.

This is a ONE DAY BONUS ROUND, purely in honor of the early release and my new VEGAS ways!

What makes it even MORE sporting is that I will be on an airplane for the rest of the day and WON'T KNOW what the outcome is until I land, but I am COUNTING ON YOU not to let me down. I am BANKING on the fact that I am not going to trapeze school.

So, please, whatever you do . . . buy something else. Surely you need another Paper Towns, or Kaleb's book, or Robin Wasserman's Skinned, or How to Be Bad, or How to Ditch Your Fairy, or one of Cassie Clare's books . . . or one of MANY OTHER FINE BOOKS.

Come on, people! SHOW ME YOUR SLACK! Don't spend any money!

It's a bet.

Ill be back later with the final chapter of THE TIGER DIARIES, and the OUTCOME of this challenge!

THE TIGER DIARIES, PART FOUR

2009-04-23T09:08:00.000+04:30

I’m still here in Vegas, watching pirate ships explode outside my window and looking at the red rocks in the distance. (Perhaps you’ve been following my reports on Twitter? What did I do before Twitter?)

Without further ado, part four of The Tiger Diaries—my never-before-seen report from a week I spent working in Las Vegas as a graduate student. (Heavily edited for clarity and brevity.) The final installment comes tomorrow, and after that, I have MANY OTHER THINGS to talk to you about. Let us waste NO MORE TIME.

THE TIGER DIARY, PART FOUR

When my alarm clock rang on the last morning, I actually woke up with a scream. Four thirty AM. Two hours sleep. Much to do. I had at least five presentations left to finish before manning the monitor at nine for the first presentations.

No one wanted to look at our slides. All the reps either had their noses in their Jaguar manuals, mentally combining exterior and interior colors, or they were so hung over that they slumped in their chairs and slept. Our announcer was bored that afternoon. He sat next to me for a while as I was working, asking me about myself. I told him that I was a grad student and that I was studying writing.

“I’m a writer too,” he nodded. “My book just came out.”

I congratulated him.

“I spend a lot of time working with children,” he said. “I work with children who can see auras. I wrote a book on their visions of God. Would you like to see it?”

He was already fishing it out of his bag. I don’t remember what it was called. Something like God Through the Eyes of a Child. It was a book of pictures that children had drawn. The children had written captions for the pictures. There was no other writing in the book.

“Good job,” I said. “Do you have any food?”

He didn’t.

Around three in the afternoon, I had a ten minute break. I ran to a small conference room that someone told me had been abadonded. There were sandwiches there, I heard. Just a few hours old, in excellent condition. I ran there as fast I as could. What I found instead were ten members of Cirque du Soliel assembling a harness and a set of green silk wings that spanned the width of the room.

I apologized. They nodded, not really caring that I had intruded. They were intent on the wings.

“Have you seen any sandwiches?” I asked. “I was told there were sandwiches in here.”

They shook their heads.

“Can I ask what you’re doing?” I said.

“I leeeeeeve to fly,” the man in the bird outfit said to me.

I shut the door and went across the hall to our main stage room, only to find that a wall of massive balloons—each about three feet high and wide—had been put up on our stage. The wall extended the full length of the stage and went all the way to the ceiling. A crew was examining it minutely. My boss was mutely watching this procedure.

“They’re wiring the balloons with explosives,” he said, before I could even ask anything.

“Explosives? What for?”

“I have no idea,” he said.

“I just saw them putting together a bird costume in the other room,” I said. “It must have had a wingspan of twenty-five feet.”

“Oh,” he nodded, looking up. “That must be what that’s for.”

There was a cable strung across the ceiling, which led right up to the balloon wall.

“Do you have any idea what they’re doing?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then how are you going to call the show? How are you going to call all of the light and sound cues?”

He shrugged.

I went on to the next room. It was filled with large, round dinner tables, draped in purple, blue, green, black, and gold. Each one had a unique, twisting, towering centerpiece made of fabric, wire, and flowers, maybe three or four feet high. Each place was set with multicolored checkered plates. In the back, someone was test-lighting a centerpiece. Flames shot up.

“What’s this?” I said to the people there.

“Dinner,” one of them replied.

“Do you have any food?”

“No.”

“I’m just to leave and pretend I never saw any of this.”

He nodded. I gave up and went back to my station. My break was over.

Around five, still hungry and so tired I was shaking, I pounded out the last presentations on a laptop and the crew made the last minute preparations for the evening. I pulled on my headphones and got ready for the start of the show. Crew filled the room now, and many of us had never met one another—we were all employed by different groups. There were probably fifteen of us, maybe more.

“All right,” my boss said. “Who are all of you? Everybody identify yourselves.”

Voices from every part of the room. People in headsets, somewhere out there.

“Teleprompter op.”

“Pyrotechnics.”

“Cameraman.”

“Stagehand.”

“PA.”

“Spotlight.”

“Presentation op,” I chimed in.

“All right,” my boss said slowly, “aside from the first fifteen minutes and the end of the show, I have no idea what’s supposed to be happening tonight. If any of you see anything that’s part of the show, let me know, and . . . %^@#%! Will someone move that @#$&#? The guy with the wine. He’s sitting on the spinning wheel. That’s pyrotechnics. That thing’s going to go off in a minute!”

I heard an affirmative sound and heard a muffled conversation as the aforementioned @#$&# was removed from the exploding wheel. A minute later the crackling sparks were heard coming from a spot just in front of the screens and gold and silver.

“Birdman is rising,” my boss yelled. “We have liftoff.”

We watched through the monitor as the 25 feet of silk wingspan slowly rose to the ceiling—slowly, slowly, so slowly, like a piano being hoisted up into a apartment building. He crept across the ceiling and flew into the wall of balloons.

“Balloons, go,” someone said over the headset.

All of the balloons exploded, basically in Birdman’s face. This didn’t seem to phase him. He drifted contentedly to the stage on his wire, took his bow, and left.

“Maureen!” my boss screamed. “You’re next! Someone . . . one of your people . . .”

I scrambled and outright guessed what I was supposed to put up the screen. While I did this, a lithe young man, naked except for a small pair of briefs, and painted head to toe in gold, came and stood behind me. He had a hula-hoop. I glanced at him nervously, but he did not speak. He was intent on the monitor that showed what was going on on stage. A random guy came and sat next to me and started noodling away on a computer. I decided it was best to assume he worked for us.

“Did you hear who we got for the main act tonight?” he asked.

“No,” I answered, looking over at the golden boy again. “Who?”

“[An extremely famous person]*,” he answered.

“[An extremely famous person]? How the hell did they do that?”

“They wired [a very large sum of money] into his bank account this afternoon.”

“Oh.” I said.

“We should tell your boss about . . .” He indicated the golden boy, who was now leaping in place to warm himself up.

“Right. We probably should.”

I switched on my headset and explained that someone had arrived backstage, probably to do something in the show.

“What’s he do?” my boss asked.

I looked over my shoulder and saw the golden naked boy leaping around for no apparent reason.

“I couldn’t tell you,” I answered honestly.

“How long is his act? Nevermind. Nevermind. When he walks on, I guess I’ll try to figure out what lights or audio he needs. Whatever. This is #$^&ing insane. Has anyone seen [the famous person]?”

Replies to the negative.

“All right,” my boss said, “tell whoever you’ve got back there to go.”

I told the golden boy that he was on, and he silently leapt up the stairs to the stage. My random friend and I watched him on the monitor as he began an astonishing series of balancing acts, all the while undulating and keeping the hula-hoop spinning. He jumped and dashed around the stage, completely absorbed in his act, not caring that the room had gone deadly quiet, or that he had just followed a sales manager’s speech.

“What the #$@ am I looking at?” my boss groaned after a moment or two of trying to suss out some impromptu lighting cues. “Oh my God. Has anyone seen [the famous person] yet?”

A chorus of no’s.

When I turned again, ten dancers, their bodies painted black and silver and wound all over with copper tubing were coming in through the kitchen entrance to stand behind us.

“Maureen!” my boss snapped. “What’s going on? What do you see?”

I looked at the dancers for a moment.

“Um . . .”

“Go find [the famous person]!” he said, probably deciding he didn’t want the answer to his last question. “Now!”

An order is an order. I pulled off my headset and went to look for [the famous person]. I checked around the corridors, looked into the kitchen, scanned the loading dock. Nothing. I started trying random doors. After looking into a few empty board rooms, I opened the door on a gathering of the company bigwigs. They looked startled for a moment, then one of them pulled me inside.

“Come on, Maureen,” he said. “Have your picture taken.”

I walked up to [the famous person]. He was [a description was here that would make the famous person very easy to identify, so I had to leave it out]. He held out his arm in a friendly fashion, although he never shifted his gaze from the carpet.

“Yeah—come here Maureen,” said [the famous person]. “Nice to meet you.”

It wasn’t nice to meet me; it was tedious, obviously. But it was all a part of the large sum that had rippled down the wire the day before and was now happily nesting in his bank account. I was embraced by an arm draped in a very expensive sleeve of a very expensive suit. There we were, with nothing in common except that we were both being paid by these people, and if they wanted to take our picture, then they could take it. When that was done, [the famous person] went back to talking, and his assistant—a supremely hassled-looking woman with a clipboard and a stack of paper—ejected me from the room.

“He’s supposed to be on in a minute or so,” I told her.

“I’ll tell him,” she said, making it clear to me that she was the only one here who was to speak to [the famous person].

I returned to my seat to find that people were screaming my name frantically over the headset. In the three minutes that I was away, three minutes out of twenty hours in that chair, something had finally gone radically wrong and I was needed. My new friend was on his belly, crawling along the back of the stage, trying to repair one of the projector cables.

“We’ve got nothing! Give us a graphic! Something!”

I clicked on a likely-looking file and threw a pretty picture up on the screen.

“Never leave your post,” my boss shouted. “Never!”

“But you said . . .”

“Forget what I said! Is [the famous person] back there?”

“He’s in the hall.”

“He’d better get his ass on stage! Go get him!”

“But you just said . . .”

“Do it!”

*********

Tune in tomorrow for THE CONCLUSION! And SOME OTHER STUFF!

* It’s fair to call him a major celebrity and television personality. I saw a massive billboard for him just today, here, on the Vegas strip.

THE TIGER DIARIES, PART THREE

2009-04-22T08:33:00.001+04:30

Today’s blog comes to you FROM VEGAS, as promised. I Twittered this picture on my arrival, but Twitter ATE IT. So I want to put it here so you can see just how awesome it is:

Aw HELL yeah!

From my window, I can see a fake Manhattan skyline, real desert mountains, the Eiffel Tower, and a pirate ship that periodically explodes. I think I’ve misjudged Vegas . . . this is MY KIND OF A PLACE.

And now, part three of the hastily written TIGER DIARIES . . .

DAY THREE

The morning of day three began with the Secret Service locking us in rooms and generally hassling us left and right while we tried to work. [The former President] was speaking to a group of the executives and signing autographs and rubbing their shiny bald heads or something. This is when I heard the exchange about the tigers over my walkie talkie.

I was tired and hungry. I’d just had the cold coffee with the curdled milk. I was working on three hours of sleep. I noticed that my personality had deteriorated sharply.

The conference itself was starting that day, which meant that long with my hours of prepping the presentations, I had backstage work to do, starting at 10 AM. Which is why I needed to DUDES with the GUNS to let me out of the CLOSET.

The biggest conference room had been transformed overnight. An eight-hundred square foot stage had been assembled there, with an twenty-foot proscenium, three rear-projection screens . . . Once the tech platform with its tables of light and sound control panels and its monitors is up . . . once the room is rigged floor to ceiling with cable, the microphones and amplifiers are in, the lights are hung, the spotlight has been wheeled in . . . once two banquet tables filled with computer equipment are set up behind the stage, and the screens are flashing with test patterns and music is pumping to test the speakers . . . then, it’s not just a conference room. It’s a theater.

Behind the screen, in a pitch-black tangle of wires, platforms, and computer equiptment, there was a table. MY table. On the table was a small red light. I soon got to know the red light intimately, as from that afternoon onward I spent most of my time looking at it. Whenever there was a presentation going on (which was about ten hours each day), I was there. When they needed to change a slide, they were to click their clicker. The clicker was connected to the small box that sat in front of me. When they clicked, a little light on my box turned red. When the light turned red, I clicked the mouse and the slide advanced.

Red light. Push button.
Red light. Push button.
Red light. Push button.

That was my job.

My table looked very fancy. It was heaped with computer equipment, most of which I neither touched nor knew what it was. I worked on two laptops simultaneously, running the presentation on one, and looking at it in outline form on another. On one, I managed the feed to the screen with the red light/push button method. Should that computer have gone down, I was to ask for a screen freeze, which would hold the last image. Then we would disconnect my computer from the feed line, reconnect my second computer to the live line, switch it to presentation mode, and resume the show with no one in the audience any the wiser. (This is pretty much the same technique used in suspense movies, when a photo is taped to the videocamera, or some videotaped footage of the vault is fed in, and the person watching the monitor has no idea the robbery is actually going on.)

So, on day three, I did that for about eight hours, on top of the five I’d put in that morning. The open secret of the evening’s proceedings was that the sales awards would be reveled. Not the recipients—that was coming the next night. Just the awards would be seen. The reps were buzzing with anticipation over this. Every salesperson in the winning region, along with top salespeople from every region would get one of these mysterious prizes. Attendance was going to be good at this evening’s presentation.

I knew what the awards were because I’d seen them coming in through the loading dock. They were arranged neatly in the room next to ours, which had been rented just for this purpose. The party planner, [name redacted], was responsible for arranging the presentation—my boss had only to give the cue to pull back the accordion divider that separated the two rooms, and all would be revealed. We’d heard that the party planner wanted to add to the mystery of the presentation by veiling the prize room with smoke. This meant that the smoke machine had to pump for an hour or more before the reveal. We were getting strong wafts of it backstage, and we were starting to sneeze and cough.

After making the reps sit through the boring technical presentations, the signal was given to reveal the surprise. The wall was opened. Set free, the pent-up smoke overtook the room. If you could see through it, you would have noticed the entire room of new Jaguars. Not live Jaguars, like the live tigers, but cars. About fifty of them.

The smoke kept coming in heavy waves. It filled the room, so the crew opened the doors. Then it snaked along the halls, and began to creep upstairs to the casino. It entered the room where the tigers were still resting and caused a panic. It set off the smoke detectors.

Over the headset I heard my boss say to the party planner, “You told the fire department about this, right? You know you have to clear smoke machines with the fire department, right? So that they know the building’s not on fire, right?”

The answer to all of those questions was no.

So we sat and watched the firemen come and everyone being evacuated. We stayed behind, hidden in the smoke and the wires. We heard the coughing and the mayhem and people yelling things about tigers. Then we watched the party planner get fired. And then we saw ourselves being hired to take over all the entertainment . . .

. . . which may not SOUND like a big deal, but realize that something like a million bucks had been budgeted, and everything was already booked, and we had no real idea WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN at the big show on the next night because the party planner stormed out of the building and refused to tell anyone what he had set up. We only knew we were running it, whatever it was.

Two other facts were soon brought to our attention.

Originally, [a famous comedian] had been hired to perform at the close of the conference the next night. But when [the famous comedian] sat down with the president of the pharmaceutical company that afternoon, his material had been found objectionable. He refused to change a word. By the terms of his contract, he was to be paid no matter what. So his services was deemed unnecessary, and he received his [extremely large sum of money, in the six digits]. This left a huge hole in the schedule. The final act was missing. We had to find a new famous person, probably someone in Los Angeles, to come to Las Vegas THE NEXT NIGHT. This on top of everything else we had to do.

We also learned that the theme of the closing night was circus. A team of chefs and designers were had long been at work. Cirque du Soliel had already been booked, and they would be performing throughout the evening. We had absolutely no idea when they were coming, what acts they were doing, how long they were staying, or what we needed to secure. We got a hint of something about “many explosions,” and then we were left to figure it all out.

Around one in the morning, as I sat working in the now-empty room, I watched a team of handlers pushing the tigers back down the halls. They were followed by another team driving a steady stream of Jaguars down the hallway, out through the service doors, taking the last of the smoke with them. My boss was on the phone to someone in LA and was more or less have a nervous collapse in front of me. I was already feeling the effects of no sleep, but I knew that tonight, there would be none at all. I would be doing the 48 hours straight, and they were probably going to be the most unlikely of my life.

I began to feel extremely underpaid.

THE TIGER DIARIES, PART TWO

2009-04-21T06:50:00.000+04:30

Yesterday, I presented part one of an account I wrote of my week working in Vegas. This happened several years ago, when I was a graduate student and would do absolutely anything for money.
The story began with a little glimpse of the chaos that began on day three. (And truthfully, day three is where it gets exciting.) But let us return to the start and find out how YOUR NARRATOR got to Vegas in the first place . . .* ** ***

DAY ONE AND TWO

The hotel was a tall, golden tower surrounded by pools and gardens. Everywhere there was the smell of fresh flowers, even in the casino, where the smoke was heavy. There were parrots in the lobby. When I bought my Altoids in the gift shop, they removed the plastic wrap for me with a razor, then opened the box and folded back the paper to present the mints to me for inspection and consumption. “Are these to your liking?” they seemed to be asking (the staff, not the mints), and my expression replied, “They are mints, weirdo.”

I don’t know exactly what I was expecting from my room. Not much, I guess. The reality of my Vegas hotel room was a shock. It was larger than my entire apartment back in New York. It had a king-sized bed that barely made a dent in the available space. It had an entire wall of tinted glass that looked down on the (obviously) man made eleven acre beach, the lazy river ride and the wave pool, some thirty stories below. There was a stand-alone shower that could be set to an exact temperature and had a phone inside. There was a separate marble whirlpool tub with ANOTHER phone, so you could presumably call from the shower and talk to someone in the tub, if you really didn’t feel like opening the door and projecting across the five-foot gap.

When I first saw all of this, I completely forgot I was there as the hired help. What I didn’t know is that I would never really see this room again. I would never be in that tub. I would never make phone calls from the shower. I would never find out what all those remote controls did. Because soon after I arrived, I got the call to Come Downstairs—and that was that. The die was cast.

Our convention took up a large chunk of rooms on the ground floor of the hotel—big conference rooms that could be expanded or cut off as you needed. We set up our office in a tight, windowless room—actually a storage area for conference supplies.
This was not a conference designed to sell the product. This was a party the sales division was throwing for itself to promote two drugs and to give out awards. My company was one of four that had been hired to put this whole thing together. A conference planner handled all of the transportation and accommodations. A staging company set up two massive rooms of stages and screens. We handled the presentations, the speakers, and the short films. A party planner handled entertainment and dining. So there were dozens of people running this event. The five hundred or so attendees would be flown in, housed, entertained and fed for four days. The guy running all the entertainment, I was told, was a famous incompetent. That fact would become very relevant later. It would rule my life.

But the two first days went more or less according to plan . . . they were just a little bit longer and more intense than I’d been told when I took the job. I would usually arrive in the war room around 5:45 in the morning, crossing through the casino as thousands of Japanese tourists who were wide awake, still on Tokyo time, filled the Kung Pao poker tables. Usually, I walked past several people who were Still Awake and Still Drunk—girls in leather dresses who kept trying to find the ladies’ room, attempting to walk a steady, straight stride on little tiny heels. There were elderly women who rose frighteningly early to play on slot machines.

The early mornings were best, as they tended to be quiet. But by nine or ten, the place would be jammed. A steady stream of doctors and presenters and assistants were beginning to fly in from around the country and around the world. Some had sent their slides in advance so that we could begin cleaning them up for the show, but many had not. It didn’t matter. Even those who had usually arrived with whole new sets to render obsolete the slides we’d been working on for hours. They added graphics which crashed the computers, or changed data, or decided they didn’t like the color.

Many of the doctors that were presenting had groupies—young, beautiful suits who trailed behind them. I saw doctors parading along with up to twelve of these people in tow. The suits laughed at their jokes, sympathized with their delayed flights, screaming with indignation for them when the computer mouse wasn’t to their liking. They would crowd our tiny war room, making it difficult to move or hear do get anything done. I hated them first individually, and then as a group.
We’d work right through lunch and dinner. If we finished work at midnight or one, and we were planning on reopening the war room at five-thirty. That meant—at best—four hours of sleep for me.

More pressing was the food situation.

We were supposed to have catering brought in, but they always forgot our room. We only had coffee and (if we were very lucky) protein bars. However, the caterers were fantastically good at feeding empty rooms. All of those little conference rooms had been booked in case the famous doctors or the people who ran the company wanted to use them, which they pretty much never did. So in the morning, the empty rooms would be fed large breakfasts of danishes and fruit and tarts and cereal, coffee, fresh juices, muffins . . . These would sit until lunch, when they would be removed in favor of trays of sandwiches, chips, and salads. When these went soggy after a few hours, new ones would come.

We were never allowed to touch it. It wasn’t there for us. It was there for He or She Who Had Yet to Come. It was unthinkable that any of the suits ever walk into a room and not have a full selection of untouched platters to choose from.
I accept this for day one and two, and frankly, I was too busy to eat anyway. I sometimes got fifteen minutes to a half an hour as a break, which wasn’t enough time to get back to my room. The walk to the elevators alone took ten minutes. Instead, I would walk along the nearby outdoor path, just outside of the war room, where music dribbled out of fake rocks.

This was Vegas living, I figured. A little short on sleep. A little short on food. Rubber rocks that played U2 and Elvis. The conference was scheduled to start the next morning, and I figured things might loosen up a little then.

I figured very, very wrong.

* The essay was ridiculously long, so I have chopped it into smaller, more digestible pieces. Should you ever want to hear the entire thing, just come over to my house with some cake and I will read it to you.

** Also, I will fully admit that I am doing this kind of QUICKLY today, since it is 10:15 pm and I am not in ANY WAY packed or prepared for the plane I have to catch at the crack of dawn tomorrow. So please BE KIND to this blog. Also, part three gets better.

*** OH MY GOD I AM SO NOT PACKED. WHY AM I GOING BACK TO VEGAS????? *fear*