THE STARLIGHT BARKING

Oh, friends. How I miss you. As far as I know, by the time you read this, I may be dead. If you want to see what it’s like, witness this disturbing photo collage Justine Larbalestier made of me last Thursday. (Someone got an iPhone. Turns out, it has a good camera, along with an MP3 player, a GPS system, a life raft, and a full-sized kitchen, or whatever else it has.)

Though I am here, I am far—far into the land of Scarlett. It’s amazing the kinds of things that you have to push aside as being “too time consuming” in the final week, like doing the laundry, buying more cereal, and getting out of the chair.

John Green and I keep IM windows open and occasionally say things like:

I am really sick of my chair. What about you?

OR

You know what’s fun? Sitting in a chair, for like, nineteen hours.

Sitting plays a bigger role in writing than you would think. I mean, a lot of people say, “Oh yeah, I want to write a book one day.” And I smile and nod. Some of them will—but a lot of them can’t sit still for more than fifteen minutes if the TV isn’t on.

You have to sit like a champion when you write. Oh, you’re laughing. You think you can sit like a pro. But when it starts to all go rocky, when your characters don’t behave, when the wolf is at the door and the plot is starting to quake like a jello mold on a trampoline . . . . I defy you to keep sitting.

Of course, the other day I was complaining about my chair, only to discover that the problem was that I’d been sitting on my phone charger. For seven hours.

In any case! There are many exciting things to say about Scarlett, aside from the fact that she is almost done! But I can’t say anything YET. I have SO much to tell you, but time constraints today limit me to telling you little snippets of the week. Rest assured, many long entries are coming your way next week, like a swarm of locusts.

- On Friday, a man stood on the sidewalk outside of my apartment and played scales on the harmonica for an hour. Maybe that doesn’t sound bad to you . . . but really think about that. Think about a time you’ve been under the gun and your brain was on fire, and then some MANIAC decides that not only is he going to perfect his basic music skills, but he going to do so on the street, and the chosen instrument is a HARMONICA—something you can make with a tissue and a comb if you really have to.

I have long claimed that the most jarring musical experience in New York was the guy who plays Glenn Miller’s “Take the A Train” on the steel drums during rush hour in Times Square, but that guy has been blown right out of the water. Yes, playing scales on the harmonica in front of my building while I’m trying to finish a book . . . sir, you are the new winner.

Of course, that man is dead now. So let’s all take a moment to remember him.

[Side note: it turns out that some harmonicas are professional quality and they are hard to play. Or so I was told by someone I know who had three “professional harmonicas” in a drawer. Why did he have three “professional harmonicas” in a drawer? That, I cannot answer. I can tell you that I annoyed him immensely by picking one up and IMMEDIATELY playing “Happy Days Are Here Again” on it. I have no idea why this was the song that came out, or why I couldn’t play any others, or why I could play AT ALL. But it turns out that is one of my four or five totally useless superpowers. We all have some.]

- On Friday night, I changed location and worked at Libba Bray’s house, because Libba Bray is a saint. I was there for a group viewing of “High School Musical,” including Libba, her husband Barry, Scott Westerfeld, Justine, and Cassie Clare. I heard them screaming with delight from the living room and cheering “GO WILDCATS.” I was in the kitchen, with the guacamole, hummus, pizza, cakes, and other “snacks” that Libba had put out. TIP: don’t even LOOK at High School Musical for a SECOND while you are writing, not even when you just walk through the other room to get your power cord from your bag. It has MAGICAL POWERS and can sink into your brain even if you watch it for ten seconds!

It’s funny, because you wouldn’t think lyrics like this would stick in your head:

Just keep you head in the game
You gotta get your head in the game
We gotta get our, get our, get our get our head in the game
You gotta get your, get your head in the game
We gotta get our, get our, get our, get our head in the game
You gotta get your, get your head in the game
We gotta get our, get our, get our, get our head in the game

It’s like Cole Porter has been reborn!

And Zac Efron can steal your soul if you look into his eyes for too long.



IM IN UR HED, STEALIN UR SOULZ

- On Saturday, I took the book with me to Daphne Unfeasible’s engagement party. When your agent is your friend and you are in her wedding—not even a deadline can keep you in. But she arranged it so I didn’t even have to do any thinking about how to get there, or even stop working until we arrived. I will be giving a speech at Daphne’s wedding—something I am very, very excited about—but it turns out Daphne’s mom is concerned. She pulled me aside and said, “It’s not going to be silly, is it?”

I assured her that I had no idea what she could possibly mean.

- Don’t think I didn’t savor every second of those “Kerry Stunned by Student Tasering” stories. I know when the gods are speaking to me.

But the real reason I slunk out today to post is this . . .

THE STARLIGHT BARKING

There are some lost dogs out there. Last night, the fence blew down at the home of my friend Rexroth Implausible (the future Mr. Unfeasible). His two dogs, Jake and Dizzy, got out. They had just been bathed, so weren’t wearing their collars. They have not been seen since.

If you live in the area of Highlands Ranch, Colorado, and if you see two dogs like this, can you contact me at once? I will immediately tell Rexroth. And if you know anyone in that area, can you forward this post on?



Jake: Black Lab/Dane mix, about six years old.
Dizzy: German Shepherd mix, about five years old.

If any of you help find Jake and Dizzy, I will thank you in the acknowledgements page of Suite Scarlett and send you more books than you could possibly eat in one sitting.

UPDATE:

EXCELLENT NEWS!

Jake and Dizzy were found--together--by some excellent people at the Dreampower Pet Rescue Ranch, 35 miles away from their home. (There is a suspicion that they may have stolen a car and driven around. These are clever dogs.)

HOORAY FOR THE DREAMPOWER PET RESCUE RANCH! You are my new heroes!

They will be mentioned in the back of Suite Scarlett.

LIES MY PARENTS TOLD ME

The first draft of my new book is due on Friday, which also happens to be my birthday. Just so you know, I am taking stun gun off the list of things I want. This is because I had to reach behind my tv the other day to unplug something, and I got a huge shock from the power strip. It zapped my whole arm. So for now, I do not want a stun gun.

But to all of you out there with spare Vespas and miniature ponies . . . they are still very much on the list.

The new book is going very well—at least in the sense that the first draft is going very well. There is much left to be done and it will be written several more times before it is done. I will tell you this much about the story . . . it takes place in New York, and it’s about a family that lives in a hotel. In making this hotel, I had to think about the rules that might govern life there, the things you might take for granted.

It made me think of the rules, and the lies, my parents imposed on me when I was just a tiny mj.

When I was growing up, if my parents suspected me of telling a lie, they would say to me, “Maureen, stick out your tongue.” I would do it. My mom or dad, whoever was doing the questioning, would lean down and examine it. If they doubted me, they’d say, “I see a black spot!” I would run to the mirror and look for the black spots. Sometimes I even thought I saw them.

I was a pretty truthful child, so if I thought I saw one of these spots on my tongue, I would sit and really question what I had said. Was I really telling the truth? Had I done something I was unaware of? This would send me into metaphysical spins for whole minutes at a time.

Eventually, I figured out that this was a trick. It took a while, but I got there.

What I didn’t figure out for a long time was that this is not a universal trick. I sort of assumed that everyone’s parents did this—that it was some kind of wacky old tradition that they’d picked up on.

Recently, someone told me something that sounded like a lie, and I said, “Liar. Stick out your tongue!” It was a bit of a throwback, I realized, like making reference to a really old commercial by accident. It just came out.

The person who I said this to just stared at me. I explained . . . lies, black spots, tongue. I did not see the shock of recognition. There was no, “Oh my God! Your parents did that too?”

I’m no dope, readers. I can put two and two together, and with a little effort, come up with a four—or a really low five. I called my dad and confronted him directly.

“The black spots,” I said. “On the tongue. Where did that come from?”

My dad laughed jovially.

“Oh that,” he said. “I have no idea. I just said it one day, and your mom heard it. She started laughing so hard that she had to leave the room. After that, we did it all the time. She did it more than me.”

I was not overly amused.

“Listen,” I said. “Do you realize that when you did that, I used to go and LOOK for the spots? Do you realize that sometimes I thought I SAW them, and then I would question my own grasp of truthfulness? Because of your little joke, your four year old daughter spent a lot of time wrestling with the full meaning of honesty and the state of her soul?”

My dad started laughing so hard that he had to set the phone down for a minute.



I chose to confront them, but they did not care.

I started thinking back a little more about things that were just considered “givens” in my house. Here was another one: I wasn’t allowed to say that I hated anyone. There was no human being, I was told, who deserved to be hated.

On the surface, this is a very good rule, and one I applaud. But, it had a weird rider, like one of those laws they try to get through Congress with a strange little sentence attached. I wasn’t allowed to say I hated anyone . . . except Hitler. It was perfectly acceptable to hate Hitler. So, if I was angry, I would often shout, “I HATE HITLER!”

Now, maybe this is something that would have been normal in, say, London, during 1941, at the height of the Blitz. And hating Hitler really is the little black dress of hatreds—you can’t go wrong taking a swing at him. Coming out of a small child in Philadelphia in the late 70s, though, it was a bit odd. I hated Hitler when my toys broke. I hated Hitler when I had to go to bed early. I was doing an awful lot of Hitler-hating.

Here’s another one: we couldn’t sing at the table. No explanation was ever given on this one. It was just a very big deal. If you even started to sing, which I sometimes did, it was stopped, immediately.

I don’t for a second think I am alone. I am certain your parents made up some rule or fake tradition just to mess with your head too. That is what parents are for. I invite you to share them.

In the meantime, I am getting back to work. My editor, Emma Lollipop, reads this blog. She will know I have been taking time off from the book . . . and obviously the black spot thing has ruined me in terms of lying to her about it.

Just two things before I go.

1. The book is also about a show, in particular, a very carnival-like production of Hamlet—so I want to pimp some of my friends who are currently doing great theater work.

If you have ever wondered how musicals are made, you should read this blog. My friend Andrew is an amazing composer who has written a first-class musical called Meet John Doe, which is being put on at the Ford Theater in Washington D.C. (Yes, the theater where President Lincoln was shot.) His blog will show you what it’s like to take a musical from casting to set design to rewriting to performance. Also, he includes many hot photos of model stages and hats.

Also, my friend “Broadway” Joey (my baseball coach for The Key to the Golden Firebird) is in the hit show The Drowsy Chaperone. If you are planning on coming up to get some Broadway action, this is the show for you.

2. I do not normally show pictures of underwear on this blog, but I have to make a special exception for these . . . which are also very much on my birthday wish list. Come on. How great are these?



Better than a stun gun? Just maybe.