Go to bed (in a whisper)

Two days ago my daughter took a rather hard lined (and hilarious) approach to the animals in her book while putting them to bed.

Just one day later, her position had eased considerably.

Go to bed!

Our new favorite video.

It involves Clara and a book, of course.

Ranking Stephen King’s 62 books: Some minor quibbling on my part

Vulture recently ranked Stephen King’s 62 books. Not an easy task, and overall, I think they did a surprisingly good job. I have read all but one of King’s books (see below), and despite the excellence of Vulture’s rankings, I would like to quibble a bit about a few of their decisions. First and foremost, I would have lumped all seven (and now eight) of King’s Dark Tower Series together or (preferably) excluded them from the rankings entirely. Though I admire the attempt to rank each book individually, these novels are inseparable in my mind. Had I been forced to include them on the list, I would have lumped them into one entry and placed them in the first position.

Ideally, however, I would have left the Dark Tower books off the list completely, explaining that they are quite separate from his stand-alone books. Placing them on the list is akin to comparing apples to oranges.

Other, more minor quibbles:

• I would rate Insomnia and Black Housemuch higher on the list, but this is admittedly because their connections to The Dark Tower series were readily apparent and much appreciated by me.
• I would rate Duma Key and Christine much lower. Duma Key is the only Stephen King book that failed to hold my interest, and the premise for Christine was just too silly for me to accept (but the movie might have also ruined this book for me).
• I did not love Rose Madder, but I do not think it is King’s worst novel. I would reserve that position for Cell (you can’t simply turn your derision for cell phones into a novel) or Duma Key.
• I was happy to see that the short story collections Hearts in Atlantis and Night Shift were placed in the top third of the list. I feel hat they are often overlooked. Both are better than Skeleton Crew, another short story collection which is also excellent but should be ranked below them.
• I liked From a Buick 8 but it does not belong as high as #16.
• I did not like Under the Dome. I found the novel to be long and disappointing. I felt it was one of King’s worst books. The ending of the story was a complete letdown. Placing it at #12 is crazy. Vulture’s worst decision.
• Danse Macabreis an interesting and well written work of nonfiction, but it does not stack up to his best works of fiction. It has no place in the top 20.
• I have never read Lisey’s Story, which is ranked #10. This is an oversight on my part that I will soon correct.
• I would have placed The Green Mile in my top 10.
• I am so happy that It was placed at #3. This is exactly where I would have rated it as well. I freakin’ love that book.

• I was equally pleased to see the respect given to On Writing, a book that inspired me to continue writing when all hope was seemingly lost. It is a brilliant combination of memoir and inspiration.

• I think Vulture’s top 5 are ranked perfectly. I think this is the most impressive aspect of their entire list. The wisdom to place It and On Writing along such obvious choices as The Stand and The Shining is impressive.  Misery is ranked #6. I think I would have placed Salem’s Lot at #6, but Misery would have remained in my top 10.

Yes. I’m an author. Yes, with real books and everything. Why doesn't anyone want to believe me?

Author Allison Winn Scott wrote a piece for Psychology Today that made me realize that I am not alone. In imagining a future in which she is no longer an author, she writes:

I could no longer say that "I'm a writer," and then when they inquired further (because often times, no one really believes you when you tell them that you're a writer, as if this is code for sitting around watching cat videos on YouTube), I could then say that my fourth novel was just published and see them nod their heads approvingly.

I can’t tell you how relieved I felt reading this paragraph. Like Winn Scott, I experience the same sort of doubt and skepticism from many of the people I meet, and perhaps to an even greater degree.

When asked what I do for a living, I say, “I’m a teacher and a writer,” purposely leaving out my other careers so as to not confuse matters. After debating the correct response to this question for many years, I’ve decided that condensation and brevity trump any effort to be thorough.

My response is normally followed by an inquiry into what and where I teach, and once that information has been provided, I am then asked, often with great trepidation, “So what do you write?”

I reply that I am a novelist, and after answering the inevitable and impossible questions about genre, I am then asked a series of questions which typically include:

Have you published anything yet?

Oh, did you self-publish?

Are they e-books or real books?

Do you have a website where people buy your books?

Oh, in actual bookstores? Like a Barnes and Noble? Really?

Can I find them on a shelf, or would the bookstore have to order it first?

Oh, you’ve published more than one book?

Doubleday? Really? And St. Martin’s?

You mean the Doubleday?

So you’re like a real author then? Huh?

Oddly enough, my wife often experiences the same kind of interrogation when she tells people that her husband is a writer, though her questions are also accompanied by a hint of sympathy and consolation as well.

While I’m happy to expound upon my career, these questions never feel good.

Lately, I’ve been trying to add, as quickly as possible without sounding like an arrogant jerk, that my upcoming book, Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend, is being published in more than 20 different languages and counting. This seems to be the only thing I can say that brings the interrogation to an immediate halt and convinces people that I am an actual author with actual books that can be purchased in actual bookstores.

I’m not sure why there is so much skepticism when it comes to the validity of an author’s career, but I was pleased to discover that the furrowed brows, inquisitive stares, and probing questions are not only directed at me.

If Allison Winn Scott is also receiving them on a regular basis, I am at least in good company.

The Kingman Rule of Book Snobbery

The inestimable Ann Kingman of Books on the Nightstand fame stated in her most recent podcast that book snobbery should not be permitted unless the snob has actually read the book. Two things about this statement that I like a lot:

1. It forces the Proust snob to read a book like Twilight before denigrating it as literary trash.
2. It acknowledges that book snobbery is perfectly acceptable so long as it is an informed position.

I like that. It requires pretentious literary jerks to shut up and read but still allows an informed critic to question the literary merit of a book.

For the record, I read the first 100 pages of Twilight before denigrating it as literary trash.

I forged author Kate DiCamillo’s signature, but don’t worry. I was signing one of her books.

While speaking on a panel at the Newburyport Literary Festival on Saturday, I was asked to recommend two books. I recommended my first novel, SOMETHING MISSING, though doing so made me a little uncomfortable, since I was the only author on the panel.

I also recommended THE TALE OF DESPEREAUX, the Newbury Award winning novel by Kate DiCamillo. It’s a brilliant and beautiful book about courage, sacrifice and the dangers of nonconformity, and it’s equally suited for children and adults.  Then, in order to make up for my level of discomfort in recommending my own book, I suggested that audience members buy DiCamillo’s book before purchasing my own.

“I’d even be willing to sign Kate DiCamillo’s book if you’d like, if that will convince you to buy it. With my name or Kate’s name. Whatever you’d like.”

The comment garnered a laugh from the audience, but as I was signing books in the outer lobby, one of the audience members took me up on my offer, asking me to sign Kate DiCamillo’s name by proxy.

I have often told readers that I am perfectly comfortable with them signing my name by proxy in my books, since I believe in delegating responsibility whenever possible, but I have yet to see someone actually take me up on this.

But as requested, I signed Kate’s name to the book, adding an inscription that complimented my own wit, charm and good looks in order to ensure that the signature appeared very tongue-in-cheek and unlikely made by the hand of DiCamillo.

Later that night, I received a tweet from the woman whose book I signed. She hadn’t taken the time to look at the inscription at the time of the signing but noticed it several hours later and had a good laugh over it.

I’m hoping Kate DiCamillo won’t mind, since I did manage to sell a book for her. Many, in fact.

But it got me thinking:

At every bookstore appearance, I make it a point of recommending half a dozen other books to my audience in addition to my own. I try to recommend books in a variety of genres, including fiction, nonfiction, graphic novels, children’s books and even a cookbook.

What if I was to ensure that, in addition to my own books, the bookstore had at least one of these titles in stock, adding during the recommendation portion of my talk that if anyone purchased one of these books in addition to my own (or even instead of my own), I would be willing to sign that author’s name by proxy?

Would authors be pleased that I am helping to sell their books?

Would they be annoyed with me for forging their signature?

Is this even amusing enough to make it worth the time and effort?

The idea certainly garnered a laugh on Saturday, and it made enough of an impression in the mind of one audience member to take me up on the offer, but perhaps this is the kind of thing that goes well if done spur-of-the-moment but not so well if it is planned and executed in a regular basis.

Thoughts?

A joyous respite for book lovers everywhere

Reflections on Booktopia 2012

Elysha and I spent the weekend in Manchester, Vermont at Booktopia, a book retreat organized and run by the the inestimable Ann Kingman and Michael Kindness, the hosts of the podcast Books on the Nightstand. It is a weekend of conversation with readers and fellow authors, and it is one of our favorite weekends of the year.

Actually, I think it is the favorite weekend of the year.

Last year I attended the now-dubbed Booktopia as an author. This year I returned as a reader, and Elysha and I plan to return every year as long as Ann and Michael can find it in their hearts to keep this tradition alive.

Last year I posted a list of thoughts following a busy day of seminars and speaking engagements.

I have a similar list this year, though based upon last year’s list, it would seem that I got in a lot less trouble with my wife this year.

1. Only at Booktopia could a podcast geek like myself stumble upon a fellow podcast geek who listens to Slate’s stable of podcasts despite the fact that we both despise at least a few of their weekly hosts.

I have friends who listen to podcasts, but they are few and far between. But I have found that bookish people will consume content in any way they can, and podcasts appeal to many of us.

After all, it was a podcast that brought us together in the first place.

I’m thrilled to have a new friend who has the same voices in her head as I do each week, and I look forward to ranting about pretentious, know-nothing hosts to someone who understands and feels my pain.

2. Author Howard Frank Mosher, who has penned a dozen novels and two memoirs in his 50 year writing career, has just turned 70, but he is still one bad ass gangsta wordsmith.

Howard attaches negative reviews of his books to the side of his garage and blasts them with a 16-gauge shotgun. I saw a photo of Howard, his shotgun and his bullet-riddled garage this weekend. It was unbelievable.

Howard is also a diehard Red Sox fan, a fact that I knew all too well when I opted to don my Derek Jeter jersey for the Booktopia kickoff. My introduction to this esteemed author included a ribbing about the Sox 6-2 loss to the Yankees that night, and it got even better the following night when the Yankees staged a late inning, eight run comeback to defeat Boston 15-9.

Best of all, the Yankee’s miracle comeback literally began as Howard took the podium to deliver his Saturday evening address, a fact that I was sure to share with him as he was signing my book.

It turns out that Howard and I are both attending the Brattleboro Literary Festival in October, the time that the Yankees (and perhaps the Red Sox) will be battling in the playoffs. We agreed that it should be a fun time for us.

Howard is almost twice my age, but I found a kindred spirit in that man this weekend. Howard Frank Mosher is my kind of guy.

3. I became convinced over the course of the weekend that I am the least committed, laziest, most lame excuse for an author on this planet.

I am a pretender. An amateur. A fraction of what I should be.

This weekend I met, amongst others:

Richard Mason, an internationally bestselling author who writes his novels longhand, is creating an immersive, cutting-edge digital version of his novel, and once donated the advance from his first novel to assist in educating underprivileged children in South Africa. The man is handsome, brilliant, speaks with a British accent, and works tirelessly to help others while writing enormously successful novels. He is everything I could never be.

Madeline Miller, who was recently shortlisted for the prestigious Orange Prize for her novel SONG OF ACHILLES, which she spent ten years writing and at one point threw away a finished manuscript and started over.

Leslie Maitland, who spent years researching into her family history and traveling the world in order to write her memoir CROSSING THE BORDERS OF TIME and bring together two long lost loves in the process.

The aforementioned Howard Frank Mosher, who chose to spend the last 50 years in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont simply because it is so rich in untold stories.

Sara Henry, a former journalist who also spent ten years writing her first novel, which was listed as one of the ten best crime novels of 2011 by several esteemed publications.

These are writers that put me to shame. These are writers who spend decades laboring over novels like master sculptures chiseling into the mightiest boulders. They are artists and storytellers of the highest regard. They are writers that make me look like a mere scribbler.

4. I found this sitting in the corner of one of the meeting rooms this weekend and have yet to determine what this is or what is does. Anyone?

5. I stopped at a gas station on Sunday morning to fill up the car and then went inside the adjacent convenience store to purchase a candy bar. While standing at the cash register, a woman stepped out of a public restroom near the front of the store and announced, “I don’t know how busy you’ve been this morning, but that bathroom was a mess!”

“I’m sorry,” the clerk said. “I honestly didn’t know. I’ll get it cleaned up in just a second.”

“Don’t bother,” the customer, a middle aged woman, said, now heading for the door. “I took care of it for you. But I’ll tell you, it was a hell of a job.”

Only in Vermont.

Knuffle Bunny Free nearly made my wife weep. I would've cried had I not been so manly.

My daughter adores Mo Willems’ books Knuffle Bunny and Knuffle Bunny, Too. She speaks of Trixie and her family as her friends, and she knows the stories almost by heart.  

Yesterday we found Knuffle Bunny Free while stalking the shelves of our not-so-local independent bookstore. We had no idea that a third book in the series existed, and we were ecstatic to discover it.

We couldn’t wait to read it to our daughter that evening.

In truth, we couldn’t wait to read it ourselves, but we decided to wait until all three of us were together that evening to crack the book open.

I’m so glad we did. Knuffle Bunny Free just as good as the first two, but near the end of the book, something happens in the story that caused my wife’s cheeks to suddenly flush and her eyes to fill with tears. She looked up at me and said, “I think I’m going to cry.”

“What?” I said.

Then she read the next page aloud and I understood.

Willems has crafted the perfect book to end his series, and it is enough to make the most hardened, skeptical, heartless adult shed a few tears. It is a story about the link between the joy of watching your child grow up and the pain that also comes with that process.

Even I may have shed a tear as my wife read aloud, but if I did, it instantly disintegrated on my exceedingly manly cheek.

If you’re looking to buy me something…

It’s a book! And yes, an iPhone charger, too!

Two of my favorite things in the world.

 

My first library book: Desperately seeking the title

When I was a child, there were very few books in our home, and almost no children’s books whatsoever, so when I was finally able to ride my bike to the public library and receive my first library card when I was ten, it was an important day for me. I remember that first visit to the library like it was yesterday. My hometown library was little more than a single, poorly lit room in the lower level of the town hall, and while it contained more books than I had ever seen, it only consisted of about half a dozen aisles of books.

Today, the library occupies the building that was once my middle school. It is enormous, modern, multi-leveled and bright. I did a reading there a few years ago when my first book was published, and while it is vastly superior to the library that I had growing up, I still love the thought of that small, dimly lit room that opened the world of literature to me.

I still remember the first book that I checked out of the library, but I cannot remember the title, and for years, I have been trying to find it. It was a dystopian science fiction story in which the tallest buildings in the world begin to liquefy, starting with the Sears Tower in Chicago, the tallest building at the time. The very tip of the building first begins to liquefy, and as the height of Sears Tower comes even with the second tallest building in the world, that building begins to liquefy as well.

Eventually all the buildings of the word begin to liquefy at exactly the same rate, throwing the planet into terror and chaos.

Ultimately, it is discovered that this is the work of an alien race that feels obliged to ensure that mankind does not advance technologically beyond a point that is considered safe. By keeping building no taller than six stories, the aliens believe that the technological advancement of the human race will be curtailed. Ultimately, every building of the world is liquefied to this point.

Thirty years have passed since I read that book. While I’m sure that it is out of print and nearly impossible to find, I would at least like to know what the title of that first library book was.

If you happen to know the title, could you let me know?

And if you know a librarian or someone who might know, would you mind inquiring for me?

I would be forever grateful.

I finally read Where the Wild Things Are. Sort of.

Having grown up with almost no children’s books in the home, it has been an unexpected joy to read these classics for the first time with my daughter. I would not recommend depriving your child of books, but as a father, it has made for more interesting bedtime reading. One of the books that I had yet to read was Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are. I watched the film adaptation of the book last year but had yet to read the actual book.

At the time, I postulated that I might be one of the only people in the world to have seen the film version without having ever read the book.

The book is actually sitting on my daughter’s bookshelf, just waiting to be brought into circulation. My hope was that I could experience this classic for the first time with Clara, but I’m afraid I cheated this morning.

I discovered this video of Christopher Walken reading the book and couldn’t resist.

I do not regret my decision. It’s fantastic.

Gratitude journal: Readers live-tweeting my book

Tonight I am thankful for the enthusiastic readers who have been engaging in a new form of live tweeting whereby they send me tweets as they make their way through my latest book, Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend. My first two books, Something Missing and Unexpectedly, Milo, were published during Twitter’s infancy, so I had decidedly less contact with readers via social media. Back then (just two and four years ago), email was the primary way that readers contacted me, and a few even wrote letters longhand. But today, I am only a tweet away, and readers are taking advantage it.

This afternoon, readers in the UK and Australia tweeted about their experience with novel thus far, sharing their thoughts and feelings about the book at that very moment with me. One reader told me that she was experiencing an overwhelming sense of dread over what might happen next in the story (she was about halfway finished), and the other was nearing the end of the book and was “terrified” by the potential outcome.

She actually stopped reading in order to drink some coffee and calm down before finishing.

I’m hoping it was decaf.

The enthusiasm and excitement of these readers and their willingness to engage me in their reading process humbles me. I am so very grateful for their efforts to reach out and allow me to join them on their journey through my story.

It is a brave new world in which readers and authors can so easily co-mingle, and I like it a lot.

Gratitude journal: Dr. Seuss

Tonight I am grateful to Dr. Seuss for bringing this extreme level of joy to my daughter.

Frankly, I think the book is kind of stupid, but Clara loves it (and on Dr. Seuss’ birthday no less), so the man was clearly onto something.

Mindy Kaling’s 13 Rules for Guys

Mindy Kaling’s memoir Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me has a chapter that lists and explains Kaling’s 13 Rules for Guys. I liked the list immediately because of its number. Thirteen. Not ten. Not a even dozen. Not twenty. The decidedly un-round number thirteen. I never trust a list that contains a round number of items. It’s too damn convenient. It probably means that one or two quality items were left off the list or one or two less-than-worthy items were added to the list to achieve the round number.

Thirteen is a great list number. Ten is the worst.

As for Kaling’s recommendations, I currently adhere to or would be willing to adopt to most but have serious objections to a few.

For the record, Elysha supports every item on the list without reservation. She and Mindy Kaling could easily be best friends. ________________________________________

1. Buy a well-fitting pea coat from J. Crew (and get it cleaned once a year).

I could do this. I kind of like a pea coat.

2. Have a signature drink.

Does Diet Coke count?

Actually, if I’m drinking a cocktail, I like a kamikaze a lot, but this sounds like a drink for someone celebrating their twenty-first birthday. Almost never drinking alcohol makes this a tough rule to follow.

3. Own several pairs of dark-wash straight-leg jeans.

I used to know several pairs of these jeans, and then I took six inches off my waist, so I have been slowly restocking my wardrobe. Emphasis on slowly. I currently own two pairs, though only one pair is actually my size.

4. Wait until all women have gotten on or off an elevator before you get on or off.

I follow this rule unless it makes things exceedingly awkward.

5. When you think a girl looks pretty, say it and make it about her (i.e., “You look so sexy in those boots,” not “Those boots are really cool.”)

I think I do this as well, though I rarely compliment the physical appearance of anyone except my wife. This is partly because I think my wife is prettier than everyone else and partly because I am not a very visual person and fail to notice appearance. I also refrain from commenting on a student’s physical appearance, and this policy tends to bleed into the rest of my life as well.

6. Avoid asking if someone needs help in a kitchen or at a party–just start helping.

I am often the first person at the sink, ready to clean the dishes. While I’d like people to think that this is an act of kindness and politeness, it is probably the result of my years of working in a restaurant and my need to clean as I go.

7. Have one great cologne that’s not from the drugstore.

Really? I smell fine already.

8. Your girlfriend’s sibling or parents might be totally nuts, but always defend them.

Elysha feels that I do an adequate job in this regard. I was not as convinced. I tend to come down on the side of logic and reason rather than loyalty or obligation, but I’ll take her word for it.

9. Keihl’s for your skin, Bumble and Bumble for your hair.

Apparently Elysha gave me a bottle of Keihl’s when we started dating. I have no recollection of this. Nor do I think I need this product. Or any product.

I don’t even use shaving cream. Old fashioned soap works just fine.

I have no idea what Bumble and Bumble is, but I have not put anything in my hair other than shampoo for more than two decades. I don’t think I need to start now.

10. Guys only need two pairs of shoes: a nice pair of black shoes and a pair of Chuck Taylors.

I own two nice pairs of black shoes but no Chuck Taylors. I didn’t even know what a Chuck Taylor was. I own sneakers, which I wear almost every day to work simply because of the nature of my job, but I can’t see myself wearing these things.

They don’t seem to have any support and look like they would last about four seconds before falling apart. When I was a teenager, I owned an actual pair of Converse sneakers that looked a lot like these, so why would I want to start wearing a sneaker that is an imitation of something I actually wore as a kid?

11. Bring wine or chocolate to everything.

I’m more than willing to begin doing this, but wouldn’t it begin to seem a little like pandering after a while?

12. Get a little jealous now and again, even if you’re not strictly a jealous guy.

I don’t understand the purpose of this, nor does jealousy come easy to me.

13. Don’t shave your chest hair.

The vanity required in order to do something like this is beyond me.

I know she’s not actually reading…

… but it’s still freakin’ cute!

Gratitude journal: My daughter’s illiteracy

Eventually I would like my three-year old daughter to become a more than proficient reader, but tonight I found myself exceedingly grateful that she could not read a single word from the two books that she chose for us to read before bed.

The Little Golden Book versions of Lady and the Tramp and Noah’s Ark have an enormous number of words. Far too many for a little girl who was already twenty minutes late for bed. But we had no idea about the word counts when we agreed to read them. This was the first time that Clara had chosen them from her bookshelf. We assumed that these Little Golden Books would live up to their name.

They did not.   

So when she insisted upon the books, my wife simply invented a story that contained considerably fewer words but still matched the pictures on each page.  

Had Clara been able to read, this would not have been possible.

So hooray for my daughter’s illiteracy. I won’t be able to say this often, but tonight, I was happy that she is still unable to read. 

A potentially great day ruined by you-know-what

Today was a potentially great day for me. To start, Cosmopolitan UK named my next book, Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend, #1 on their Best Books for February 2012 list  and offered a glowing review.

The cover of the book also appeared publicly for the first time, and it’s one that I love. In fact, I have seen a sneak peek of the US cover as well and am blessed with a bounty of great art for both sides of the pond.

The actual UK cover will feature a quote from the very generous, internationally bestselling author Jodi Picoult.  Ms. Picoult offered me the best blurb of my life in regards to the book.  It reads:

A novel as creative, brave, and pitch-perfectas its narrator, an imaginary friend named Budo, who reminds us that bravery comes in the most unlikely forms. It has been a long time since I read a book that has captured me so completely, and has wowed me with its unique vision. You've never read a book like this before. As Budo himself might say: Believe me.

A pretty good start to the day. Right?

During the school day, I managed to earn my students’ respect in a realm rarely achieved by an elementary school teacher:

Music

A truly outstanding a cappella group performed at our school this afternoon, singing a number of Motown hits by Michael Jackson, KC and the Sunshine Band and others. The kids loved this music, which I thought was odd since they normally make fun of me for liking “old music” like The Beatles, Van Morrison and Springsteen.

When I questioned them about this after the performance, they explained that Michael Jackson, The Who, Neil Diamond and others are not considered old in their minds (a few admitted that The Beatles were probably acceptable as well). When I showed them that I have 38 Michael Jackson songs on my phone, they gained an immediate, albeit grudging, respect for my taste in music.

I went on to show them the 67 Neil Diamond songs, the three full albums by The Who, and the handful of songs by new artists like Katy Perry, Maroon 5 and Lady Gaga that currently reside on my phone.

They left school feeling like I possessed a modicum of coolness, which in the land of ten-year olds is quite an achievement for any adult.

At dinner, I told my daughter that I loved her, and with a piece of bread still stuffed in her mouth, she said, “I love you so much, too, Daddy.”

Clara has said that she loves me many times before, but something about her earnestness and sincerity nearly brought me to tears.

It was as if she really understood what the words meant for the first time.

Later, I felt our baby kick inside my wife’s belly for the first time.  Actually, I felt it kick several times. It was jumping around so much that it nearly made Elysha sick.

I still remember the first time I felt Clara kick, and this was just as exciting.

An unforgettable moment, both then and now.

But the Patriots lost the Super Bowl on Sunday night, and in horrific fashion, so all this good news was wasted on me. There was no way in hell that I was going to feel at all good just 24 hours after a loss like that, regardless of what happened during the day.

Nice try, universe, but I don’t think so.

Untrustworthy narrator

On Wednesday my daughter will turn three years old. Ever since the we discovered that my wife was pregnant (May 14, 2008), I have written a daily blog to our daughter entitled Greetings Little One. It contains stories, observations, bits of wisdom, photos, videos and the like. A thorough recounting of the thoughts, feelings and events of the day for Clara to read when she is older.

I started writing the blog for her, but in truth, Elysha and I have enjoyed it a great deal. To be able to go back to a specific time in our daughter’s life and read about what we were doing on those days has been an unexpected blessing.

In terms of parenting, starting the blog was one one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

Writing it has also helped me to savor every day that I spend with Clara.  Parents often say that their kids grow up so fast. I have not found this to be the case. I suspect that because I sit down and recount the events of every day of Clara’s life in some small way, time has not been quite so slippery for me.

In thinking about Clara’s upcoming birthday, I’ve been reading some of the posts that led up to her birth three years ago and have been enjoying the opportunity to reminisce immensely.

During this week, I am going to publish a few of those posts from Greetings Little One here. I hope you enjoy.

____________________________________________

Originally posted on January 11, 2009:

… Sneezy, Sleepy, Dopey and Stinky

Speaking of reading to you, I should also mention, little one, that I can be somewhat unorthodox when reading to kids. I have a habit of diverting away from the words on the page and inventing my own stories up on the spot while pretending to read.

Improving upon the book, if you will.

A few years ago, I was reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to my students. Bored with the story that I knew so well, I decided to add a new child to the book, joining the ranks of Charlie Bucket, Violet Beauregard, Mike Teavee, Varuca Salt, and Augustus Gloop. Staring at the pages and turning them now and again, I invented entire passages about a bratty little child and his outlandish exploits. I cannot remember the specifics of this new, sixth child, but many students raised their hands with questions about why they had never seen or heard of this new character in the movie version of the novel.

Books and movies always differ in some way, I explained.

Surprisingly, my instincts about adding a new character weren’t so far off. Roald Dahl’s original manuscript included a sixth child.

From Wikipedia:

In 2005, a short chapter which had been removed during the editing of the book circulated, entitled "Spotty Powder", was published. The chapter featured the elimination of Miranda Piker, a "teacher's pet" with a headmaster father. Wonka introduces the group to a new candy that will make children temporarily appear sick so that they can miss school that day, which enrages Miranda and her father. They vow to stop the candy from being made, and storm into the secret room where it is made. Two screams are heard, and Wonka agrees with the distraught Mrs. Piker that they were surely ground into Spotty Powder, and were indeed needed all along for the recipe, as "We’ve got to use one or two schoolmasters occasionally or it wouldn’t work." He then reassures Mrs. Piker that he was joking. Mrs. Piker is escorted to the boiler room by the Oompa-Loompas, who sing a short song about how delicious Miranda's classmates will find her.

So beware, little one. You may end up in class some day, wondering why the teacher’s version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs doesn’t include Stinky, the oft-forgotten eighth dwarf who was actually responsible for saving Snow White but ignored by the press because of his unusual body odor.

A Charlie Brown Christmas, again and again and again

When my wife’s parents bought this book and recorded themselves reading it (which is a clever idea), the intent was for my daughter to be able to open the book and listen to it read aloud without the assistance of another adult. This was not to be.

For reasons known only to her, Clara has determined that the book cannot be read alone. Someone must “read” it to her, which means my wife or I must sit beside her and turn the pages at the appropriate time, even though she is perfectly capable of turning the pages herself.

Talk about the best laid plans of mice and men.

Still, she can be pretty cute while listening to the book. She finds the last page, in which her Nani inserts her name into the story, especially funny. It almost always makes her laugh. Then she asks if we can hear the Peanuts singing (for reasons unknown) right before requesting that we “read” it to her again.

And again.  And again.