Between Shades of Gray— a book review

If they came for you, what would you do?

Imagine you are preparing for bed, when the knock comes on your front door— not a knock, but the pounding of a heavy fist. Armed strangers who do not even speak your language burst into your home. They cannot be resisted— they are your new “police.” Within twenty minutes, you, your mother, and your little brother are forced from your home with only what you can carry in a single suitcase, bound for a destination you do not know, in a land you do not know, for a fate you do not know.

What would you do?

For the fifteen-year-old Lina, there is no time for heroics or grand adventure— there is merely time to grab a few clothes— even her precious art book must be left behind. Soon she and her family are in a truck crowded with frightened strangers, headed towards a bitter, brutal exile very few of them will survive.

A thriller? A science fiction novel of an apocalyptic future? No. Rather, this is the story of over 300,000 Lithuanian refugees, torn from their homes by Josef Stalin’s secret police (the NKVD, later to become the KGB) during the early years of World War II. Their crime? Being free.

Between Shades of Gray is the debut novel by author Ruta Sepetys. Born in Detroit, Michigan, Ruta is the daughter of Lithuanian refugees who escaped Stalin’s horrific conquest of their homeland and came to America as children. But others— including members of Ruta’s own family— were not so lucky. Hauled away in filthy cattle cars (with signs reading “Thieves and Prostitutes”), hundreds of thousands of teachers, doctors, and their families— including children and infants— were forced to eke out a living above the Arctic Circle, in Russia's dreaded Siberia. They were given no tools and no supplies except a few grams of stale bread each day, because while Stalin did not wish to explain their outright execution to the world, he did not want or expect them to survive. If they died on their own, well, that was just nature. (The women and children, that is. Most of the men he simply murdered.)

Based on true events, historical accounts and interviews with survivors, Between Shades of Gray uses fiction to put the reader into the lives of the Lithuanian deportees. The result is both beautiful and brutal, an incredible tale of survival, remembrance, perseverance and love. Though filled with cruelty and tragedy, Lina’s tale will call to you just as spring calls you back from winter. Once begun, you will not stop. Once finished, you will not forget. Read Between Shades of Gray, and journey to a land where hope replaces heartbreak, and love is the ultimate key to life.

For more about Between Shades of Gray, visit www.betweenshadesofgray.com.
Available in bookstores around the world (yes, including Lithuania), March 22, 2011.

--- Howard Shirley

P.S. Ruta is a very dear friend of mine, and it has been my delight to watch this book come into being. I know what she writes is from her heart, because I have seen her heart in the midst of the writing. But don’t just take my word for it— read her reviews:


Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

Booklist (starred review)

Publisher’s Weekly (starred review)

And those aren’t all. Get ready, this book is going to hit like a storm.

45 Times Around the Sun, and 1/365th

Yesterday was my birthday, an auspicious occasion (at least to me). I've been following this circular* course around a star for some time now, and I've gotten rather used to it, and I must say all in all I like it. In fact, I think I'll try to keep it going as long as I can.

Someone else shared my birthday yesterday, an auspicious occasion for him as well, being the start of his very first trip around the Sun. His name is James Arthur Lewey, and he is my great-nephew, son of my nephew Daniel Lewey and his lovely wife Melanie. (Congratulations to both of you!) He's now made it 1/365th of the way on his first grand circle. Hang on, kid, it's a great ride!

Nothing more to share than that, but that's a lot to share.

--- Howard Shirley

*Yes, I know it's really an ellipse, not a circle, but I've got a poetic license and I'm gonna use it!

The Sound of Stone

A brief fantasy tale by Howard Shirley

When you can’t hear your own breathing is when you realize that you miss it. I am not talking about when you don’t hear your own breathing. That happens all the time. I think we’re so used to it that we just dull it out and think of it as silent, just like we don’t really notice the sound our skin makes brushing inside of our clothing, or the way leather creaks as it twists against our movement. Thor knows I’ve even ceased to notice the scrape and dull jangle of my own armor on a long march. I put it on and as far as my ears are concerned, I might as well be wearing spidercloth. Unless of course there’s an enemy nearby with ears that will pick up even the slightest scratch of my axebelt against my hauberk, and then every sound I make might as well be the slam of a hammer against hot steel.

I’ve heard men like Brom say we dwarves are quieter than cats, even wrapped in breastplate on top of mail. I don’t know whether that’s true or not— I can’t stand cats, always eyeing my beard and braids like I’m dangling a fish on a line for them to swipe at. The Loki-cursed things creep up on you even when your ears could hear the ring of gold in a clay cup twenty shafts away. No dwarf is that quiet or that sneaky.

Except me, right now. I glance down at the quarrel in my crossbow. It doesn’t look any different from the others in my belt. You’d think it would glow or even gleam, like a dwarf craftspell would. But it doesn’t look one bit different— just black, with only the faintest hint of a glimmer from the sharpened edges I honed yester morning. The only thing about it that tells me Thalin’s spell is on the bolt is that I can’t hear anything— not my armor, not my leather, not even my own breathing or the pounding of blood in my temples. Even the vibrations of my feet against the floor are missing, sounds I’ve always felt with my body even if my ears have tuned them out. I can feel the rise and fall of my breath shoving my chest against my hauberk, I can feel the weight of armor and pack, the warmth of the crossbow’s stock against my hand, the tension in the trigger, even the pressure of my booted feet against the stone floor. I can smell my sweat and Brom’s strange human odor, and the hints of incense that drift from Thalin’s robes, even the tiniest tint of blood that lingers on Mada-Thor’s knife blade from this morning’s sacrifice. If I turned my head to look at them, I would see them all, stepping behind me, instinctively trying to be silent themselves, though with the magicked quarrel there is no need. I can’t hear them any more than they can hear me, or even their own breathing.

It is a . . . disquieting feeling, which seems an odd word to use given that silence surrounds us utterly. But there it is. And for an old dwarf like me, used to gauging the soundness of stone and shaft by the echoes and creaks no one but my own kind can hear, it begins to approach terrifying. “May you hear no stone,” is an old dwarven curse, a wish for disaster to befall another. Deafness among my people is like a death, for it means one can never travel alone again into the mountain ways, but must be guided as if blind, or spend the remainder of ones long years above our sacred delvings, forever an outcast amidst our kind. It is not a curse said lightly.

Yet here I am, under just such a curse by my own agreement, if however temporary. And the thought comes to my mind, What if Thalin erred? What if the spell lies not upon my quarrel, but upon my hand that held it up? I know that man’s magic is not always permanent without great labor by a mage, but dwarf and magic goes not well together, save for our own craftspells. I once heard of a dwarf who had permitted a human mage to give him wings, and instead his beard turned into feathers. If this magic of silence dwells now forever upon my person, I am cursed beyond all dwarfdom. It had seemed like a clever, even crafty idea at the time Thalin suggested it, but now with not even my own thoughts entering my ears, my fear arises that we may have mined into loose shale, as the saying goes.

Even though the pressure comes through hauberk and jerkin, the hand upon my shoulder makes me jump— I almost pull the trigger on the bow on the spot. I turn to look; it is Mada-Thor who has touched me. The look in her eyes says she understands my discomfort, she who has been my friend since before Brom held his first sword. In the overwhelming silence she can only gesture upwards. I follow her eyes, beholding the black scrawl against the ceiling, a crude sigil of a misshapen skull, cloven in two. The Damned Ones must have stood upon each other’s twisted backs to scribe it there. I am ashamed that I, a dwarf within my native realm of stone, did not see the khohbhauluth sign first— but then, Mada-Thor is guided by a god. I see Brom and Thalin turn their eyes upwards as well, and Brom mouth out the man-word “Kobold!” though not even he can hear his exclamation. Just as well— I hate hearing our sacred tongue corrupted in another’s mouth, and his cry might have alerted our quarry. For once I bless Thalin’s ploy— in one respect, it is serving us now. Brom starts at not hearing his own words, then I can see it break upon him that his outburst would have proved dangerous. He throws his head back in mirth and slaps Thalin upon his back. The mage startles at the blow, then his mouth splits into a sly grin. I like a mage with a sense of humor about themselves— all too many laugh only at the discomfort they can cause to others.

Brom shares Thalin’s grin and nods to me to advance. I’ll say this for the man, he may not be as cautious as need be, but he doesn’t swagger forth into the lead like those fools who think their bulk is proof against all comers. Brom has an inkling for tactics and a respect for where others’ abilities may be more useful than his own. In my case, I’m familiar with the nature of these passages. And I’m the best shot in the Twin Kingdoms, Above and Below, if I say so myself— even in silence.

I glance at Thalin. He needs no explanation, and waves his hand in an odd caress across the rough-hewn crystal atop his staff. The glow from it fades to a dull glimmer. My eyes adapt quickly to my native dark; I worry that perhaps even these faint beams may be too much and reach the khohbhauluth with warning. But no, even the sigil cannot be seen. I turn back to my companions. Brom has his sword out now, fine make for man-work, held cautiously wide to avoid the rest of us. Mada has her hammer ready, mouthing silent blessings over it— I wonder if Thor can sense her prayer, devoid of sound? I think one of my own for that, not much considering the irony. Thalin merely places one hand on Mada’s shoulder for guidance, she does the same for Brom, who moves forward and places his free hand on mine. We move off, the deaf leading the blind through halls of stone— how my ancestors would shudder at the thought!

The way is windy and slopes downwards. My eyes and feet pick out signs of loose rock, the faintest pebbles, and my fear rises at not being able to hear the faint shift of stone that warns every dwarf of coming cave-in. This movement with half my awareness lost is beyond bearing.

I feel the faint change in the air current on the edges of my beard before I see the light. It is not the strange whiteness of Thalin’s staff, nor the warm yellow of dwarven fire— it is orange and sputtery, barely giving glow where it licks against the stone far ahead, but the air moves towards it, drawn towards some thin shaft that must serve as a flue. The kobolds must be burning bhakhumen. It gives poor heat and poorer light, but for Those Who Chose The Blackness it is the light of ritual. It is the light by which they take blood.
The odor reaches my noise now, despite that the air moves away from me. Instinctively my voice tries to growl in disgust, but I feel only the rough movement in my throat. I tap Brom’s hand on my shoulder quickly, to tell him we are there, then move my hand back to the trigger.

We step forward slowly, only because the others cannot see to move faster. The dull glow from the bhakhumen fire grows more, and I can see that it comes from a side chamber along our way. Strange shadows move across the glow where it hits the wall opposite the chamber— the kobolds have begun their rite. My beard prickles at the thought we may even now have come too late.

I race forward, crossbow at the ready, no longer concerned for my companions— even their Above eyes can see the light from the chamber. Stepping into the opening, I see the scene. A score of khohbauluth are dancing before a crude altar of jumbled stone. My sister Kima is stretched across it, her chest bared below her beard, her lower garments ripped and stained with blood— not hers, I know— the kohbauluth send their sacrifices on unsullied. Her eyes stare upwards at the jagged obsidian blade held aloft over her breasts. She does not blink or show tears— she is a dwarf. All this I see in the instant, just as I see the khohbaulutavak priestess who holds the blade.

I shoot, the bolt racing across the room, and suddenly a cacophony bursts upon my straining ears— Brom in mid war cry, Mada calling upon her god, the kobolds’ chanting, suddenly growing less as the bolt appears in the priestess’s shoulder. She lurches back, the knife falling from her hand to shatter silently against the floor. I drop the bow and reach for my axe, watching her recover and reach up to clasp her wound, her mouth moving to call upon her demon lord for healing— and then her eyes flair wide when she realizes her dark prayer makes no sound. She grabs desperately at the bolt, but the flared head is stuck fast in both mail and flesh.

I grin, letting her see the teeth behind my beard. “May you hear no stone,” I growl, and rush to battle, my axe singing gloriously to my ears.

--- ©2010 by Howard Shirley

There and Back Again: A Writer's Journey

I am far above the ground as I write this, high in the night sky over America. I have flown to New York, and now I fly back, soon to be home again. It has become a different trip than I imagined.

I flew with a purpose— to attend a conference of writers, hoping to meet and impress an agent or an editor with my work. New York was merely the place the conference was— nothing really more than that. Yet it seems I have traced a strange circle.

You see, I flew to New York for the first time twenty-five years ago. I was nineteen, and I was there to enjoy a week with my aunt and uncle in Manhattan, seeing the sites and incidentally (yet of very great interest to me at the time) purchasing my first “real” computer for my coming start to college.

As you might imagine, I fell in love with the city. As I looked around, it seem to thrive about me as no other place I had ever known. The city moved, a wondrous living thing, its eyes the millions of eyes with in it, its breath the whoosh of taxi cabs or the curl of steam rising from beneath the streets, its blood the silver subway cars endlessly thrust along the city's tunneled veins. I watched the people, moved with them, went where they went, rode what they rode. I saw museums and shops and shows, and pleasured in the last summer symphony, lying in the grass of Central Park as the music filtered through the warm night air. It seemed a magical, mystical place.

On that trip something else happened that I had not intended. I slept in a tiny extra bedroom in my aunt’s apartment. The room was barely larger than a long closet, but it had a desk along one wall next to a window. I set my new computer on that desk and learned to use it, sitting next to the open window, listening to the sounds of the city filtering in from the warm August nights. And I began to write.

I had written before, but never on a computer. Indeed, my interest in computers at that time was in programming them, preferably to create games. I had never really used a word processor. My new computer (the very first Macintosh) did not come with Basic (the only computer language I knew). But it did come with MacWrite. So I opened that program up to learn it, and to learn it, I began to write. What I wrote was a story— the start of a book, in fact. I would write it at night before bed, and I would write again in the morning when I woke. Writing became the buttons of my day.

When I returned home from New York, those buttons faded away. I had other needs for the computer— school papers, then a college bulletin board, and of course the inevitable games. The story languished and slipped onto floppy disks. I did not pick it up again.

It would be many years before I returned to that love of story, to let it lead my life more fully. Even now, as I seek to be the writer I set out to be, I have let other things slip in the way of it.

Yet in New York again, in that same room from so long ago, on those same streets and tunnels, I rediscovered story. I watched it happen around me, in the movement and sounds, in the faces of the people, in the delight of a young girl dancing about her father as she waited for the train to come and take them on some adventurous outing. Soon my mind was filling up with ideas and stories, and I pulled out a little notebook I carried and scratched down those ideas. Later I pulled out another notebook and wrote a little more, so that when the time was right I could return to those ideas and recall them from the moments of my memory. And one night I opened my computer in that same tiny room, and wrote.

I had come full circle.

I learned a lot at the conference, as I always do. But I learned more from the city, from being there again, steeped in people, surrounded by story. But as I left I learned something else— the story was never truly in the city or in the surroundings. It was always in me. I had merely forgotten it.

Now, as I finish this entry, I sit at home in front of another computer, descendant to that first one, in my own room, near my own window. And I know that it’s time to start a new circle, or rather to truly finish the one started on an August night so long ago. It is time to continue the story.

--- Howard Shirley

Looking Back, Looking Forward

Well, we're two weeks into 2010, and I'm looking ahead into the new year. Last year had some ups and downs. No book sale yet, but I've built some connections and after my trip to the Rutgers Council on Children's Literature conference I have a number of queries and manuscripts for The Weaver of Atreia out "on the waters." Only three replies so far—rejections, alas— but two were very positive, with specific comments about the book and praise for my writing. Each was more of a case of "not the right fit" than anything else. The third was the beloved form response (oh, how we writers hate those). But I remain hopeful that the "right fit" is out there.

I'm gearing up for another round in that quest— attending the SCBWI Annual Winter Conference in New York City in a few short weeks! I've been to the L.A. Summer Conference twice, but this is my first time to brave the icy cold of the North. (I plan on bundling like Nanook. Given that it's been in the 20s down here recently, I've had practice.)

This will be my fourth trip to New York: my aunt and uncle live in Manhattan across from Central Park, so they're excited to see me again. The last time I stayed with them was when I was 21, returning from a summer volunteering at a camp in Israel. It's been a loooong time since then. So it will be good to see them (and good to save on the ridiculous room rates in NYC too).

As the New York conference is shorter, I expect to cram a lot in. I was fortunate to get into the "Writer's Intensive" sessions which are held the day before the official conference start. I'm looking forward to sharing my work and hearing back from editors, agents and fellow authors.

What am I bringing, I hear you ask? (I'm a writer; I get to put questions in your head.) I will most likely be sharing my current work-in-progress The Knuckerhole, about a girl in the Civil War South, a runaway slave she befriends, and a very real dragon. There's adventure, danger, war, friendship, loss, and a dash of history; I think I've found a winner.

So stay tuned; I expect good things from this year! I hope you do too.

--- Howard Shirley

I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In...

A little gift for my blog readers that ventures outside of my writing, just a tad. Earlier this year my son had a school assignment on the explorer John Cabot. While researching the good explorer, we stumbled upon a replica of his ship, a reproduction of a 15th century caravel, christened the Matthew. (You can read about Cabot and the Matthew here.)
I got it in my head to create a paper model of the Matthew... and here is the result!

I think it looks rather spiffy, if I say so myself.

So as a Christmas gift to you, here are three caravels in PDF (Acrobat Reader) format that you can build— includinga 15th Century English Caravel in the Matthew's colors, a pirate version, and a version that lets you add whatever colors you like! You can find them all (and the instructions for building them) here.

Enjoy, and Merry Christmas!

--- Howard Shirley

Bloggin' from Rutgers

It's the night before the Rutgers University Council on Children's Literature One on One Plus Conference, and I'm sitting in a hotel room with three fellow writers from middle Tennessee, going over notes about which editors and agents we plan to descend on—okay, "introduce ourselves to—" at tomorrow's conference. I can't post photos tonight (we've taken a few silly ones; it's late), but our "gang of four" for this event is myself, Sharon Cameron, Hannah Dills, and Jessica Young, all from the Nashville area. We've had a great time planning together, traveling together, and encouraging each other.

There's more to do tonight, but I'll close with a look at that last. Writing is a process done alone, but it need not be a lonely process. Nothing makes you better able to write, or helps you bear the frustration and disappointment, or lifts your spirits, like a group of fellow writers— friends who understand what you are going through, because they are going through the same experiences yourselves.

So write, but find friends. They'll keep you going; and as a writer, keeping going is sometimes the most important thing you'll do.

--- Howard Shirley

Catching Up

As the summer winds down I'm getting back to life as usual. It's been a busy time, what with driving back and forth from Tennessee to North Carolina (summer camp, family reunions, etc.). But with my son's school starting up again, I'll be home and blogging more frequently for the foreseeable future.

I do have one trip I will be making— to the annual Rutger's University Council on Children's Literature One-on-One Plus Conference. (Yowzers, is that a long name! Try saying it all in one breath.) I had the honor of being invited to attend two years ago; it's great to be going back.

For those who are interested in writing for children and teens, the Rutger's conference is one of the best to attend. It's by invitation only, based on a submitted writing sample of three pages— that's right, you have three pages in which to wow the conference planners with your manuscript. So simply getting in is a Very Big Deal. But what makes the conference significant is that all attendees are assigned a mentor for the day— a mentor who is either an editor, an agent, or an established published writer. Your mentor critiques your submission, offers manuscript advice, and can be an invaluable guide to point you towards the right agent or editor for your work— if they don't request it themselves. Attendees also take part in an intimate Q&A session with four other attendees and their mentors— that means by the end of the day, no matter what, five industry professionals (four of whom are probably agents and editors) will have met you, spoken with you face to face, and heard your pitch. But the biggest part of the deal is the lunchtime meet and greet opportunity, where you eat dinner at a table with editors and agents— you pick— and have the opportunity to go speak to as many editors and agents as you desire. These agents and editors are from major agencies and publishers— firms like Curtis Brown, Writer's House, Atheneum, Henry Holt, Simon & Schuster, Scholastic, and more. So, yes, I am more than happy to be returning.

Also coming up in September is a local conference sponsored by the Midsouth regional chapter of SCBWI, which I'm looking forward to as well.

So it looks like the fall is going to be as busy as the summer— and that's a good thing.

--- Howard Shirley

Coming Up for Air (and a Poem)

Well, for nearly three months now I've been working on a ghostwriting project for a client. It's been an intense time, and hasn't left much room for blogging. But now it's done, and before the next project gets started, I thought I'd update everyone on what's been going on.

So far, no word yet from any publisher or agent on my first novel. That's not all that unusual for first novels, and I have had several "close... but could you send us more stuff; we really like the way you write" responses, which for a writer are golden. Basically, they're an open invitation to query. (Yahoo!) Even better is a project that-yes-I-am-working-on requested by an editor way too long ago... but at the time, all she had seen was one sentence. She's since seen three chapters in rough draft and asked for more... and I've been all-too-slow about finishing it up. But I'm eight chapters in now, and finally cranking along. So another "Yahoo!" on that.

As for the ghostwriting project, that's been a solid case of God's blessing coming along right when I needed it. I can't go into details, but it's been a joy to do and I'm very pleased with the results.

Other tidbits: I was honored to judge a teen writers' contest for the Franklin Public Library Young Adult department here in my hometown. We had a number of entries, and it was hard to choose the winners. But all the young writers did a great job; imagination is alive and well in Tennessee!

Finally, it's National Poetry Month... so here's a poem I'm trying to live by these days:

The Storm
by Howard Shirley

Cast your bread upon the waters;
wait not for the perfect tide.
The faithless boat remains at harbor;
the nobler ship at sea abides.
For when the storm assails the shore,
‘tis hesitation stoves the hull;
and delayed dreams are burst asunder—
never will her hold be full!
Then inward sails the trusting captain
who risked his dreams to Fortune’s storm,
and finds at last his treasure waiting;
his family well, his hearthstone warm.

Thanks for reading!

--- Howard Shirley

©2009 Howard Shirley

The Present and Future of Publishing

Apparently, it's panic time.

At least, that's what we're seeing in the publishing world. Long established houses are either closing or being swallowed by other houses and then closing (Hmmm... sounds rather like Municipal Darwinism). Imprints (a fancy word for what amounts to a "brand" division, not that readers care) are being reabsorbed left and right. And publishers, editors, associate editors and editorial assistants suddenly find themselves being chased by the industry equivalent of Alice's Queen of Hearts. WHACK! There goes another one...

What's a writer to do?

Relax, says this one.

Whether the industry shakeup is based on a media-produced economic panic (I think partially so, but that's a topic for a different setting), or based on industry false steps (and there have been a lot of these), I think for writers the end result will be positive.

In fact, I think we're going to witness a sea change in children's books over the next few years, which will all be to the good of writers, readers and the industry.

My predictions are that we will see a switch back to "tried and true" book themes over avant-garde, risky titles. Publishers are going to want books that sell in quantity over the long haul. This will have a two-fold impact. Quality will become even more important (good for the reader), while content will be targeted towards the consistent reader over the get-'em-to-grab-it crowd. As a result, we'll see less retreads of television shows and less controversial social commentary. Controversial issue-oriented stuff sells, but it has a limited market vis-a-vis the general public. It sells to a certain segment of the readership, and then stops. Temporarily it may get a boost because of controversy, but then the interest dies as soon as the next headline pops up. Instead, publishers will begin to trend toward books with broad-appeal themes. Some will be flashy, of course. But others will be quiet, literary in their quality rather than in their assumed social significance. Escapist literature (adventure, fantasy, action sci-fi, mystery and romance) will get a boost, as will "comfort" reads. Historical fiction will also likely pick up.

I might be wrong, and as a writer of more escapist stuff (with a literary bent), I might be engaging in wishful thinking. But, to put a label on it, the industry is going to go "conservative" in product, in appeal at least. And I'm not certain that's such a bad thing. They may discover they've been missing a large part of their market in recent years. And if that brings more readers to the bookshelves (and I think it will), even the avant-garde titles will pick up again. And that's good for all of us.

In the meantime, I'm going to write.

--- Howard Shirley

Life on Mars... Maybe

In case you haven't heard yet, today NASA announced the definitive discovery of methane on the planet Mars. Why is this significant?

1.) Methane is a known by product of life. (Mars farts, as it were...)
2.) Methane can be broken down easily by basic chemical processes; if there were no life on Earth, our atmospheric methane would disappear in about 10 years. This means that the methane on Mars must come from active processes; it has not been hanging around for millions of years.
3.) Methane can also be a food source for certain types of life.
4.) The presence of methane implies the presence of water; the two processes we know of which produce methane (volcanic activity and life) both require water to supply the hydrogen atoms in methane.
5.) Though volcanic activity can produce methane, there has been no sign that any volcanic activity has occurred on Mars for millions of years— no geologically recent lava flows, no fault lines, nothing.

So, we have methane, no evidence of recent geological activity, and only two known sources which can produce the gas. Either there's volcanic activity going on which we haven't detected (and don't see other evidence for), or a natural non-living process to make methane which we don't know about, or something on Mars is alive.

Now that is some seriously cool news.

--- Howard Shirley

For more, go here: Methane on Mars

It's All Good

The site is up and running again! So in celebration, I'll share some other good things... like good books!

I'll start with a recommendation for younger readers: The Sherlock Files: The 100-Year-Old Secret by Tracy Barrett. Tracy is a good friend of mine and a terrific writer. If you haven't read Cold In Summer, On Etruscan Time, or Anna of Byzantium (my personal favorite), you've missed out. Get them and read them! But on to the latest: The 100-Year-Old Secret kicks off a new middle grade mystery series by Barrett featuring the sibling sleuths Xena and Xander Holmes. Two typical American kids, they are less than certain about their futures when their parents move the family to London, England. They have to get used to new words ("biscuits" for "cookies"), new foods ("scones and clotted cream") and a new school (complete with uniforms— horrors!). But things get even crazier when they learn their great-great-great-grandfather was the real Sherlock Holmes— and they are given his casebook of unsolved mysteries as a gift. Xena and Xander can't resist a challenge, and pretty soon are off to track down a famous painting that's been missing since 1904. The book is a lot of fun and the two heroes are easy to like. Clues abound throughout the book, aided by sketches of the casebook's pages, so reading detectives can figure out the clever solution along with Xena and Xander. Suitable for ages 9-12, but older mystery lovers will enjoy it too!

When it comes to good reads, there's just something about England— specifically, the British Empire— that makes for great stories. Two recent jewels in the crown are Philip Reeve's Larklight and Starcross, set in a fanciful Victorian era Empire that has expanded into outer space. Mix a pirate yarn with an espionage novel, stir in massive quantities of steampunk science fiction and add a dash of Lemony Snicket style humor and you wind up with these two tall tales. The narration by the eleven-year-old Art Mumby (interrupted by his not-so-prim-as-she-tries-to-be fifteen-year-old sister Myrtle) is spot on. Our stalwart hero is convinced that no alien plot, however dark and devious, can stand up to British pluck— and off he goes to prove it, in rollicking style. These books are meant to be read, especially as the over-the-top illustrations just add to the humor (when the very proper Myrtle expresses certainty that the illustrator won't depict her in her nightgown, the next page does just that!). Indeed, the best way to give you a full appreciation for these two books is to repeat their full titles:
Larklight : Or the Revenge of the White Spiders! or to Saturn's Rings and Back!: A Rousing Tale of Dauntless Pluck in the Farthest Reaches of Space
and
Starcross: A Stirring Adventure of Spies, Time Travel and Curious Hats
What more needs to be said? Read 'em, by Jove!

And huzzah! A third book will be released on October 15:Mothstorm: The Horror from Beyond Uranus Georgium Sidus!

Yes indeed, life is good!

Please Excuse the Mess

If you've been to my web site in the past day or so, you've either seen a big sign slapped on by AOL announcing that their hosting services are shutting down, or you've gotten a 404 error, or seen a page with a lot of missing graphics and bad links.

Like the guy with the snarky waiter, I'm having "server issues."

Fortunately, I've found a better host. But that means I'm in the middle of changing everything (and that's a lot) to the new server. And I do my web sites myself, which means at the moment that things are a bit... ugly. (Well, uglier than usual.)

The good news is I do have a new server.

The good news is I do have all my web site files on my main hard drive, and can easily... okay somewhat easily... upload them to the new server.

The bad news is that the new server treats filenames in the code with Capital letters as separate files from ones with lowercase letters, even if the name is the same. So when my site code calls for "AboutMe.html," the new server doesn't recognize that as a call for the file "aboutme.html." (I'm hoping for a simple fix, 'cause otherwise I have a lot of tedious code checking and file renaming to do.)

But the last bit of good news is that this blog is separate and working great.

Thanks for bearing with me while I sort things out!

--- Howard Shirley

The Last Call

One by one across the water
March captains, privates, generals, all.
One by one they leave the struggle;
One by one they heed the call.
Leaders, servants, fighters, clerks;
Brave men, wise men,
Rash men, fools;
Learnéd men and laborers,
Men of thought and men of tools.
One by one across the water;
One by one they leave the fight.
How their hearts burst forth in laughter
As the darkness yields to light!
Captains, privates, generals, cooks—
Good men, brave men, heroes all—
Dearest comrades greet their coming
to the final muster call.
How the ranks stretch on to Glory!
How sweet sings out the bugle’s tone!
'Til their Captain signals silence—
"Peace, my brothers. Welcome home."

In memory of Corporal (T-5) Asa Ambrister, US Army, 1942-1946. Veteran, attorney, husband, father, grandfather, and my father-in-law.

July 23, 1924 September 26, 2008.

©2008 by Howard Shirley

--- Howard Shirley

Arrrrghhh!!!!

It be Talk Like A Pirate Day, matey!

Aye, 'tis the day when true gentlemen and ladies o' fortune bespeak each other in the grand manner o' the pirates of old. (Or at least classic Hollywood). So buckle on yer swash, swagger up to yer mates and give 'em a hearty "Aaarrrghhh!!!"

An if ye be in need o' some piratey inspiration, set sail for yer local treasure place o' books and fill yer hold with some old sea tales:

Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson, the father of such grand piratey sayings as: "Fifteen men on a dead man's chest, yo ho ho and a bottle o' rum," and "Pieces of Eight!"

Captain Blood by Rafael Sabatini. 'Tis a tale of adventure, romance, and heroism on the high seas, and the source of the classic Errol Flynn flick. A must for every pirate library! Aarrghh!

The Dark Frigate by Charles Boardman Hawes. A spirited lad of England ships aboard a merchant vessel, only to run afoul of a cruel pirate captain who forces him to join his crew. These be real pirates, lad, not some lubbers in a silly hat. A Newbery winner, which is better than a gold doubloon!

The Wreckers by Iian Lawrence. Not all pirates ply the seas, mateys. On a stormy night, the lights on the shore may not be friends o' the sailor...

The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle by Avi. 'Tis not a tale o' piracy, but 'tis a grand sea tale just the same. A thirteen year old landlubber of a girl must learn the ways o' the sea when she's caught between a mutinous crew and their captain... and winds up accused of murder. Picked up a bit o' silver from the Newbery crew, and that's no treasure to sneer at!

There be plenty more good books (and some fine bits o' film too) to fill yer piratey sails, so keep a weather eye out, yer sails taut, and yer powder dry!

Aarrrgghhh!!!!

--- Cap'n Howarrghd P-)

Revise, Share, and Revise Some More.

The workshop on Saturday at the Franklin Library was a lot of fun (I certainly had fun, and from the smiles on the young writers' faces, I think they did as well). Each person thought up a first sentence for a story. Then we went through and changed the sentence ten different ways; some basic (changing the tense, changing the point of view) and some radical (write in the style of Robert Louis Stevenson; write the sentence in rhyme). By the end we had some amazing differences from where we started. It's a great way to experiment with language and have fun with an idea— and even discover a story you never intended! (Again, kudos to Jennifer Wingertzahn of Clarion Books for introducing me to this terrific idea.)

We followed up with a more focused exercise, with each person choosing an object in the room and writing a description of it, as if the object were part of a story. Once we'd finished, we made a change: we had to describe the object again from the opposite point of view— if our first description was positive, we had to make the new description negative, and vice versa. (Thanks go to my good friend Ruta Sepetys for teaching me this one!)

I chose a half-eaten doughnut (yes, I do the stuff I ask you to do; it's only fair). Most of the class chose an American flag in the corner of the room. (I suspect I was hungrier.)

The responses were terrific, especially when we turned the description around (I knew it was coming; they didn't). That change launched whole new approaches, ranging from seeing the American flag as a modern-day enemy might view it, to the viewpoint of a British officer surrendering to Washington in the Revolutionary War. Wow, these young writers are good!

But perhaps the greatest lesson of the workshop was a little less obvious— the lesson of giving up your fear and sharing what you write. Six young writers had to each swallow their nervousness and read what they had just written out loud. Yikes! But in the end, they learned that they could share it— that there was something of value in what they wrote, and that others could appreciate it. And that's an important lesson to learn, whether you're just writing for a group of friends, a library workshop, or who knows whom on the Internet.

Give it a try! Sure, start with your grandmother (she'll love everything you write), but then take that risk; read it to a friend, a teacher, a writing club... not only will you become more comfortable with sharing, you'll become more comfortable with writing. And that's a great feeling to have.

--- Howard Shirley

Workshoppin'

I'm back with another young writers' workshop this Saturday at the Franklin Public Library in Franklin, Tennessee. This time we'll be having fun with a great exercise I picked up from Jennifer Wingertzahn, an editor at Clarion Books.* It will have you writing and thinking— and you'll surprised at what you can do with a single sentence. If you're a teen who loves to experiment with words, come on in; we're going to have a great time.

For more information, or to sign up, check with Phillip McAndrew, the Young Adult Librarian, here

Saturday, August 9, 10:00 AM to 11:30 AM.

Oh, and Phillip informs me that I need to include this:

FREE REFRESHMENTS!!!

We're not above bribery...

--- Howard Shirley

*Remember the writer's motto: Always steal from the best! (Thanks, Jennifer!)

I've been everywhere, man...

So, in answer to the rather obvious question, "Where have you been?," see above.

Okay, not strictly true. In fact, I've only been to North Carolina and back to Tennessee. And back to North Carolina. And back to Tennessee. And back to North Carolina. And back to Tennessee. And then an unexpected side trip to Alabama. And back to Tennessee. And then across Tennessee. And then to North Carolina, again. And then back home to Tennessee.

So it only feels as if I've been everywhere. (Whew, I'm tired.)

Now, as to why North Carolina, my parents have a summer cottage in the lovely Appalachian mountains just south of the Blue Ridge, and my son was attending summer camp for the first time at Camp Ridgecrest for Boys outside of Asheville, North Carolina. So the back and forth was in part to drop him off and pick him up (yes, we like having him back), and also to see my aunt and uncle who came down from Manhattan to visit my parents at their mountain cottage.

The last back, though, was just for me. My son went to camp, and I did too.

Turns out this year marks the 80th anniversary of the founding of Camp Ridgecrest, which I also attended as a boy. If there is a Paradise on Earth for boys, it is Camp Ridgecrest. There are mountain trails to hike. Mountain streams to catch crayfish in (after which you boil them over your camp fire). A mountain lake to swim in, splash in, jump in, slide in, zip-line in, and blob in. (What's a blob? It's a giant air-pillow floating in a lake. You jump on it from a tower, crawl to the end, and wait for the next kid— the bigger he is, the better— to jump on the other end. UP in the air you go with a yell, and down— SPLASH— into the lake. (Which, by the way is fed by mountain streams; brrrrr!!!)

At Ridgecrest there are campouts. Bonfires. Water balloon fights. Sock wars.

Wait, you ask. What's a "sock war?"

It's basically a humongous game of Capture the Flag, played all over camp. With socks.

Well, not socks that are worn, but socks that are thrown. The socks are filled with soft dirt or sawdust, and they are the weapons used by the two armies in this massive fight. Some of the troops tuck their socks into tight little balls, so as to make more accurate missiles. Others use long tube socks, whipping them through the air like flails for "whack-I-got-you" close combat action. If you're hit by a sock, you're temporarily out of the fight, and have to report to a neutral zone, where judges record you as a score for the other team. Naturally, capturing the enemy flag and bringing it to the neutral zone also scores points for your team. The high scoring army wins the war (which lasts about two hours).

And yes, during the Reunion weekend, I joined the war. There I am, forty-three year old dad, running around with kids and young men ages 6-26, yelling my head off and throwing socks. I ran down narrow forest paths. I dodged through rhododendron thickets. I slid through mud. I wound up with two long scratches on my leg and one across my wrist from whipping branches. I got hit in the head twice (head shots don't count as outs), and elsewhere about five times. By the end I was hot, thirsty, and exhausted. In short, it was one of the best days I've had all year. And I still don't know if my team won or not!

To borrow a saying from the Marines: You can take the boy out of the camp, but you'll never take the camp out of the boy.

--- Howard Shirley, aka Camp Ridgecrest Son of Chief "Talented Peacock"*

*My "Indian" name from the Camp Ridgecrest Indian Council Ring, given to me by the brave, stalwart, noble and very mischievous Little Chiefs of Camp Ridgecrest in 1982.

Street Cred, circa 2008, 1944 & 1928

I'm not an FBI agent, but I got to play one this month. I just finished off the "FBI Citizens' Academy," which was my opportunity to learn about the FBI, what they do and who they are, without the absurd filter offered by Hollywood movies and over-the-top TV shows. (CSI, Numbers, etc... you know who you are.)

After six weeks of learning about anti-terrorism efforts, gangs, organized crime, counterespionage, bank robbers and cyber-crimes, on our last day we moved to the local police firing range for the most eagerly anticipated session: firearms training.

That's right. I got to blow stuff away.

The first picture here is me shooting an MP5, the standard issue FBI "long gun." MP stands for "Machine Pistol", which simply means this is an automatic rifle that shoots a pistol round. (In this case, a 10mm round. It can also shoot a 9mm round, but that "rattles going down the barrel" according to my instructor). Automatic is a bit misleading here, and it's possible I'm using that term incorrectly. "Semi-automatic" means a weapon shoots one round (one bullet) with each pull of the trigger, without the operator having to cock the weapon or take any other action for each shot. "Automatic" means the weapon just keeps firing rounds as long as the trigger is pulled. A machine-gun is an automatic weapon; a typical pistol (such as a Glock, which I also shot), is semi-automatic. In the case of the MP5, it has a two-shot burst function, which automatically shoots two rounds with each pull of the trigger. Yes, that's fun. But the second round definitely does not land where the first one did, thanks to the kick of the first shot. But it lands close enough.

(I was the most accurate for the day with this weapon, landing a "right-between-the-eyes" single round shot on our paper target.)

The second photo is the FBI's standard issue "sawed-off" shotgun. It's a three-shot, pump-action model with a shorter barrel (13") than the public can purchase (most shotguns have an 18" barrel). The shorter barrel is less accurate, but the FBI prefers it because it's easier to handle when getting out of a vehicle. This puppy has a kick on it, but it was easy to shoot. I took the standard approach, aimed for the biggest part of the target, and bam, pump, bam, pump, bam. Three solid hits. Where on the target? It's a shotgun... it doesn't matter where. In this photo you can see one of the targets we were using. His name, apparently, was Will. (Think about it...)* By the end of the day, poor Will was completely missing from the shotgun target, and the steel backboard itself was bent back to the point all you could see of it was a tiny tip. And people were still hitting that, three-for-three. Like I said, with a shotgun, "where" doesn't matter.

The third picture is a World War Two "grease gun." Yes, this gun is sixty years old. It's a pure machine-gun. It doesn't do anything except automatic. Pull the trigger and bbbbrrrrraaaaapppp, the bullets fly out. According to our instructors, this weapon was used by Allied tank soldiers, and also dropped behind enemy lines to resistance fighters because it was so cheap to manufacture (about $12 per gun at the time). It's called a "grease gun" because it looks like the grease guns 1940's mechanics used to lubricate automobile parts. The main thing I learned about this gun was to hold it steady and use short bursts. As soon as you squeeze the trigger the gun starts dancing upwards; my first time with this gun, I could hear the "spang-spang-spang" as the last of my shots hit the backstop's roof. "You, and your house, pal!" This gun was so much fun, I shot it twice.

Lastly, you'll see a genuine Thompson machine-gun from 1928. That's right, a Tommy gun, the star of many a gangster movie. This particular model is called an "overstamp 1928." It was made for the U.S. Navy in 1921, with the ability to shoot over 800 rounds in a minute. The Navy decided that was too much ammo in too short a time, so in 1928 the manufacturer reconfigured the weapon to a rate of about 650 rounds a minute, and stamped an "8" over the old "1" at the end of the date. All I can say is, 800 or 650, either way the target's a goner.

Obviously, I didn't shoot anywhere close to 650 rounds. We used a clip of 10 rounds. It doesn't take long to fire 10 bullets with a Tommy gun. Rat-a-tat-tat, you're done— but so is the target.

If you're familiar with the Tommy gun, you may have seen photos of the big round drum magazines that look a little like a black cheese wheel stuck under the bottom of the barrel. We didn't use one of these because a gun with a fully-loaded drum magazine weighs 45 pounds (!). Imagine trying to aim a sack of potatoes, and you'll understand why I was happy to take a pass on that experience. 

As a writer, it's important that I seek out new experiences; every one is another tool on my belt to add depth to my stories. I may not be writing a novel about the FBI today, but tomorrow... who knows? Someday I might want to describe the experience of shooting a grease gun; now I can, because I've done it.

And yes, it was just darn cool.

--- Howard Shirley

*Our instructions were to "Fire at will." Yeah, old joke, and a groaner. That's life for Will.

Hopeful Writer & the Unsolicited Manuscript (Part 3)

It's a trilogy! (So read Parts 1 & 2 or you'll be even more muddled than everyone else.)

Our story so far: 955 A.D. It is a time when men were knights, days were dark, and everybody was therefore thoroughly confused. Hopeful Writer and the Knights of the Library Study Table have embarked on a grand quest to find a publishing house. Following the SCBWI-Mercia Regional Conference (and a confusing encounter with the terrifying Agent), they have decided to brave all and seek the publisher themselves.

Cue dramatic music.

Hopeful Writer & the Unsolicited Manuscript

Part 3

by Howard Shirley

Exterior, wide shot. Low hill in foreground. A tall, imposing castle rises from a high ridge in the background, silhouetted dramatically against the sky. HOPEFUL WRITER, EAGER ILLUSTRATOR, NUMBED FINGERS, SINCERELY the SUBMITTED and REPETE the REJECTED, enter the scene from the foot of the low hill, backs to the camera. They struggle to the top of the hill and stop.

Cut to close-up of HW, EI, NF, SS, RR staring into the distance.

HW (pointing): At last— the Publisher!

EI.: The Publisher!

NF: The Publisher!

SS: The Publisher!

RR: It’s only an imprint.

OTHER KNIGHTS (to RR): Shhh!

Cut away to exterior, below the walls of the castle. The Knights of the Library Study Table approach.

EI (looking around): There doesn’t seem to be a door. Not even a drawbridge.

RR: Of course not. It’s a closed house.

HW: I always wondered what that meant.

SS: Maybe they’ll take a query?

NF: We can try.

HW: I’ll do it. (Looks up at castle, calls out) Excuse me! Hello?

Cut to shot looking up at battlements. The ASSISTANT ASSOCIATE EDITORIAL ASSISTANT (AAEA) appears.

AAEA: What do you want?

HW: Greetings! Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?

AAEA: I’m the Assistant Associate Editorial Assistant.

The KNIGHTS look at each other, trying to puzzle this out.

HW: Greetings, most noble “Assoc...” no, “Edit...” no, that’s not it either... Greetings most noble sir... (NF kicks him)... Madam! I mean, Greetings most noble madam! We are four...

SS: Five!

HW: Five! Uh, humble writers on a quest to find a home for our manuscripts, a quest bestowed upon us by The Agent Him (NF kicks him again)... uh, HERself.

EI: You know, I’m not a writer yet. I do illustrations, so maybe it is four.

HW: So we four writers...

EI: And an illustrator!

HW: Right. And an illustrator would like to respectfully submit our manuscripts to your house.

SS: Oh, well put!

AAEA: No thank you. We’ve already got one.

HW: She says they’ve already got one.

Cut to AAEA inside battlements. The ASSOCIATE ASSISTANT EDITORIAL ASSOCIATE (AAEA 2) is sitting out of sight of the KNIGHTS.

AAEA: I told them we’ve already got one.

AAEA 2 (snickers)

Cut to KNIGHTS.

NF: They’ve already got one? What’s that supposed to mean?

EI: One what?

HW: A manuscript, I guess.

RR: But they don’t have any of ours. I think it’s just a stalling tactic.

SS: A stalling tactic?

RR: To see if we’re persistent. A weeding technique.

NF: Maybe if we try a different editor?

HW (to castle): Is there anyone else we can talk to?

AAEA 2 is now standing on the battlements, and AAEA is out of sight.

AAEA 2: No. Now go away, or I shall reject you a second time.

EI: Is that the same person?

NF: It doesn’t look like the same person.

SS: I know the turnover rate in publishing is really bad, but this is ridiculous.

HW: Did anybody pick up the latest edition of Writer’s Market at the conference?

RR (holds up book): Door prize!

NF: Well, look her up.

HW (takes book, thumbs through it.): It says here she’s the “Associate Assistant Editorial Associate.”

EI: So, she is who we queried the first time.

NF: No, that was the Assistant Associate Editorial Assistant.

RR: What’s the difference?

AAEA 2 (from battlement): Wash room privileges!

HW: So, what do we do?

EI: Send chocolate?

SS: Wrap it in gold ribbon; catch her eye.

RR: Just tell her we saw her at a conference.

NF: Did we see her at a conference?

RR: Could have. They all blur together after awhile.

NF: The editors, or the conferences?

RR: Both.

HW (to AAEA 2): We, uhm, heard you at a conference. Will you at least take a sample?

AAEA 2: Oh, all right. Lob one over the transom.

NF: Over the what?

RR: She means to send her something without an agent.

SS: I thought we just did that.

EI: No, that was the query. This will be a sample.

SS: Oh.

(Suddenly something strikes RR on the head. RR falls over.)

HW: Repete! Are you okay? What hit you?

RR (lying on ground, holds up a piece of paper tied to a rock; weakly): Submission guidelines.

SS: Way to take one for the team, Repete!

NF: We’d better follow these exactly.

EI (opens paper): These are very odd.

HW: Where are we going to find that much chocolate?

RR (from ground, weakly): Little help, please?

Cut to full shot of AAEA 2 looking over the battlements. AAEA peeks above the edge.

Cut to shot of woods; no one can be seen. Sounds of typing, cries of “More paper!” “Paper jam!”“We’re out of toner!” “HOW much is this costing us in ink?!?”

Cut to extreme close-up of a wrapped package tied up in gold ribbon. The package is labeled: “Requested at Conference You Were At This Year. Really.”

Cut to shot of KNIGHTS, all helping to carry the package.

NF: Do we have enough postage on this thing?

RR: Postage? We’re not using postage.

NF: Then how are we going to send it?

HW: Just like she said. We’re lobbing it over.  All right everybody, on the count of four!

SS: But there are five of us.

EI: But I’m the illustrator. That makes four.

RR: Will you guys quit yammering and help toss the package?

(They begin swinging the package back and forth to the count.)

HW: One! Two! Three! Five!

OTHER KNIGHTS: FOUR!

HW: Right! Four!

They toss.

Cut to wide shot of package sailing through the air and over the wall.

Cut to shot of AAEA and AAEA 2 watching the package.

AAEA 2: Nice lob. I didn’t think they’d have enough postage.

AAEA: Fetchez le voche!

AAEA 2: What?

AAEA: Sorry, wrong idiom. Get the you-know-what.

AAEA 2 (thumbing through French-English dictionary.): You want a cow?

AAEA: No! Look, I already apologized about the idiom. Get the you-know-what!

AAEA 2: Oh! The you-know-what. Gotcha!

Cut to KNIGHTS. They’re sitting on the ground, looking bored.

NF: So, what’s the response time on this publisher?

SS: Did anybody check Verla Kay?

SFX: Loud “twang.” Whooshing sound.

EI: Wait. I think I hear something!

Knights look up.

Cut to extreme close-up of falling package.

Cut to Knights, looking in fear.

KNIGHTS: Ah! Flee! Run away!

Knights run.

Package hits RR on the head.

RR: Like I didn’t see that one coming. (Falls over.)

SS: Neat! Who included the return postage?

NF: Seemed like a good idea.

RR (from ground, weakly): Oh yeah. Terrific.

EI: What’s in it? Revision notes? They want the manuscript?

HW: I’ll open it. (Takes package.)

RR (from ground): Don’t mind me. I’m all right. Really.

HW (opens package): It’s a rock.

SS: That’s what I’d call a solid rejection.

EI: But there’s a note.

NF (reading): “Thanks for the manuscript. We needed the fire starter. P.S. The chocolate was delicious.”

SS: Well, it’s very personable. Maybe they’d like to see something else?

RR (from ground): Mind if I move first? Like, to a bunker?

HW: We’ve got to get it past the associate assistants. Make the editor-in-chief want the book.

SS: I’ve got it! Listen up, here’s what we do...

Cut to battlements. AAEA and AAEA 2 look over in curiosity again.

Cut to forest. More cries: “Dang! The printer needs a new drum!”  “Geez, might as well buy a new printer!” “This is all tax deductible, right?”

Cut to close-up of new package. The knights carry it up near the castle, then place a big sign on it.

Cut to sign: New Original Manuscript By J.K. Rowling. Seriously.

The knights sneak off.

Cut to knights watching from bushes.

Cut to castle. A portion of the wall opens, and AAEA sneaks out, looking around for watchers. Seeing none, she picks up package and sign and sneaks back through opening. It closes.

SS: A secret passage! I knew it!

NF: Okay, now what?

SS: Oh, it’s simple. The big editor will want that one. He’ll read the letter, where we apologize for the Rowling bit, and he’ll be so impressed by our cleverness that he’ll read the manuscript, and...

HW: Wait. What letter was that?

SS: The cover letter.

HW: I didn’t write a cover letter. (to NF) Did you write a cover letter?

NF: Not me. (to EI) Did you?

EI: I’m an illustrator, remember? Art speaks for itself.

RR: Oh crap.

SFX: Loud “twang.” Falling noise.

KNIGHTS: Flee! Run away!

The knights run.

A package hits RR on the head.

RR: Why did I bother to get up? (Falls over.)

NF: My, that was fast.

SS: Ya know, I don’t think this is the right publisher for us.

RR (weakly, from the ground): What was your first clue?

HW: Well, we’ve been thoroughly rejected. What do we do now?

NF: Same thing we do after every rejection.

EI: Try to take over the world?

RR (from ground): Python, not Pinky!

NF: Attend another conference.

ALL: Right!

SS: Hey, there’s still some chocolate in this package. Anybody want a coconut creme?

FADE TO BLACK.

END CREDITS:

A Knights of the Library Study Table Production.

This is a work of fiction. All characters in this production are entirely made up. Really. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No actual writers were harmed in the making of this film.

RR (voice over): Speak for yourself. Those packages hurt.

Fade to black.

TITLE:FINIS.

SUBTITLE: What? Don’t start this again!

---

The tale is done, but the quest never ends.

--- Howard Shirley