Two weeks ago, I posted a contest on my blog to win a free, signed copy of my upcoming children’s book Sarah Gives Thanks.
The response was incredible! It’s amazing; all ya gotta say is “Win my book!” and people will stop by to say “Hi!” and “Gimmie a book!” That’s certainly what I would do; offer me a chance to win a free book and I’ll prove it.
You had to be in it to win it!
To be entered in the contest all you had to do was to come up with a clever interview question for illustrator extraordinaire David Gardner. Then, because getting questions without answers isn’t all that interesting, I also asked you to answer the questions you provided.
A lot of great questions came in. (And, yes, a couple of wisenheimer ones came in, too.) After taking pains to narrow them down, I am pleased to report that my co-interviewers are:
Now don’t fret if you don’t see yourself up there. As long as you asked and answered a question (no matter how wisenheimer-y) your name was put in the hat to win the book.
And now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for: The Big Winner!
To keep things good and fair, I brought in an unbiased third party to draw the winning card.
The sober judge.
Isn’t he cute?
OK, let’s get started!
Shuffle…shuffle…And the winner is…Ta daa!
MADAME WEEBLES!
Congratulations, Madame! To collect your prize, please go up to the menu option “Write Me A Note” and give me your mailing address. As soon as the book comes out in September, I will send you a personalized copy.
Thanks to everyone who entered!
And for those of you who STILL want a free book, go toDavid Gardner’s Blog right now. He’s decided to hold the EXACT SAME CONTEST! Good Luck!
If you’re one of those charming, organized folks who prefers to read “Part Ones” before “Part Twos,” have no fear. My first burro post is right here. Enjoy!
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My wife, Ellen, thinks she is The Burro Whisperer. She came to this conclusion largely because of Burrito, a denizen of an area petting zoo, who trots over to her every time she shows up and grunts with delight when she pets his nose.
Need more evidence? Fine. She also sleeps with a stuffed Eeyore. Case closed.
The problem with Ellen’s reasoning is that Burrito will trot over to anyone for nose pets and, well, Eeyore is a doll.
But that’s neither here nor there. When we visit burros that are not Burrito, Ellen (who, it should be said, is smarter than me on most other matters) has a difficult time grasping that all burros are not exactly the same.
This was brought into focus on a recent trip to Intercourse, Pennsylvania (which is just one of the many towns in Lancaster County with a sort-of-pervy name), at a place called Kitchen Kettle Village (which is a tourist shopping Mecca that sells everything you could ever possibly want – provided that everything you want is jam).
Kitchen Kettle Village also has a tiny petting zoo that no one ever visits. Petting animals, I guess, distracts from all of that jam-buying.
I kid you not.
The zoo has a burro, so Ellen was on cloud nine. She leaned over the fence to get his attention. She “hello-ed” and knocked on the split rail fence posts.
Mr. Burro, however, wanted none of this. He sat in the center of his pen and made a pretty good show of ignoring her. He positioned his ample burro butt in her direction and stared at a wall. The only thing he could’ve done to make his wishes more obvious was to bury his nose behind a newspaper.
Ellen, however, wasn’t getting the message. She redoubled her efforts, knocking louder and faster and switching from “hellos” to more urgent “yoo-hoos.” Alex, our six-year-old, and I were too busy introducing ourselves to a group of personable goats to notice what Ellen was doing at first, but her doggedness soon became hard to ignore.
Alex played the role of diplomat. “Momma,” he said. “I don’t think he wants to be pet.”
I was less diplomatic. “Geeze, Ellen. Knock it off. Can’t you see he wants to be left alone?”
But then, as if to prove me wrong, Mr. Burro stood up, stretched a moment, and sauntered toward her.
Ellen was flush with triumph. She shot me a look. I was familiar with this look. It was a look that said, “See? You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. As usual. But go ahead and keep talking. No, no, go ahead. I’m listening. I’ll listen while I pet this burro that doesn’t want to be pet.”
The burro approached the fence. He batted his eyelashes. Ellen was smitten. It looked like they were going to be fast friends.
Then, as Ellen reached into the pen to pet his nose, Mr. Burro lunged out in an attempt to bite hers off.
I’m pleased to report that Ellen has good reflexes. She lurched away just in time and her nose is where it’s always been. Which is good, to say the least.
You shoulda seen the look on your face when I tried to bite ya. Wooo!
What’s also good is that, for the second time in my life, a burro had gotten my creative juices flowing. After a lot of laughs and almost as many rewrites, this past week I sent out a new (Ellen-approved) picture book manuscript that is “inspired by actual events.” Momma No-Nose is the touching story of a mother who, with the help of an artistic son and a Play-Doh proboscis, learns to live life again after a startling petting zoo assault.
There are two lessons to be taken from this story, I think. The first is don’t pester the burros; when their dander is up they can be ruthless killing machines.
The second and far more important lesson is, inspiration is everywhere. So go out and get some!
Do you have an inspiration story you’d like to share? Then write me a comment! I do so love your comments.
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Oh, and if you’re one of those devil-may-care nonconformist folks who prefers to read “Part Twos” before “Part Ones,” you’re in luck. My first burro post is right here. Enjoy!
That deadline is fine! My schedule is wide open! The only thing on my calendar is my kidney transplant.
Writers may have a reputation for being cantankerous loners with drinking problems, but that characterization is not true at all. In my experience, most of you out there are cheery, charming optimists!
Did I just describe you? How lovely! Now, knock it off. That optimism of yours will ruin your career.
Alright, I’m exaggerating, but I would recommend that you adjust your optimism in one particular area: Stop Overpromising.
An optimist often thinks he or she can do more than what is realistically possible. As a magazine editor, I see this type of person all the time.
“Do you think you can have a draft to me in two weeks?” I ask.
“Absolutely!” the writer tells me. And she seriously believes it, too.
But in that moment of certainty, Ms. Optimist forgot to consider (or mention) that she has a sick, aging mother who needs tending; two children at home for summer vacation; another writing assignment she hasn’t exactly started yet; and a full time job that requires her to, you know, work full time.
We can all guess how this story ends. Two weeks come and go and my grubby little hands are empty. In fact, Ms. Optimist hasn’t even started the assignment. Now she’s filled with anxiety, guilt, and self-loathing – which is awful. Then she calls me up and grovels for an extension – which I find awful.
She apologizes upwards and downwards and sideways. Then she goes on about her personal problems – the sick mother, the two kids underfoot, and the other freelance job (that she also hasn’t finished) – begging me to take into consideration the very same things she failed to take into consideration when we agreed upon the deadline two weeks ago. It is not her finest moment.
See what optimism will get you?
So! May I humbly suggest a dash of pessimism?
Allow me to explain: I’m reasonably good at managing my time, so when I think a writing job will take me two weeks to complete, it often does. But, hey, it doesn’t always. Things happen. Who knows what’s waiting for me around the next corner? So when I think a job will take me two weeks, I ask the editor for three (or even four if I can get away with it). I might hear a little sigh of disappointment when I ask for the extra time, but I know that disappointment will later be replaced with delight when I submit my story ahead of deadline.
Full disclosure: I have never been hired by a sea turtle – but if I had, he’d be as happy as this.
Better yet, when my story comes in early, it looks as if I made an extra special effort to make the editor’s life easier. My reputation as Mr. Reliable is duly earned and I play well with others!
It’s easy to look good when you keep your promises under control.
Disney theme parks are especially good at practicing the art of underpromising. When you’re on line for a ride, you will see signs letting you know how much longer you’ll need to wait. Disney World’s wonderful little secret, however, is that when you reach the “30-Minute Wait” sign, you’llnever have to wait 30 minutes. You’ll be on Dumbo’s back in fewer than 15 – and you’ll be happy as a clam because the wait wasn’t nearly as long as you had expected. There’s a reason why Disney World is called “The Happiest Place On Earth.”
Not Disney World.
Now, imagine how happy Disney World would be if the sign said “30 Minute Wait” but you had to wait an hour. You would be livid. The editor whose deadline you missed might be similarly so.
Now I’m gonna tell you my little secret: As a magazine editor, missed deadlines don’t trouble me very much. Some people who don’t know me very well think it’s because I’m an easygoing fella, but, trust me, that’s not the reason. I’m untroubled because I’m a pessimist.
In other words, when I asked that cheery, charming, optimistic writer to get me a story in two weeks, I knew I wasn’t going to need if for another four.
Hey, Look! A Writer Fellow! 