Rey Residency Day 14 - Lots of Drawings and A Daring Robbery!

Day 14 - My last day as Artist in Residence at the Margret and H.A. Rey Center in Waterville Valley is one filled with a surprising amount of emotion.

I'm primarily emotional about the fact that I have to lug all my stuff down three floors without being able to conscript my kids into doing it for me. Because they aren't here.

I considered calling the police to see if that's a service they offer here in town, but it seemed ill-advised for some reason. Especially after the whole Barbie thing.

As I packed up my belongings, I thought it might be fun to take a look at all the work I've completed here.

I began laying out my drawings on the floor. I had to push a table out of the way. Then a foot rest. Then a couch.

It was a lot of work.

Somehow, in between searching for garden elves, hunting for purple chairs, searching for letters in bottles, chronicling Barbie's last precious hours on earth, collecting bottles of wine, going to dinners, hiking mountains, and searching for elusive gazebos, I did a lot of work.

I could have done more if it hadn't been for that stupid Barbie and those enticing gazebos. Oh, and the wine.

I spent a lot of time during the residency thinking about what an amazing opportunity it was. I feel so lucky that I was able to spend two carefree weeks, focusing on nothing but my passion. By which I mean art; not wine. Wine isn't my passion. It's a hobby. There's a difference.

I cannot even begin to express my thanks to all the people who made it happen. The Margret and H.A. Rey Center Board of Directors, The Rey Center volunteers, the staff and students at Waterville Valley Elementary School, and all the new friends I made in Waterville Valley who showed me around, invited me to dinners, sent me on snipe hunts to find gazebos that do not exist, made me eggplant calzones, opened their homes to me, gave me wine, cleaned my house, posed for ridiculous pictures, and generally made this one of the most wonderful experiences of my life.

I thank you all very sincerely.

I'm certain that I will never have any idea of all the work that went into making this all happen, but as the first Artist in Residence, I hope that this is the beginning of a long tradition. It was an incredible honor and an opportunity I hope many other artists are able to experience in the years to come.

As the last few items were shoved into the car and the bike was strapped on to the bike carrier, I went over to Chris and Len's house to say goodbye and thank them again for letting me stay in their guest house and for their incredible hospitality throughout my entire stay.

Chris and me. Len was taking the picture. We should have had the dog take it so Len could be in here with us!

I climbed into the car and, with one last photo of my lodgings, headed home.

Actually, I'll be back because I found out that I accidentally brought home a piece of Chris and Len's Tupperware. Sorry, guys! I'll return it sometime.

One last time, most sincerely, thank you all so very much.

Curses. Foiled Again.

You know when you think you have a really, really, really great idea?
And you don't do anything about it?
And then, a few months later you hear about someone who just became fabulously rich because of that same great idea?
Admit it. That's never really happened to you.
It's never really happened to me, either.
Except for the part about thinking that I had a really, really, really great idea.
A couple years ago, I had an idea for a book that I wanted to write.
This is not entirely unprecedented, given my career as a writer. I am prone to having many, many ideas that I think are wonderful.
Most of them wind up being less wonderful than I had originally anticipated, but that's the way it goes.

Even if I never had any more wonderful ideas, I would still have access to innumerable ideas supplied by other people. Nearly every event is seen as of a wealth of brilliant potential that I am simply wasting. Not a day goes by when there isn't some event–such as a person eating a sandwich and having a glob of jelly squirt out the backside–and the person will say, "Whoa. I'll bet you could write a book about that, huh?"

"About jelly?" I will ask.

"Well, yeah. But you'd make it all funny and crazy and stuff."

"Funny, crazy jelly?" I will ask.

"Maybe it could be a book about a dog who loves jelly."

For some reason, most of the book ideas people propose to me are about their zany friends or their dogs.

I am genuinely grateful for this input, as it relieves me entirely of the need to create anything on my own.

There are occasions, however, when, despite everyone's brilliant input, I am able to come up with an idea that I think is really, really, really great.

And, as I said, a couple years ago, I had just such an idea for a book.

And, lest I wake up a few months later, seeing my idea as the new number one  New York Times bestseller, I acted on this idea.

I spent nearly ten months, slaving away for hours every day on this brilliant opus.

I toiled and sweated and wrote and rewrote.

And when it was done, I had a staggering work of nearly 250,000 words. The average novel, by comparison is in the neighborhood of 80,000-100,000 words. So obviously, mine was not an average novel.

I was eager to share my genius with the world. I sent it to a few close friends and asked them for commentary.

One friend gave me actual, wonderful feedback.

The rest of them offered feedback like, "Um, no I haven't gotten through that yet" and "Did you just spend all your time looking through the thesaurus so you could sound like a pompous ass?"

The most concise observation came from my brother who said, "I only got through the first 30 pages or so. That was awful."

Undaunted, I carried on.

I made changes, fixed things and cut the book down to its barest elements, reducing it to a lean 242,000 words. Obviously, removing any more would mean depriving the world of my genius.

Convinced of this genius, I actually wrote a query letter to an agent, seeking representation for this book.

An agent is the person who will sell your book to a publisher for you in exchange for a mere 20% of every penny you ever earn on that book. A query letter is when you beg someone to look at your work of genius.

The agent I selected represents a few of my favorite authors and is a very serious big time hot-shot agent.

He responded to my query email within 20 minutes, saying that, since my letter was so great, he wanted to see the entire manuscript.

This is absolutely true.

So, I naturally did a tippy-toe dance of unbridled ecstasy around my home.

I sent him my slim and trim 242,000 word epic and admitted that I was still in the process of revising it, so maybe he should consider this the extended director's cut version.

A few weeks later, I heard from the agent's assistant, who loved the book, but suggested that a bit more cutting, enough to reduce the book to 80-90,000 words might be in order.

I dutifully went to work, excising pages and pages and pages of brilliant prose. Tears dribbled into my computer as favorite passages were ruthlessly cut.

I sent the revised story, now a filmy, shadowy 103,000 words.

After several months of eager anticipation, I checked on the book's status. "We're still quite interested. Other agents in the company are looking it over. Based on how well received it has been, there is a very real chance that we will represent this book."

And so I waited several more months before getting an email that said, "We would like to possibly represent this book if you are open to more editorial revisions."

After more tippy-toe dancing of ecstasy, I eagerly agreed.

I waited 5 months, but the suggested changes never arrived. After all my possible restraint was worn away, I, once again, emailed to find out what was happening. An anxious, sleepless week later, I still had no reply. So I called. A reckless and desperate move, I fully concede.

"I'll try to get an answer for you by the end of the day," I was told by the agent's assistant.

The end of the day came and went, but the next afternoon, there, in my inbox was an email with the cheery subject, "Hi Marty".


I took several deep breaths and clicked on the email:

Hi Marty,

I'm writing to say that unfortunately we have a very full client list and don't feel passionate enough about your project to offer notes and effectively represent you. We wish you the very best of luck in your search for representation. I apologize for the long delay in getting you a final answer. Our office was undergoing several transitions. Taste in fiction is subjective and I hope you find another agency who's opinion of your work overrides ours. 

Then I took several more deep breaths and tried not to cry.

I can't describe the disappointment of that email. Mostly because of the content, but also because of the improperly used word "who's".

I stewed and steamed and fumed and raged.

And then I got over it and carried on.

I've already got queries out to a few other agents, who seem like they may be an even better fit for me and my book.

And if that doesn't work out, I can always write another book. Maybe one about a dog who loves jelly.

With Friends Like This, Who Needs Giant Dancing Cows or Body Cavity Searches?

It happens more often than I care to admit.

People stop me on the street and say, "Wow. Do you really live the life of unbridled excess and hedonistic debauchery that you describe on your blog?"

To which, I am forced to reply, "You bet."

Because, otherwise, how could you explain this?

You cannot explain this.

Face it. You're jealous.

You see me and you think, "Wow. That guy is so lucky. He gets to go to the food court at a mall and play the djembe drum while a giant cow in a tie-dye shirt hops around."

And you are correct.

And, while it is not technically my job, it is as close to a job as I have at times. As an author/illustrator/back-up drummer, my life is a thrilling, non-stop adventure of thrilling, non-stop adventures.

Let us take, for example, last Thursday, a fairly typical day in my life:

6:10 a.m. Slap vigorously and impotently at alarm clock for several seconds.  Attempt to convince Kerri to get up and put the kids on the bus for school. Fail. Get up. Get kids on the bus.

7:20 a.m. Drink coffee while sitting on the couch, reading over the manuscript of the chapter book I'm working on. Decide that the insane, brainwashed squirrel sub-plot may be a bit esoteric for fourth grade readers. Substitute mushroom fart sub-plot. Laugh until coffee spits over my computer keyboard. Lament the fact that, at 40, even the thought of farts still makes me laugh out loud.

9:30 a.m. Answer some emails. Arrange two school visits. Update my calendar. Do some boring business stuff. Lament the fact that I am doing business stuff and not writing about farts. Laugh out loud, because I thought about farts.

10:00 a.m. Answer phone. Hope it is a telemarketer because I am dying to try to convince one that he has just called a murder crime scene and, as a result, is now a prime suspect. It is my buddy Steve. Try to convince him that he has just called a murder crime scene. Fail. Resort to telling him about the fart scene I wrote in the book. Steve pities me and laughs in a patronizing way because he doesn't want to hurt my feelings. Steve tells me that he is playing some music at the food court at the mall at 1:00 and invites me to join him. Ask Kerri, and she gives me permission to go out and play. Then she gives me a list of things to pick up at the mall, "since I'll be there anyway." Curse life. Curse the mall.

11:30 a.m. Make a delicious lunch.

11:45 a.m. Eat delicious lunch, though deliciousness is dulled by the thought that I will be digesting it at the mall. Curse mall again.

12:00 Leave for mall, second only to Wal-Mart for places I never go. Continue cursing mall. Also curse Wal-Mart simply for existing.

12:15 p.m. Pass NH Women's Correctional Facility en route to mall. Rubber-neck to make sure that there are no exciting prison breaks underway. Spot sheriff's van in rear-view mirror. Stop rubber-necking.

12:15:30 p.m. Notice that sheriff's van has lights on. Pull over to let it pass.

12:15:40 p.m. Sheriff's van pulls over behind me.

12:15:42 p.m. Say a very, very bad word. Several times. Loudly. Curse mall while I'm at it. Also Wal-Mart.

12:17 p.m. Watch as two sheriffs exit their van and walk warily up to my extremely threatening 1993 Toyota Camry. Become extremely nervous as one sheriff posts himself at my passenger window, while the second approaches my window and says, "License and registration."

12:17:30 p.m. In state of extreme nervousness, hand sheriff my Visa debit card as I lean over to get registration.

12:18 p.m. Laugh in lighthearted way as sheriff returns Visa with witty comment, "I don't take Visa."

12:19 p.m. Attempt to exit vehicle when sheriff explains that I do not have a rear license plate. Am told in a firm manner to, "Remain in my vehicle." Remain in vehicle. Say a very, very bad word. Several times. Quietly.

12:19:30 p.m. Wonder who stole my license plate while sheriffs return to their van and chat about me with headquarters.

12:22 p.m. Watch as both sheriffs once again flank my vehicle. Say a very, very bad word. Several times. Silently. Prepare for extremely unpleasant body cavity search. Listen politely as sheriff explains that I should report my plate missing to my local police department. Thank sheriff for not searching my cavities.

12:45 p.m. Arrive late for show with Steve.

12:46 p.m. Walk into mall food court and experience chaos and pandemonium in toddler play area, where we will be playing. Say a very, very bad word. Several times. In my head.

12:46:30 p.m. Attempt to weasel out of show by feigning own death. Fail.

1:00 p.m. With no idea of what songs we will be playing or what I will be doing, we begin show.

1:01 p.m. 18 month old kid begins rooting through my backpack as I play song. Smiling mother watches child poke through my belongings.

1:06 p.m. Toddlers begin to dance and twirl to Steve's hypnotic grooves. They spin and jump and slam into each other as all the parents sit along the periphery, texting people who are not at the mall.

The audience gets a rare chance to be close enough to step on the performer's toes.

1:07 p.m. Same 18 month old finds my car keys. Mother smiles contentedly and tell girl, "Good job." I think that this kid may have stolen my license plates. Check my pocket. Wallet is still there.

1:16 p.m. Steve tells audience that we will now play a song that I have never even heard before. I do not even bat an eye, because Steve does this to me all the time and I am a professional.

1:18 p.m. 18 month old kid begins collecting spare change from my backpack. Mother says, "Good job!"

1:35 p.m. Gurt, the giant tie-dye clad cow appears and crowd of toddlers is absolutely terrified. I am terrified, as well, but I wear a brave face.

I know Gurt will not harm me, but still, I am fearful.

1:37 p.m. 18 month old has now taken my camera and is taking pictures. Mother says, "Remember to watch the composition, sweetie."

Toddlers are generally fairly lousy photographers. This is just awful.

1:40 p.m. Toddlers begin getting braver about giant, dancing cow in their midst. Steve reminds audience that Gurt does not need to be milked.

"Please don't milk Gurt!"

1:45 p.m. We play final song. Gurt goes away. Young audience members are sad to see Gurt leave and wander disconsolately back to their texting parents, who are completely unaware that a show has occurred.

1:46 p.m. Steve asks me if I'd like to join him for a post-show cocktail at a chain restaurant in the mall.

1:46:03 p.m. Steve and I are considering the many choices of libations available.

2:45 p.m. I begin to see poor judgement in my decision to partake of a cocktail before attempting to drive home with no license plates on my vehicle. Curse mall.

2:50 p.m. Ask mall security guard if he might have string or a zip tie so I can put my front plate on the rear of my car. Am told that they are forbidden, by their lawyers, to supply motorists with anything, lest the supplied item fail in some deadly manner, rendering them liable. Curse mall security guards.

2:50:15 p.m. Steve makes hilarious, snarky comment about security guard and his daily meeting with his lawyers.

2:55 p.m. Despite the security guard's reluctance to help, I have gathered the necessary supplies from my car and have managed to secure my license plate using a small length of speaker wire and my pen knife.

3:30 p.m. Arrive home safely.

3:32 p.m. Phone police to report stolen license plate. Give them a description of the 18 month old at the mall. Demand an immediate arrest.

4:00 p.m. Spend the rest of the afternoon drawing pictures for chapter book.

6:00 p.m. Tasty dinner. Then more drawing.

9:30 p.m. Go to bed.

6:10 a.m. Wake up. Await the day's phone call.

Or even some really scary kids.

Part of my job as a really, really famous author is to go visit schools and talk about being a really, really famous author. My brother has helpfully pointed out to me that I make more money talking about what I do than doing what I do. To extrapolate on that theme yields the result that talking about what I do is doing what I do. I don't know where that would leave the writing and the artwork, so I prefer not to wander down that dark mental alley.

Visiting schools is always a lot of fun for me. I get a chance to show people how I write my books and how I create the artwork that goes into them. Sometimes I do writing workshops with students and teachers. I love those because I get to share my passion for writing and I don't have to correct any papers after.
I also get a chance to answer questions.
That's when things get really thrilling. Especially when I visit a kindergarten class.
I usually don't have kindergarten come to my presentations, but occasionally, I will go to their classes and read a couple of books to them.
Then I ask if they have any questions.
They always do. Here are a few of my recent favorite kindergarten questions:

"I go to bed at 7,  but sometimes I eat Pop-Tarts for dinner."

"My father works in Boston."

"I love you. What's your name?"

"When is snack?"

And, my all time favorite question asked by a kindergartener:

"Do all wrestlers drive trucks?"

"You bet they do," I told him, "Big red ones. With thumping stereos and giant tires."

"Oh."

He was happy. And I presume I'll see him in the ring some day, sweating and grunting and throwing his opponent around before he drives home in his shiny, red truck.

My first job out of college, with a teaching degree clutched tightly in my hand, was as a kindergarten teacher. It was a summer program and I was able to last for almost a whole month before I teetered dangerously close to the cliff of insanity. I was obviously not built for kindergarten in large doses. I love visiting their classes now, though. Because I know that, no matter how scary those kindergarteners might be, I can visit with them, make them laugh, and then escape!

Typically, I find that things go very well with the older kids, too. Even the ones who start out being too cool to listen to a lame-o picture book writer usually have a very good time in my presentations. Possibly because I remind them frequently that they are out of class and not currently taking a math test.  That makes me look cool to them.
Either that or my shiny red truck.