The misadventures of Flat Stanley

by Carola Dunn

Do you know Flat Stanley? It's a kids' picture book about a small boy who's flattened paper-thin in an accident but continues to live with his family and have adventures. Among them is taking a trip in an envelope through the mail.

Many teachers in more than one country have used Flat Stanley as the basis for lessons. A good few years ago, a friend in England sent me her grandson's Flat Stanley--a paper figure cut out and coloured--and asked me to take a picture of him with something distinctively Oregonian. I can't remember what I chose, but I recall sending him on to Australia, and never hearing of his eventual fate.

Last week, my own grandson's Flat Stanley arrived in the mail. I tried to think of somewhere to photograph him that would show the word Oregon. All I could think of in the immediate neighbourhood was the Oregon Community Credit Union. So off we went:

 

Though I didn't actually make him travel on the rear bumper.

When we got there, the only place I could see the word was on the glass door--difficult to photograph. So I took him inside. A bemused but helpful teller gazed around the lobby but the only thing he could find was the manager's University of Oregon tea mug! So here's Stanley having a swig.

 

Home we went, and out into the garden. My grandson lives in Southern California, where rhododendrons don't grow well, so I decided to perch him in my favourite glorious specimen:

 
Not good enough <sigh>. I needed to look farther. Then I remembered the statue downtown of Ken Kesey, author (One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest) and local celebrity, who sits forever reading to his kids in Willamette Plaza. A young couple was sitting between him and his kids, but they kindly moved out of our way. I couldn't fit the children in...

...and I don't know to whom belonged the extra pair of boots!

Next we went off to the library to find Eugene Skinner, pioneer and founder of Eugene City, once known as Skinner's Mudhole. He sat there stoically while I photographed Stanley on his arm.

Lastly, we went into the library, where a carved wooden plaque symbolizing Oregon caught Stanley's eye:

Then back home... and it wasn't till I went to put him back in his envelope next day that I realized he hadn't come with me. Searched everywhere. Had he flown out of the car window? Kidnapped?

In the end, I called the children's librarian, explained, and asked if she'd mind running down to the basement car park to check whether Stanley had spent the night there, stuck to the plaque.

He had. I dashed off to retrieve the rascal. He's now safely sealed in his envelope waiting to be mailed back to my grandson.

The Idea Well

By Beth Terrell

"Where do you get your ideas?"

It's a question that, sooner or later, every writer is bound to hear. In fact, just this week, Nathan Bransford (http://www.nathanbransford.com) asked his readership what had inspired our/their current works in progress, a question similar in spirit, if not in scope. And why not? I'm always intrigued by the workings of other writers' minds, by the spark that flashes when that perfect story idea flits past, and by the fact that an idea that sparks for me may be nothing but a bit of drifting ash to someone else.

Where do you get your ideas? I've heard writers give clever, facile answers:

"I get them from a factory in Poughkeepsie. I send then twenty dollars a month and they send me back ten ideas in a plain manila envelope."

"There's an idea well in my cousin's back yard. Whenever I need a story idea, I go out and pull up a pail full. I always find something I can use."

Others are more forthcoming:

"Newspaper clippings."

"Magazine articles."

"Sixty Minutes."

I think they all mean the same thing. Ideas are everywhere, fireflies on a summer night, stars in a winter sky, an infinite number of beautiful, scattered lights. One current work in progress was inspired by some inexplicable fears and behaviors my grandmother exhibited when she was suffering from dementia. As I attempted to understand what she was going through, I had the idea to write about an woman caring for her grandmother, whose "unreasonable" fears have their roots in long-buried memories. The caregiver never learns those secrets, but the reader does.

Another work in progress, the third in a series, was sparked by a conversation a friend and I had about a couple who created a garden in which thousands of small white wooden crosses represent lives lost to abortion.

Recently, I rediscovered a website I'd come across a few times before:
http://www.trutv.com/library/crime/index.html. This site is an online library of modern and historical crimes. There are also articles on criminal psychology, toxicology, and other topics useful to writers of crime fiction. Stuck for a plot? Skimming these stories about real-life criminals can spark dozens of ideas. What if Sweeney Todd had been born in Chicago in the 1930s? What if someone like Albert Fish took a resourceful child who knew how to fight back? How about a black widow story? What if there was a group of time travelers who kidnapped serial killers in their infancy and raised them in loving, nurturing environments, and what if an evil group of time travelers decided to kidnap some potential killers of their own--and for less benevolent purposes? (Yes, sometimes the idea fireflies lead us far afield.)

Ideas are everywhere. Whether you envision them as fireflies in a field or drops of water in a well, the source is not a factory in Poughkeepsie or in anybody's cousin's back yard. You are the source, and I am, and everything we read, see, or experience helps scatter the stars and fill the well. That is the beauty of writing.

Author Question: "Which way is the restroom?"

By Chester Campbell

We did a book signing last Saturday at a library in a small town south of Nashville where they had a large group of authors from the area. Last year at the same event, I sold enough books to make it well worth the trip. For some reason, that didn't happen this time. I didn't see a lot of signing going on anywhere around me. Not all that many people showed up. My single sale came when another author bought my latest book.

That's me and colleague Beth Terrell at the library.

Signings are funny that way. You never know when one will knock your socks off and another will make you wish you had put on two pairs because the reception is so cold. But invariably you get to meet a number of nice people who make the experience worth experiencing.

When I'm doing a solo signing at a bookstore, my wife, Sarah, plays the role of a warm-up act at a night club. She stands at the entrance and greets people, handing out my small promo folders and telling them the author is signing  at the table "over there." Sometimes, a customer will stop and chat with her about the books. That frequently results in a sale.

She gets most of the questions from people wanting to know the location of the restrooms, where to find the magazines, and who knows what else. I get the ones who want to talk about the book they'd like to write. If somebody is actually working on a book, I'm happy to give my advice on whatever they need to know. It's usually about finding a publisher or an agent. The only problem comes when I get a talkative person who stands there forever, blocking the way for people who might want a book signed.

When Sarah takes a break, I stand at the door and greet the customers. I ask, "Do you read mysteries?" and it's appalling how many come back with, "I don't read books." Makes you want to say, "What the hell are you doing in a bookstore?" Of course, some will tell you they just came for the coffee.

It's interesting to watch people's reactions. Some appear intimidated by the appearance of an author and shy away from the table. Others zip right by as if you weren't there. I used to set up an easel near the table with a large blow-up of the cover of my latest book. However, watching people's eyes, I rarely saw anybody notice the poster.

Invariably, someone will stop at the table, take a book, turn it to the back cover, look at the photo, then up at me. "That's you," they say with a look of surprise. "You wrote this." Duh, if I didn't, why would I be sitting here?

Those you never see enough of are the ones who charge up to the table, grab a book and say, "I want this one. Will you sign it for me?"  Occasionally, at a signing like the Kentucky Book Fair, where I have all my backlist available, a reader will look them over and say, "I want one of each. I can start with the first and go right through them."

On the few occasions where sales have been almost non-existent, I found the person who invited me more distressed than I was. I've been around long enough to know these things happen. But the store manager will apologize profusely. I had one small independent owner who was almost in tears. Heck, everybody has a bad night once in awhile. You move on to the next one and hope for the best.