Laura Dower's Blog

“I’m soooo bored.”

I don’t think I can name another utterance that annoys me more than this one. And that long, droning “sooooo” stuck in there, adding insult to injury.

[image error]The question that shall not be asked.

I admit it. I’m tough on boredom. Chalk it up to years as an only child in the 70s, spent solo in the backyard of wherever we happened to be living at the time. Boredom was not an option for me. I was an overachiever in my solitude.

There it is. It comes at me, shrouded in discontent and accompanied by the queen of all eyerolls.

“I’m soooo bored.”

Full disclosure: I was rarely bored as a kid. I just didn’t see the point. Tired, distracted, all valid things. But who can be bored in a world filled with so much to do? Who can be bored when there are five million books sitting in a library waiting to be read? Who can be bored when watching the sky reveals a 3-act drama: circling birds of prey, jets headed for the airport, and clouds, dancing darkly before a rain? I was blessed with curiosity and encouraged to ask questions. So many–some would say too many–questions.   

Plus, I did stuff.

Shooting hoops and playing 7-Up with a red dodge ball.

Swinging so high in an attempt to completely circumnavigate the all-metal, hideously dangerous and shaky swing set’s top bar.

[image error]

Singing. Dancing (yes, by myself). Inventing entire worlds inside my head and talking to myself in different voices.

Invading the library to borrow every biography and mystery book I could find.

[image error]

Tape-recording the radio with my most prized possession, a cassette recorder.

Writing long, rambling letters to my penpal in Singapore (a match made by the Big Blue Marble show on public TV back then).

Summer is the best possible time to consider boredom. We don’t give our kids much chance to be bored: they work, play tennis and swim on teams with their friends, and read/do homework as needed. They stream TV shows. They play XBox and ride their bikes or skateboard as needed. They even cook and they definitely clean up the dishes and under their beds. Or else. But we actually DO have a ban on these dastardly words:

“I’m soooo bored.”

To be fair, I’m not saying that feelings of boredom don’t occasionally descend upon everyone. But just a ho-hum here, a deep sigh there. To stay in perpetual state of “what now?” and “what’s next?” is frustrating. There is “soooo” much to see and taste and hear and touch. Is anyone really paying attention? Who’s got a sense of gratitude for what we do have?

For me, boredom is like blank space and it’s our job to fill it. Rather than diving into the empty black hole–I choose to see possibility. 

Next time you or someone close to you says, “I’m soooo bored,” here’s a suggestion. Give them the dramatic eye roll. Sure, boredom may be in the eyes of the beholder, but there are many ways to dodge it. 

Start here. Right now. Let your mind wander. Really look at a tree. Flip through a book on the shelf. Tune into a music station you’ve never heard, with music you’ve never considered like “country” or “opera.” Observe. Recognize your own patience. Dream. Doodle. Imagine what it would be like to be a kid or an adult halfway across the world living in abject poverty. Think about how everything can be different: weather, language, clothing, buildings, families. Let your thoughts connect like links on a chain.

[image error]

Remember that being along ain’t all bad if you make up the rules on your own. And finding new friends can be the most wonderful (albeit challenging) scavenger hunt of all. 

And most importantly: all this does not mean you have to stay full-speed busy, never slowing down or stopping. No way! Banning boredom is more about banning our disconnect from the world around us.

Banning boredom. It’s a thing. So, Snap, Insta, make a mega-meme outta THAT.

Just pass it on, people.

#banboredom

[image error]Yeah, I wrote a Madison Finn book with this title. But I was talking about something completely different. Still…

So what happens when every time you feel like Debbie Downer, mired in the yucky, hating on life, ready to run away from reality…there is ALWAYS someone who says, “awww,  really? I don’t understand why you’re unhappy. You have so much to be thankful for.”

Okay, I admit it’s true. That is the right thing to say. That’s the considerate, unselfish, and grateful thing to say. And trust me, I have a lot of gratitude in here.

I get to be creative in my job. I’m a lucky mom to three rapidly growing teenagers. I have a cool best friend/life partner/husband who actually does all the laundry in our house. (I mean ALL the laundry and that’s just like…JACKPOT!) 

And yet. 

Sometimes the intention of gratitude still doesn’t help me deal with the really hard stuff. I try valiantly to shed my sarcastic skin, but it’s stuck on like Gorilla Glue.

I wish and wish sometimes that:

Life didn’t always boil down to how much stuff we all have–or don’t have, as the case may be.The TV didn’t always scream at me, whether the news or some over-the-top commercial for puppy underwear (not a real thing, but you get the idea…). Other drivers actually used turn signals when making turns.People wrote back.People didn’t always let their cell go to voicemail.People said “please” and “thank you” out loud. And held doors open for the next person. And…well, you get the idea.

Gratitude is a concerted effort. We know we should be more grateful, but we’re tired/lazy/angry/frustrated/numb/____________________(fill in the blank). Somewhere along the way, we give up on the inspiration it takes to let our thankfulness shine. We need to let down our guard, be unafraid. We need to reflect on possibility and where we fit in. 

On my front door is a wreath I made with seven bucks, fake flowers, and a glue gun. I put a decorative sign on top, one of those cheesy ones from the fabric and craft store, that reads GIVE THANKS. It was my shortcut to the message at hand. 

Not the actual door sign, but close. 

And I am happy to report that the sign works. Just because. It’s hard NOT to give thanks when some big sign is reminding me to do just that. I’m sort of a sucker for signs. 

Consider yourself reminded, too. Go give thanks all over the place.

And have a candy cane on me. 

[image error]

PS: You know what to do now. Fill in those comment forms down below. Tell me what YOU give thanks for most of the time. 

So Halloween is approaching with its spider webs and candy corns and things that jump out from behind the bushes. Although my own kids have gotten older, they still bristle happily at the idea of getting scared, dressing up, and (of course) consuming as much candy as they possibly can without breaking out into a zit minefield or feeling so nauseous that that don’t even want to hear the word chocolate for weeks. I can think back to the years when the kids dressed as tigers and firefighters and ballerinas and we wheeled them around the block, exhausted. Now they’re off on their own, armed with pillowcases and wearing half-costumes if they get dressed up at all. I myself have dressed up from time to time with a wig, makeup or this monstrously over-sized Dracula cape that covers me from head-to-toe. Since we have three kids, I wanted ALWAYS to dress them as three blind mice or three little pigs, but that never panned out. We’ve been all kinds of witch, ghost, punk, pink, Star Wars character, headless horseman, Puffle, rock star, dinosaur, Cleopatra, and of course, Harry Potter. And this year, my youngest son insisted on Stranger Things: he’s dressing as Steve Harrington, complete with wig and Members Only jacket. His best pal is accompanying him as Dustin. Both will have white buckets, yellow gloves, and a hankering for Demigorgon-sightings, I presume.

The show Stranger Things has set off a wave of 80s nostalgia in our home, capped off by this fitting costume choice. (I mean: MEMBERS ONLY jacket?! Are you joking?) And it’s weird mostly because it makes me realize that time has tripped backwards over itself. It’s as if I’m back trick-or-treating myself, same clothes, same desperate search for candy and monsters. Some things really never change. It’s totally deja-vu all over again.

Monster-hunting has been a secret love of mine since I was much younger. I yearned for Saturdays when the TV channel would broadcast those old, terribly cheesy monster flicks from Japan. Some of my favorites included Rodan, Gamera (turtle?), Mothra (and some teeny tiny women), The Giant Claw, and of course the 18 million versions of Godzilla vs. every other obscure monster imaginable. Most in mighty technicolor! Seriously, is there anything better than a giant moth attacking screaming people? Don’t judge me.

After getting my fill of random monsters of the deep, I’d fall in love all over again with Lon Chaney, Boris Karloff, and Bela Lugosi as Werewolf, Frankenstein’s Monster, and Dracula. Lon was the king. He was not only the Man of A Thousand Faces. He was the great hero of black and white monster flicks, able to conjure up the boogeyman in a variety of costumes and masks. I remember reading a book about him when I was in second or third grade and I was hooked. Seriously: this guy was AWESOME. And even better–his son, Lon Chaney Jr. continued the monster madness in movies of his own.

Lon Sr. was Phantom of the Opera…

He was the sad Quasimodo…

And he did all of his own makeup and hair and costume. Seriously?!

His son Lon Chaney Jr. got into it too and was most famous for his role as the furry-faced Werewolf…

When I worked in kid’s publishing I had the joy of working very closely with our modern day monster man, R.L. Stine, king of scary stories and father of Goosebumps. I fell in love all over again with the creepy and the crawly.

My love of this old genre of monster-tales, my relationship with Stine, are some of the things that inspired me to write my own kid series called Monster Squad featuring a creepy film director named Oswald Leery and some unique kids who try to capture the B-Monsters that have escaped from Leery’s movies. I plan to bring back those stories in a new format someday soon. For now, you can find out about the original editions here and here.

There are so many monstrous things to celebrate in books and film. This time of year reminds me of them all–and of the fact that having “Stranger” kids is like the cherry on my “love of spooky tales” sundae. Not so strange at all, really.

Happy (and spooktacular*) Halloween, everyone!

*the most over-used Halloween pun, right? Seriously, stick a stake in it already. LOL.

*special thanks to the always-inspiring and amazing illustrator, animator, and TV producer Dave Schlafman for his Monster Squad art.

*and one last p.s. comment below and tell me the best-ever costume you ever wore on Halloween. Bring it!

 

Recently, my two sons have enjoyed torturing me with euphemisms (the clever way of describing something difficult or inappropriate) for the always-fascinating and mostly-stinky FARTS. Gosh, it’s almost embarrassing to put that into the interwebs. Butt trumpet seems to be running a close first over heinie honk and the ever-popular rump ripper. Yeah, I know. I need to grab an Airwick just to write that stuff down.

The reason I’m even mentioning the dreaded fart is because this is just one of many interesting subjects I’ve been introduced to thanks to life as a writer. I wish I could say that I sit down at the computer and bask in the sunny glow of my many novels. Ha! Instead, I write a wide variety of material, both fiction and nonfiction, about things I never expected to research. Being a writer has opened up my mind (and heart) to the unusual, the tedious, the frustrating, and the laugh-out-loud-wow-am-I-really-doing-this?

A few years ago, I had the amazing good fortune to be hired as a writer by the Museum of Natural History in NY. Barry Joseph, then director of Digital education (and amazing author of Seltzertopia, a book about the history of seltzer), hired me to work on a project about the Haida Gwaii people. He developed an idea for a children’s tale to accompany one of the existing museum exhibits in the Northwest Coast Hall–and I turned it into something for the storytellers to read aloud.

Hey, what are you looking at? I’m outstanding in my field.

Barry and his team also developed an interactive game to accompany other existing museum exhibits. One game was called MicroRangers: An Exhibit-Based Mobile Gaming Program about Microbial Organisms, Biodiversity, and Human Health. For a relatively non-science savvy human like myself, this was quite the learning experience. I wrote scripts that became the center of the game which played around with a big idea: microbes among us and within us form a lively and dynamic world that influences our health and biology.  My favorite of these quests: showing how bison flatulence increases when they eat the wrong grass and their gut bacteria doesn’t work right (more specifically, what’s a bison to do when it has too many methanogens in its rumen?!) And do all those bison (and cow!) farts contribute to global warming? (Note: the science I have presented here has been way oversimplified for the purposes of this blog).

Bovine and bison gas isn’t the only random writing topic I’ve tackled. There was a placemat “book” about different vehicles (backhoe or tow?), a how-to book packaged with a hula hoop (I tried the horizontal isolation down more times that I choose to admit), and a book on playing the recorder.

One favorite thing I wrote for two years was Yoda’s Puzzle Page, a section of a special magazine called Star War’s Kids. This bi-monthly magazine was created and published to tie-in with the release of the fourth Star Wars flick back in the late 90s, long before Rey and Finn came into our lives. For months, I immersed myself in the Star Wars universe (at one point I could describe in detail the difference between Tatooine, Alderaan, and Kashyyyk). Each month I’d invent an acrostic, word search, code, or other variety of puzzle narrated by green Yoda, Jedi master. Love him I did.

That’s the thing readers may not realize: writing is a lot like being an explorer. It’s a constant learning curve to Destination Anywhere. Most of my fellow author pals have penned books about one-hit-wonder teen stars, animals of every shape and size, and just about every other topic you can imagine. Longtime writers tackle whatever subjects land on their desks. And they develop their senses along the way, especially our sense of humor.

We take on new subjects because the more we learn, the more we know, the BETTER all of our writing gets. Even if we are talking about cow farts.

 

***

This is a page from a journal/book by one of my favorite writers and creative people ever: KERI SMITH. If you are searching for inspiration, check out one of her interactive books. Click here to see the book on Amazon.

 

 

 

If there’s one thing I like best, it’s a good MYSTERY.

This affair of the heart started way back with Nancy Drew (see my other post on that here). I can’t seem to get away from my fascination with whodunnits, crime shows, and anything else that takes place in the shadows. I just heard today they’re doing a reboot of Twilight Zone with Jordan Peele and I went “squee” out loud because, well…yeah. And although there’s a great big canyon between a cozy British mystery and some murder show on cable and the creepy weird that you can find in the coolest Twilight Zone eps or reruns of Alfred Hitchcock Presents (another oldie but goodie)…

Click on Hitchcock for a peek at this cool old show…followed by Twilight Zone highlight reel!

These shows all have one thing in common: these sorts of stories get the little hairs on the back of my neck twitching AND they get my brain buzzing. And there are a bunch of grown up mysteries I love more than anything, too: Minette Walters, Elizabeth George, Ruth Rendell, P.D. James. And yeah, Agatha Christie. Her too. It still makes me smile that she is known as, “the world’s most successful novelist, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare.”

But back to what makes mysteries so marvelous. It’s the clues. It’s the red herrings. It’s the thrill.

It’s the chase. It’s the absolute unknown. It’s because they make me feel like I am part of the best-ever game that’s being played right under my nose.

Naturally the mystery game Clue was my favorite as a kid–it still is–and there’s truly no better feeling than being able to surmise early in the game who did it, where they did it, and with what odd weapon they used. And who doesn’t love going from the conservatory to the lounge in some secret and invisible passage?

Old-fashioned Clue! Learned to play the game on THIS board.

Clue of the 1970s or 1980s? Sometime around there. A very different look but the same awesome game.

Totally modern Clue. There are all sorts of licensed editions now with characters from Potter, the Simpsons, Star Wars–the list goes on…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s so much to love and admire and YET. Here comes the BUT in the title of this post.

I am desperately insecure about actually writing a mystery. I know all the tricks of the trade. I know what makes me jump, but I wonder if I can make a reader cry out, “Ohhhhhh!” or “Eeeeeeek!” (Wait. Does anyone in real life actually ever say “Eeeeek?”)

Despite all reservations, I am undertaking my own challenge. This summer I began (finally!) working on a manuscript that I hope will make the little hairs tingle on the back of my reader’s necks. My new story has all the ingredients for a mystery: an apothecary stuffed with spells and charms, a basement filled with antiques, dark and forbidden graveyards, a wide open shoreline which holds the hidden wreckage of sunken ships, fabulous secret passages, and angry ghosts. And while, sure, none of that is very specific, right now I am in the phase of writing that i like to call “the explosion phase,” (aka brain storm or tornado) when everything comes out in a big swoosh and I’m left splattered with ideas. I’m knee-deep in plot and getting VERY excited about introducing you to some of these new characters…but enough!

Now comes the hard work of puzzling over details and getting the mystery to make sense. My lip is zipped.

In the meantime, here’s a far less tingly but totally fun little mystery which I wrote for last year’s holiday edition of American Girl magazine. It’s a “Mystery at the Blue Hills Diner.” You’re invited to stop in. Don’t forget to have a slice of Miss Ella’s pie…

 

 

Note: have made valiant effort to include links and secret captions and all sorts of “mysterious” blog add-ons.

I’d love it if you’d add your own FAVORITE mystery book/TV show/movie. I love hearing from you! Comment below. Cue the mysterious music.

I used to be a writing machine.

I could churn out chapters, articles, you name it. But along the way, I lost that spark plug of motivation and inspiration. I stopped making lists and checking off boxes. I got a little too “flexible” with my office hours. I spent more time volunteering than writing books. And soon, I was plan-less, and losing my mojo. It’s not that I can’t write. If anything, I hoard ideas in notebooks and folders. I researched one year solid for a nonfiction project. Now that work lives in a binder on my desk. Maybe I have Writer’s Tetris, where one idea moves into place and then slides into another idea and soon “poof!” both ideas crash, explode, and evaporate.

Everyone always asks, “Where do you get your ideas?” I think perhaps a better question would be, “How do you make your ideas happen?” Because ideas are all around us: the newspaper, the people on the train, a rain-cloud exploding into a storm.

Yeah, a literal bolt of lightning.

So seeing and finding ideas isn’t really the issue. The challenge is doing something with those ideas. Making notes. Crafting an outline. Doodling on a piece of paper. Sitting down and churning out 10,000 words over a weekend. I’ve done all of the above.

Confession: I recently admitted to myself that perhaps the biggest thing getting between myself and my best ideas is about 5 inches tall and 3 inches wide (no, I didn’t actually use a ruler I am totally guessing). You guessed it: my smart phone. Like so many of us, I am addicted to social media of some kind. For me, Facebook  has been the draw, although recently I’ve moved into Instagram, Twitter, and many other sites. I’m trying to be as savvy as possible, I tell myself, as I skip from one window to the next, one link after another.

But I know the truth about this confession. Social media can be fun and helpful. Sometimes as a writer, it’s the one place I feel connected in some way to the larger writing and publishing community. I’m emboldened by my friend’s successes and posts about family and travel and whatever else they’re doing. And the occasional bad cat video isn’t so awful, is it? I mean…cats. (Full disclosure: I am allergic and actually hate cats, but I’m clever enough to know cats are cool when they push things off counters. Too cool.)

But my phone is pretty awful. It’s taking away time, brain cells, attention span–all of it. No matter how good a post is or how many tweets rile my political ire or how often I click through one site to another in search of the best story or–forgive me–online quiz, that phone is taking me away from the world, from the hum of voices nearby, from the cool breeze blowing on the back of my neck, from the sound of rain on my roof. And what is it someone once said in some TV show, “A phone never loves you back.”

Let’s face it, my phone has shanghaied me from my manuscripts. I’ve let myself grow overwhelmed and distracted. I jokingly say, “I’m brain-dead” when I realize an hour has passed and I’m still punching on the phone keyboard. But that’s not actually funny. I’m not laughing! Where is that spaced-out me who has to live inside her head to craft the next story? I’ve always proudly said that I don’t understand boredom and I have never truly been bored. My imagination is always in gear. But truth is: online social media is B-O-R-I-N-G! It sucks all the life out of me.

And so, in light of all of the above points, I have a proposal for myself: CHANGE. As much as I love using the Internet, especially for work, I am trying to only do it during certain hours on certain days. I am (finally) setting an example for my youngest child who happens to be 12. He likes the fact that when I ask him to give up his electronics and phone–I do the same.

Time keeps on flying by and sometimes that phone gets in the way. But I’ll keep trying. I’ll keep flying.

I’ll get my wings working again.

 

Today is the anniversary of 9/11, a day to remember the somber events that happened just a half hour away from where I live. My neighbors escaped the tragedy because one decided to skip her conference at Windows on the World that morning, while another found herself scrambling late to work that day. Sadly, both neighbors lost many friends and colleagues who perished in the attack. Everyone has a story, a sad loss or a near-miss. My best friend nearly went into labor when she couldn’t locate her husband, but delivered a beautiful baby girl a few days later. It was a moment of fear and confusion pierced by birth and joy. It was a time that New Yorkers don’t forget. We remember to honor the memories of those who were killed–but to keep ourselves from getting lost in the dark, we look for what keeps us strong, what inspires us.

[image error]Inspiration out of sadness is powerful stuff. It’s the stuff that can populate a story or a poem. It’s the stuff that sets our heads into a dark or misty place. And then there is the glass tower built out of the sadness. The moment when we CAN find the right words–and the architecture to rise up.

There comes a point every year at this time, during every reflection on an event like 9/11, when I need to reach for something to rescue me from the darker emotions. Right now, I’m glancing around, trying to imagine something brighter, bolder, lighter than this September angst.

I’m almost embarrassed to admit where my mind goes. Where does yours go?

There is an array of little figures staring back at me on my desk. I imagine for a moment that they can think about things, too. They’re all staring at me. It seems absurd to turn to them. I need to stay serious. But I don’t. I won’t.One plastic figurine of Greedo from Star Wars, has a laser aimed at me with a Post-It tap[image error]ed to his head (a post-it that’s been there for years now). The post-it says: WRITE or I will blast you with my laser. There’s a dinosaur, too, some kind of neon bug raising his bug fist, a pig from Toy Story, the mouse from the Simpsons, a Lego figurine with pony tail, and Ursula from the Little Mermaid. My menagerie.

I am always, constantly, breathlessly, looking for inspiration in whatever form it comes. Sometimes it’s the sad memories that make me write. Other times it’s a plastic toy. But I find comfort in the fact that writing is no dead end; not even a cul-de-sac. Writing is a road that goes on and on. And I stay on this road to indulge in the memories of what has been lost–with an eye on what there is to gain. We need to stay awake and remember. We can’t chase it away when it makes us a little uncomfortable.

Today, I remember those who were lost in 9/11 and at other times–like so many soldiers fighting in wars we don’t understand. Now and again, however, I let my menagerie escort me away from the moments of grief.

And I write.

I’m always falling into something.

True confession: I am a klutz. Or at least that’s how I saw have seen myself for most of my life.



I sometimes trip over my own feet because it feels like I’m in a rush to get somewhere, always. It’s like I’m on the ground and someone is raking leaves over my head. I feel like I can’t get ahead of my to-do list. I feel like everyone wants me to move in seven directions. I feel like all I really and truly want to do is curl up under the pile of quilts on my bed and dive inside my imagination and pretend that maybe I’m somewhere far, far, far away from school or work or the people who annoy me…

Know what I’m talking about? Escape hatch. Running away. Make believe.

And then suddenly it dawns on me: my JOB is running away. My job is making pretend I’m in a new place every chapter, every character, every plot. I’m letting myself get overwhelmed by the crazy when what I really need to do is EMBRACE it, dive in, suck it up with a straw. I’m in a new place every chapter, every character, every plot.  How can I be overwhelmed by a life of words? I can write myself out of it. I can make things work.

I’m curious, people out there who happen to be reading this blog: what overwhelms you? And how do you make things work? How do you ESCAPE?

I’m still working on all of the above. Making sure my laces are tightly knotted. And keeping that smile on my face. Because next time I trip over myself or trip into someone else, I want to bounce right back and keep my chin up. I will write myself a happy ending. I will escape with joy.

Happy FALL, everyone. I mean it in the best possible way.

Let me think. What are MY favorite desserts?

Our family tradition for birthdays tops the list: Angel Food cake with strawberries and homemade whipped cream.

There are variations on the awesome chocolate chip cookie. That would come second.

In third place: any number of “special recipes” that friends make like tiramasu, amazing flan, coconut cream pie. All stuff I’ve never baked in my kitchen. Not yet anyway.

When I began working on the first Dessert Diaries, I needed to get inside the mind of a baker and create a bakery that would be the most magical place imaginable. Well, not Everlasting Gobstopper magical–but something you could imagine existed down the road or up the block. Daisy Duncan inside the bakery came to life with her frizzy head of red hair and her stash of secret recipes. I realized I could indulge in every sweet thing known to us–and not gain a pound or get a zit. I wouldn’t stay awake for hours if . I could get sugared and dusted and frosted. I could find

Then I realized that by writing about cookies and cakes for hours meant I would indulge in every sweet thing imaginable–and not gain a pound or get a zit. I wouldn’t stay awake for hours if I lingered too long on the chocolate cake chapter. I could get sugared and dusted and frosted…and be just fine.

I set out to “research” some bakeries in NYC. That was delicious. Then I surfed online looking for bakery menus across the country, searching for special recipes or funky details about the bakeries themselves.

What comes out in Dessert Diaries is one truth: sometimes comfort CAN be found in a cookie; just not in the same way you think. I’m not talking about emotional eating here. LOL. I’m talking about how Daisy and her bakery make everything right by messing up a lot of things along the way. Their “shamans” just happen to be a gaggle of bakers.

I hope you will like meeting each of the girls who have their own story taking place in and around Daisy’s Desserts (the name of the bakery). Each story stands alone-it is the bakery that connects the books; not the friendships from book to book). BUT. Look close and you will see that Emme appears in a later title and when we meet Maggie we realize we’ve seen her somewhere before. Worlds collide, in an interesting way.

As the back of the books say, “Friendship is the best recipe.”

 

Once upon a time there was a little made-up place called Far Hills. Madison Francesca Finn lived there with her Mom and Dad (who were split up) and her friends and a very snorty pug named Phineas T. Finn, aka Phinnie. It seemed like she was in seventh grade forever (yeah, she was). Now she’s making the move to eighth grade and welcoming a whole bunch of new drama with it. Because what’s tween life without drama?

I cannot tell you how much I missed this girl. Madison and I lived through 25 books and countless online and offline adventures. New BFFs. Enemies. The veterinary clinic. School. The pool. Budge Films. There it was: the universe of Madison Finn laid out before me. I had to reenter carefully. I had to step back into Far Hills. My publisher (second time around), Open Road Integrated Media, created this most-excellent map of Far Hills for me. I used it as my guide back into Maddie’s world–and mind. I wanted her to be wiser than ever, especially about matters of the Internet.

Here’s what’s really cool about being back with Madison. I now have–in real life–my own twelve-year-old-going-on-thirteen daughter. She isn’t about the drama; not really. But she’s emotional, creative, curious, easily frustrated, strong, athletic, smart, compulsive, anxious–and a zillion other unpredictable things.

When I worked in publishing long ago, I had the great fortune to work for and create promotions for some of the best young adult and juvenile authors out there. One thing they all told me without fail (especially RLS): “Don’t expect your kids to read your books. They won’t. Get used to that.

I had braced myself years ago. And now my daughter was actually READING and liking all the old and the new Madison Finn books. Even the new one!

It feels good to welcome home an old friend.

But it feels even better to share that friend with my daughter.

Back Online is available in paperback AND e-book.