Five Pages a Day

by Peg Kehret

  Impulsively, I went to him and said, “You have been a wonderful father to me.”

  His eyes brimmed with tears.

  I took his hands and spoke of all my special memories. Then I put my arms around him, drew him close, and whispered, “I love you.” His arms tightened around me.

  At that moment, I knew that I would always love him, no matter what his physical or mental condition. I loved the bright, successful, fun-loving father that I used to have, but I also loved this elderly man with his childish ways and sweet smile.

  I quit raging at fate and set out to keep Father as contented and comfortable as possible.

  I treasure my memory of that day, thankful that I told him how much he meant to me while he was still able to comprehend. All too soon the day came when his mind was so imprisoned by Alzheimer’s disease that my words could no longer scale the walls.

  Alzheimer’s Disease

  From the ending of Night of Fear:

  Gently, T. J. helped her to her feet. Then he put his arms around her and held her close.

  A deep love for the Grandma Ruth of his childhood filled T. J.’s heart. He had not realized until that night, when so many memories flooded over him, what an influence she had been on his life. Wishing won’t help … win with your wits… take action. For the first time, he appreciated how much she had taught him, how his thinking and personality had been shaped by the person she had been. He knew he would always treasure his memories of that wonderful woman.

  But this Grandma Ruth, the here-and-now Grandma Ruth, was special, too, and despite her Alzheimer’s disease, he loved her, just the way she was. Never again would he waste time and energy longing for her to go back to her former self. He would quit denying the truth of her disease. He would quit wishing that she wasn’t sick and take action to make her happy, if he could, because he loved this mixed-up old woman with her purse full of Monopoly money and her childlike smile, the one who thought he was David.

  Tears dripped onto the keyboard as I wrote that scene, and I still cry every time I read it because it brings back the day in my parents’ den when I hugged my father and spoke from my heart.

  { 10 }

  At Last! Books for Kids

  As my writing income gradually increased and our children finished college, Carl and I decided it was his turn to follow a dream. His hobby of restoring antique musical instruments had become more and more important to him. After thirty-five years in the dairy industry, he left to start a business restoring player pianos, crank organs, and other old instruments. His new occupation resulted in my second book.

  For a time, he both refinished the exterior of pianos and rebuilt their mechanical parts. The finish on the wood often crinkles with age, and many pianos had cigarette burns in the wood or stains where drinking glasses had been set. Carl removed the old finish, returning the wood to its original beauty.

  Over and over, I heard people tell him that they wanted to refinish their own pianos. “How do I do it?” they asked.

  This question does not have a twenty-five-words-or-less answer. It isn’t easy to refinish a piano. After enough people had asked Carl how to do it, I realized that perhaps I could write a how-to book.

  I sat in Carl’s workshop while he measured and mixed a batch of his own formula for stripping off the old finish. I watched him take a piano apart. This is necessary because otherwise the stripping solution drips onto the piano’s internal parts.

  He explained each step while I tape-recorded his comments. Then I rewrote the material in my own words, trying to say everything simply and clearly.

  A friend shot some photos. I held lights, gave unnecessary advice, and served lunch. We also went to another friend’s home to take color photos of his piano, which Carl had refinished.

  When the book was done, I sent it to a different agent, a woman I had met at a conference.

  She sold it quickly, but the terms of my contract with the publisher were terrible. Usually, a publisher agrees to pay an author royalties. This means that every time a copy of the book is sold, the author receives a percentage of the price. This contract gave me only a small one-time payment. No matter how many years the book stayed in print or how many copies it sold, I would not get any royalties.

  When I balked at that, the agent told me I should feel lucky to sell the book at all.

  Afraid that if I didn’t sign the contract, I would have yet another unsold book in my desk drawer, I accepted the terms, and Refinishing and Restoring Your Piano was published.

  I had called the book How to Refinish Your Piano, and I argued long and hard against using the word “restoring” in the title. In Carl’s business, restoring means making the mechanical parts work the way they did originally, and my book did not go into that. In the end, the publishers used the title they wanted.

  Despite the problems, I was happy with the book.

  I had my byline on many magazine pieces and plays by then, but a book is different. A book feels substantial. A book hints of immortality. Every time I went to the library I looked up my own name and was always glad to find it, along with the titles of my books. Both of them.

  About then, I received another letter that changed my life. This one was from the editor who had published the book of wedding vows and some of my plays.

  “We want to publish a book of monologs for students,” he told me, “and we’d like you to write it for us.”

  I hesitated. Monologs are short dramatic pieces that one person reads or recites from memory. I knew that actors often used them as audition pieces, and speech and drama teachers assigned them as classroom practice, but was there really a market for such a book? On the other hand, editors were not waiting in line to buy books from me. I decided to give it a try, and I began writing monologs from a kid’s point of view.

  Because most monologs are only two or three pages long, I needed many different ideas in order to fill a book. I ended up with sixty-five monologs, and I loved every minute of the work.

  Some of the monologs were funny, some were sad. I wrote about a first date, braces on teeth, dreams of being a professional athlete, school cafeteria lunches, fire drills, and Halloween candy. One monolog, “My Blankee,” fondly recalls a special baby blanket. Another gives detailed instructions on the best way to eat cotton candy. My favorite, “The Winner,” is about a girl who loses a poetry contest but gains far more than the twenty-five-dollar prize.

  As I wrote, I realized that in writing for children, I had found, at last, my true voice as a writer.

  I had spent ten years as a professional writer since that first unsold mystery. I knew my work had improved. When I finished Winning Monologs for Young Actors, I decided to write another novel, a mystery for young readers.

  When my new agent heard this, she said, “Don’t do it. It’s next to impossible to sell a children’s novel these days. Write another how-to book instead.”

  “I don’t know enough about anything else to write a how-to book,” I replied. “Besides, I want to write fiction.”

  “Nonfiction is easier to sell,” she said.

  I considered her warning. If I never write another novel, I thought, then I’ll have no chance of publishing one. If I write one, at least there will be a possibility of publication. I never regret things I’ve written, but I knew I would regret not writing what I most wanted to do. I decided to take the risk.

  With the agent’s gloomy predictions of failure ringing in my ears, I began a new novel. This time, I paid attention to what had been published recently. I read dozens of children’s books. Whenever I especially liked one, I read it again. The first time I wanted to see what happened; the second time I paid attention to how the author had handled suspense and characterization.

  The idea for my novel came from Bob, who was then teaching in a junior high school. One day he arrived at school and learned that a student was missing. She had been in class the day before. Her books and coat were found in her home, and there was no sign of a struggle,
but she was gone. Bob told me how upset the other students were when they learned that their classmate had disappeared.

  I didn’t follow the real case because I didn’t want to write a true crime story, but the situation of a youngster arriving at school to learn that a friend was missing became the basis of Deadly Stranger.

  My first novel had taken me a year to write; this one took nine months. I hoped my writing was better as well as faster.

  I sent the manuscript to the agent, who was still urging me to write another how-to book because novels for kids were impossible to sell. I then tried to forget about my story, but I couldn’t let go of the characters I liked so well. Fearful of rejection, I waited. I didn’t have to wait long.

  Only two weeks later, the agent called. “I’ve sold your book!” she said.

  I was so stunned that for a moment I couldn’t imagine what book she meant. Surely not my novel; it was too soon. Had she called me by mistake?

  “My book?” I said.

  “The children’s novel. I sent it to Dodd, Mead and they’ve accepted it.” When I didn’t respond immediately, she added, “They’re a well-known New York publisher.”

  The news finally sank in. Although my hands shook as I wrote, I collected my wits enough to write down the terms that Dodd, Mead had offered, including the payment of royalties.

  “I think you should accept this offer,” the agent said.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll accept it.” Of course I would accept it; I would have agreed to anything. My novel was going to be published!

  “This is quite an accomplishment,” she said.

  “I know,” I replied, and I did.

  As soon as I hung up, I told Carl, then called Anne, Bob, and all of my friends. The day I learned that my first novel would be published remains a high point of my life.

  Like every novelist, I hoped my book would be a best-seller. Months later, when the book was actually published, my first review began with the words, “A cliff-hanger!” It was exactly what I had hoped for.

  When a local bookstore offered to host a book-signing, I happily agreed. For years I had daydreamed about sitting in a bookstore with a stack of my books on the table, signing autographs. At last, it was really going to happen.

  We set a date, the store ran an ad in the newspaper, I told all my friends, and I arrived early with pen in hand.

  “We have a bit of a problem,” the owner said. “The books didn’t get here.”

  My happiness drained away as if a plug had been pulled inside me. I sat at the special table in the store and chatted with customers. Carl did his best to act cheerful. I signed one book of monologs and the book of vows, which the store already had. Many friends came, and one of Carl’s brothers showed up, but I had no new book to show them. My first bookstore event was not at all the way I had hoped it would be.

  Shortly after Deadly Stranger was released, the publisher, which had published books for one hundred years, went out of business. The editor who had bought Deadly Stranger, and to whom I had just sent the manuscript of my next book, Nightmare Mountain, was now out of a job.

  Even with no publisher and no editor, my future was clear to me. From the minute Deadly Stranger was accepted, I never wrote anything for adults. Writing for kids was way more fun.

  { II }

  The Ideas Box

  When I talk about my books to children, they usually ask, “Where do you get your ideas?” The way I wrote Nightmare Mountain is typical.

  On my desk, I have what I call my Ideas Box. This contains many odd bits of information. Sometimes Carl and I will go out to dinner, and when he starts to say something to me, I’ll put my finger to my lips and whisper, “Shhh.” I’m listening to what the people at the next table are talking about, and it’s giving me a story idea. I’ll scribble that on a slip of paper, and when we get home, it goes into my Ideas Box.

  One summer we went to the county fair where there was an exhibit of llamas. Being an animal lover, I petted a llama and talked with its owner.

  The next day, I went to the library and checked out everything I could find about llamas. As I read, I made notes on 3 x 5 cards. I put a rubber band around the notes and put them into my Ideas Box.

  Later that summer, there was an avalanche on Mount Baker in Washington State. Two hikers were buried under the snow and weren’t rescued until the next day. When I read this in the newspaper, I thought how scary it would be to get caught in an avalanche. I clipped out the newspaper article and put it in my Ideas Box.

  I kept thinking about those hikers. If they were buried under the snow, how would they know which way to dig to get to the surface? After tumbling down the mountain in an avalanche, they’d be disoriented and couldn’t tell up from down. If they dug in the wrong direction, they could use up their small pocket of air.

  I went back to the library and researched how to survive in the snow. I learned that if you are ever buried in the snow and don’t know which way to dig to reach air, you should spit. Gravity will always pull your saliva down; then you can dig in the right direction. I added this useful tidbit to my Ideas Box.

  After I sold Deadly Stranger, I was trying to figure out what to write next. One day I rummaged through all the material in my Ideas Box and took out three things. First, the notes about llamas. I decided to set my story on a llama ranch, and use the animals in the plot. By then I knew that llamas are expensive; I could have a llama thief as my villain.

  Next out of my box was the newspaper clipping about the avalanche. What if my llama ranch sat at the foot of a mountain? My characters could climb partway up and get caught in an avalanche. It would be an exciting scene, and I could use that business about spitting, which I found fascinating.

  The third item from the box was a newspaper article about a boy who was allergic to peanuts. He went to a birthday party, ate a cookie that had ground-up peanuts in it, went into a coma, and died.

  I used all three of those items in Nightmare Mountain, though my character recovers from the coma instead of dying. The whole book grew from things I found interesting: the llamas at the fair, the avalanche, and the peanut allergy.

  Because llamas are such handsome animals, I assumed a llama would be featured on the cover, but there have been four editions of Nightmare Mountain over the years, including one in Danish, and not one of them shows a llama.

  Although I never got a llama on a book cover, students in Indiana built a life-size llama out of paper-mâché the week before I visited their school, and a school in Arizona gave me a special surprise. When I arrived to talk to the students, four live llamas greeted me in the schoolyard! They made me think of the “Mary Had a Little Lamb” nursery rhyme, with a slight change: it made the author laugh and play, to see a llama at school.

  Some book ideas grew from my own childhood. I used to make believe I could fly. I held my arms out like airplane wings while I ran around my yard, eyes closed, pretending to swoop over faraway places. Then I “landed” in a made-up country and imagined that I was exploring it.

  Years later, my flying game was the origin of the Instant Commuter, a device used to travel through time and space. Warren and Betsy, the characters in my “disaster trilogy,” use the Instant Commuter to witness the eruption of Mount Saint Helens in 1980 in Washington State, the Armistice Day blizzard of 1940 in the Midwest, and the Johnstown, Pennsylvania, flood in 1889.

  Many readers have let me know that they wished they had such a machine. One boy wrote to ask me, “If you really had an Instant Commuter, where would you go?”

  I told him I would travel back in time to when my parents were alive and well, and spend a day with them again. Where you go is less important than who you’re with.

  Some ideas sit in my Ideas Box for years and never become books. Other ideas send me straight to the computer, full of enthusiasm, the minute I get them.

  Sometimes an idea changes so much as I write that the finished book has little in common with the idea that got me started. I be
gan a story set in Africa, about an American boy and an African boy who disagreed over elephant poaching. I ended up with The Hideout, which is set in the Pacific Northwest and is about a boy who tries to hide from his troubles and instead has even more trouble with a bear poacher.

  Why did I revise my plot? First, I learned from my research that laws about the sale of ivory (the reason for elephant poaching) keep changing, and I didn’t want my book to be out of date. Second, I learned that bear poaching is a big problem in North America. Poachers even kill bears within our national parks! I hadn’t known that before. My new knowledge made me angry and changed my story.

  I like to experiment with different kinds of writing. Besides mysteries, I’ve written adventure, humor, time-travel, and realistic problem novels. I did a second book of monologs and a book of monologs, dialogs, and short playlets called Acting Natural. I wrote one series and one book of true dog stories. Two books have a cat as my co-author!

  One day when I wasn’t home, Carl answered the phone. “This is the library of Congress calling,” he was told. “I need to speak with Peg Kehret.”

  Carl said I wasn’t there, identified himself, and asked if he could help. The Library of Congress, in Washington, D.C., is our nation’s official library, and it contains a copy of every book published in America. He figured this call was important.

  The caller explained, “We have many kinds of material written by people named Peg Kehret. We want to find out which of these your wife wrote and which were written by a different Peg Kehret.”

  Carl said, “There’s another Peg Kehret who is a writer?”

  “Oh, yes. We have a wide variety of work under that name.”

  Carl knew I would be unhappy with this news as we had never heard of another Peg Kehret, much less one who was a writer. Kehret isn’t exactly a common last name.

  Carl said he knew everything I had written, so the caller said she would read the list of titles and Carl could say if they were mine or not.