by Peg Kehret
“Sports Skit Kit.”
“Yes, that’s hers.”
“Vows of Love and Marriage.”
“She wrote that.”
“Winning Monologs for Young Actors.”
“That’s hers.”
“Comedy Duets?”
“Yes.”
“Did she write Deadly Stranger?”
“She did.”
“But that’s a novel,” the woman said. “Those other tides were all nonfiction.”
“She does both,” Carl said.
“What about a play called Dracula, Darling?”
“Yes. She’s published several plays.”
It went on like that, through my other tides, with Carl saying each time that I was the author. Finally the caller said, in a tone that implied, I’ll bet she didn’t write this one, “What about Refinishing and Restoring Your Piano?”
“It’s hers, too,” Carl said.
There was a pause. “She wrote my whole list,” the woman said. “There’s only one Peg Kehret!”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Carl said.
So was I.
Children often ask me if a particular story is true. “Did it really happen to you?” they wonder.
If everything I’ve written about had actually happened to me, I’d be in no condition to write this or any other book. I’ve never survived an avalanche or been shipwrecked off the coast of Africa or been abducted by a deranged arsonist. I haven’t traveled back in time or seen a ghost or been arrested for shoplifting. I have experienced the emotions that each of those situations creates. I’ve been afraid. I’ve been cold, and lonely, and angry.
It is the feelings that give a novel its authenticity. When I’m able to give a character strong, true feelings—the same feelings I’ve experienced in other circumstances—then those characters seem real, and readers who identify with those characters will feel the emotions that I felt as I wrote.
One day I sat alone at my desk, remembering my fear when an earthquake once rocked a tall building that I was in. I wrote about Jonathan and Abby, two children alone in a campground when an earthquake strikes.
Abby is dependent on a walker, so I thought back to my recovery from polio, when I needed walking sticks in order to walk by myself. Each time I sat down I made sure my sticks were within easy reach, and I panicked if some well-meaning person put them “out of the way” where I couldn’t retrieve them.
What if I still needed walking sticks, I thought, but they got destroyed in an earthquake? My feelings became Abby’s helpless dread as her walker gets crushed by a fallen tree.
It’s quite astonishing, when you think about it. My own remembered fear became letters on my computer screen, and those letters changed into printed words on the pages of a book.
Many months—even years—later, readers in other parts of the world can read those words and feel exactly what I felt as I wrote them. The anxiety they have for Jonathan and Abby is real.
Through the miracles of writing and reading, my deepest emotions are shared with people I have never met. Children who were not yet born when I wrote Earthquake Terror now tell me it is their favorite book.
{ 12 }
Helping the Animals
I’ve volunteered at the humane society for more than twenty-five years. My jobs have included taking puppies to visit nursing homes, petting and playing with cats so that they would get used to people, stuffing envelopes, selling cookies at the annual Adoptathon, exercising dogs, and more.
I was once a “dirty dog driver.” When particularly stinky, filthy dogs were ready to be put up for adoption, volunteers drove them to a groomer to be bathed and clipped. Then the dogs were driven back to the shelter, with their chances of being chosen much improved. This duty never improved the smell of my car, though.
For five years, I wrote a “Pet of the Month” feature for a small newspaper. I usually chose an older animal who was not as likely to get adopted as a cute little puppy or kitten. I drove the animal to a community center where I met a photographer. She would shoot some pictures, and I would give her the article I’d written.
Usually I took dogs because they were easier to transport; they don’t get as nervous as cats do. The first time I took a cat, he got so upset on the way home that he threw up. This didn’t help the smell of my car, either.
When a new photographer, Greg Farrar, was hired, he offered to come to the humane society so the animals wouldn’t have to travel. After that I often wrote about cats as well as dogs, and once my Pet of the Month was a rabbit.
Over and over, the pets I chose to write about were there “because the owner was moving and couldn’t take the dog along.” I wondered why not. Carl and I moved a lot, and we always took our animals with us. Another common reason was, “My landlord doesn’t allow pets.” (So, live somewhere else, I thought.) The worst reason of all was, “I don’t have time for a dog.” I wanted to yell, “Then why did you get a dog in the first place?”
There are legitimate reasons why people must give up their pets, and I was glad that at least these animals were brought to a shelter rather than abandoned on the side of the road. Still, it was frustrating to see so many healthy, loving creatures in need of homes.
One dog had been dumped at a freeway rest stop. His owners simply drove off and left him behind. When I wrote a heart-wrenching account of the deserted dog for a Pet of the Month article, he got adopted the day the article was published.
My outrage at the inhumane treatment of animals never lessened, and I was glad I could help a few of them find good homes. Greg’s expert photos helped, too.
My purpose with those articles was to entice people who wanted a pet to come to the humane society. Often they came to the shelter because of my monthly article but ended up adopting a different animal than the one I had written about. That was fine with me.
Greg and I had to stop the Pet of the Month feature when the newspaper quit giving the humane society free space. Years later, we worked together again when Greg took the photos for my book Shelter Dogs: Amazing Stories of Adopted Strays.
When I began writing for children, I knew that I wanted to use my humane society experiences in a book, but I didn’t have an idea that seemed right.
Then I got myself in trouble.
In 1989, I spoke at the Pacific Northwest Writers’ Conference, and as I drove home I thought how much fun it had been to spend time with other writers. I remembered when I was a nervous beginner who got lost trying to find the panel on marketing. Now I was one of the conference speakers. Unbelievable!
I drove along thinking about writing and not thinking about my driving—until I saw red lights flashing in my rear-view mirror. I pulled over and got my first (and only) speeding ticket.
“I’ve never had a ticket before,” I told the officer.
“Never?”
“Not even a parking ticket.”
“Then you should go to court,” he advised. “If you just pay the fine, this will cost you seventy-nine dollars, but if you go to court and the judge sees that you’ve never had a ticket, he’ll cut the fine way down.”
I thought it might be interesting to go to court, so I signed up to do that and was given a date to appear.
The large courtroom contained wooden benches filled with people awaiting their turn to talk to the judge. A clerk called out the names one at a time.
I sat down and listened for my name to be called.
Soon two obnoxious boys, both about sixteen, came in. They talked loudly, they were rude to the clerk, and every sentence they spoke contained a swear word. They made a big commotion as they arrived, and they decided to sit right next to me.
For a while they made fun of the court system. Then they began to talk and laugh about things their friends had done—terrible things that were wrong, but these boys thought they were funny.
The more they talked, the more angry I became. Finally I took a pencil and a small notebook out of my purse and I wrote down every
thing they said. You boys, I thought, are going to be in a book someday. I wasn’t sure how or where I would use them, but they made me so furious that I knew I had to write about them. Anything that produces strong emotion in me, good or bad, goes into my work.
The boys paid no attention to my scribbling. They just kept talking while I recorded every word.
When it was my turn to talk to the judge, he could tell from his computer that I had never had a traffic violation before.
“You can either pay a forty-dollar fine,” he told me, “or you can do twenty hours of community service for a nonprofit organization. If you do the community service, and if you don’t get another ticket for three years, this will go off your record entirely.”
I chose to do the community service. He handed me a list of nonprofit organizations where I could volunteer. I glanced at the sheet of paper; there on the list was the humane society.
This is the book I’ll write, I thought. It’ll be about a young person who is basically a good kid but who makes a mistake, breaks a law, goes through the juvenile court system, and is assigned to do community service work at the humane society. I knew I could use all the experiences I’ve had as a volunteer.
The judge must have wondered why I was smiling happily at his list. He didn’t know I had the whole plot of a new book. Usually I work harder than that for a plot.
The book I wrote was Cages. No one gets a speeding ticket in it. Instead, it’s about a girl who’s caught shoplifting and is assigned to do community service at the humane society.
I didn’t do my community service at the humane society because I already volunteered there. Public schools were also on the judge’s list, so I fulfilled my obligation by doing author visits at schools without charging my usual fee.
There is a scene in Cages where the main character, Kit, is waiting outside the juvenile court committee room. Two obnoxious boys arrive and sit beside her. These were easy pages for me to write. I got out my notes from my day in court, and all I had to do was clean up the language.
One sixth-grade girl confided to me that she used to shoplift all the time, but after she read Cages she decided not to do it anymore.
After reading Cages, many school groups have collected pet food and supplies for their local animal shelters. Dozens of young people have volunteered to help the animals. Such results are the best reward a writer can have.
Part of my royalties from each book are donated to animal welfare groups. Money from Don’t Tell Anyone helps pay for a mobile spay/neuter clinic that prevents the births of thousands of unwanted puppies and kittens. Money from Shelter Dogs bought portable bathing stations so that dogs can get shampooed right at the humane society. No more dirty dog drivers!
My love of animals is one of my strongest ties to young readers because most of them love animals, too. Their letters ask about my dog and cat more often than they inquire about my husband and children.
Over and over in my books, I show the human-animal bond, which I believe is one of the most worthwhile relationships we can have. We can learn much from animals about loyalty, patience, and unconditional love. Animals don’t care how we dress, or how much we weigh, or whether we’re pretty or plain. They judge us only by the look of kindness in our eyes.
I wrote about elephants in Terror at the Zoo and Saving Lilly, chimpanzees in The Secret Journey, and llamas in Nightmare Mountain. I shared my outrage over poaching in The Hideout and Screaming Eagles.
My heroes and heroines love cats in My Brother Made Me Do It, Don’t Tell Anyone, Searching for Candlestick Park, The Stranger Next Door, and Spy Cat. They love dogs in Earthquake Terror, Shelter Dogs, Cages, Nightmare Mountain, The Richest Kids in Town, Sisters, Long Ago, Deadly Stranger, and the three “disaster” books: The Volcano Disaster, The Blizzard Disaster, and The Flood Disaster.
The heroine of I’m Not Who You Think I Am loves her house rabbit. In Night of Fear, T.J. risks his own life to save a pony from a burning shed. The kids in the Frightmares books start a club to help all animals.
When I look at this list of books that show children loving an animal, I realize that every single one of my middle-grade novels is included!
I did not set out to write dozens of books about kids who love animals. It just happened. My characters love animals because I do, and I want my readers to care about animals, too. Being kind to animals can be the first step toward feeling empathy for other people.
{ 13 }
Polio Returns
In order to graduate from high school, I was required to take physical education. To pass the course, I had to do three push-ups. I couldn’t do them. Every time I tried, I failed because my arm muscles weren’t strong enough.
When I look back at this situation, I wonder why I didn’t simply explain to my PE teacher that because I had polio when I was twelve, I couldn’t do three push-ups. My muscles weren’t merely weak; many of them no longer functioned at all.
I could easily have gotten a letter from my doctor, too, but instead I asked my gym partner to lie for me. She signed the paper saying I had done the three push-ups when I hadn’t done even one.
The PE incident shows how my family and I felt about my polio disabilities. My parents wanted me to be fully recovered, and so did I, so we pretended I had no permanent problems.
After I was able to walk without walking sticks, I looked completely normal. No one meeting me would have guessed I had been paralyzed from the neck down. They wouldn’t know that some of my muscles had been permanently damaged, leaving me with weaknesses that could never be overcome.
I never discussed my polio experience or my Lingering physical problems with any of my friends. Everyone around me acted as if I had no disability, and I never mentioned the problems that polio had created. Since I was treated like everyone else, it was easy to pretend that I was just like everyone else. At least it was easy until I tried to do three push-ups.
Perhaps this was good; perhaps not. I never used polio as an excuse not to do something, but by ignoring my physical difficulties, and by not talking about my life-changing experience, I acted as if this significant part of my life didn’t matter.
My problems were more annoying than severe. I played piano, but I couldn’t hold down the sustain pedal because the muscles that would have allowed me to keep my heel on the floor while I raised the ball of my foot no longer worked.
I couldn’t use my diaphragm to breathe; I used my stomach muscles instead—a problem only when the high school chorus director tried to help me improve my singing. “Fill up with air!” he would exclaim. “Expand your chest!” When I tried to expand my chest, my stomach expanded instead.
I’ve always been round-shouldered because some of the muscles necessary to hold my shoulders back were paralyzed. My home economics teacher demanded perfect posture from her students. Every day she told me, “Put your shoulders back and stand up straight.” I never explained why I kept my shoulders back for only a few seconds.
I couldn’t hit a golf ball very far, or a baseball, because my arms weren’t strong enough. I didn’t swim well, either. Instead of acknowledging the real reason why I was so poor at sports, I said I didn’t like them. “I’d rather watch baseball than play,” I declared.
When I was in my fifties, I began having muscle pain, and the weakness that I’d always had in my arms and legs became worse. My toes often cramped, and I tired easily. When I read that many polio survivors were experiencing similar problems, I was shocked. Had my polio returned?
A group of doctors held a public meeting in Seattle to discuss the newly recognized “post-polio syndrome.” I went to that meeting.
Before it began, I talked with people in the audience about their experiences with hot packs, wheelchairs, and separation from their families. I felt a connection with these men and women whom I had never met before. As we spoke, I felt a great relief that I could finally talk about my polio ordeal.
Discouragement soon replaced the relief. The doctors told us
that there is no treatment for post-polio syndrome. No miracle drug. No therapy that would put lost strength back into my limbs. The outlook, in fact, was bleak. I might continue to lose muscle strength until I could no longer walk unaided. One of the doctors, himself a polio survivor, said many post-polio patients have had to return to the wheelchairs they gave up so many years ago.
From age thirteen on, I had drawn confidence from knowing that I had survived a terrible disease. I believed that because I had beaten polio, I could do anything else I chose to do in life.
I had not conquered polio, after all. Later that month, a medical exam confirmed what I feared: post-polio syndrome was causing my weakness, pain, and fatigue.
I prepared for a rematch. This time, it would be a different kind of battle. I couldn’t defeat post-polio syndrome, but I could control how I reacted to it.
It was time to tell my own story.
I began to write about my polio experience, to put into words what had happened to me all those years ago that I had never talked about.
Each morning I went to my desk and dredged up the memories. I remembered my hospital roommates, my doctors and nurses, my physical therapists. I laughed as I wrote, and I cried. My tears were for that long-ago girl who endured so much, and also because I yearned to have my father back, and my grandpa, and B. J.
For the first time, I wrote about the pain and the fear. The recollections poured forth as a psychological dam, built long ago, finally crumbled in my mind.
The first three publishers who read my book Small Steps: The Year I Got Polio turned it down. They didn’t think kids would be interested in polio because it’s no longer a threat to them.
I thought this was just a polite way to say no, that my book really wasn’t good enough to get published.
If I had been submitting Small Steps on my own, I would have put it away after the first publisher decided against it, and it would have ended up unsold in my desk drawer along with my first novel and the book about Alzheimer’s disease. But by then I had an agent whose tastes matched mine. Luckily, she was not so easily discouraged. Each time a publisher declined Small Steps, my agent said, “Their loss,” and sent it out again.
