Five Pages a Day

by Peg Kehret

  The next morning, Carl dropped me off at the school where I was to talk. While I spoke to the students, he found a veterinarian who examined the kitten, pronounced her in good health, wormed her, and gave her the first set of vaccinations.

  We named her Molly, after the heroine in Nightmare Mountain.

  We quickly learned that two cats in a motor home are far different from one. They slept all day, then put on what came to be known as the Cat Follies between two and three o’clock each morning. They galloped back and forth, jumped from bed to couch to floor, wrestled with each other, leaped over Daisy (which made her bark), shredded the toilet paper, and generally kept us awake.

  Each night during the Cat Follies, we told each other that as soon as we got home we would take Molly to the humane society where we volunteer and put her up for adoption. We never did, though. By the time we got back home we were too fond of her to give her up.

  Naturally, a book came out of this experience. Desert Danger, the fourth book in my Frightmares series, is about two girls on a camping trip who find an abandoned kitten in the campground.

  During the next few years, we made a fall trip and a spring trip every year, traveling to a different part of the country each time. One advantage of motor home travel was that I went to schools in small towns, far from major airports. Often I was the first author ever to visit.

  Along with the small schools, I spoke at large conferences of teachers and librarians. My stomach churned before such speeches. I always spent a lot of time deciding what I would say and then I practiced saying it, clocking myself to be sure I was within the time frame I’d been given. Daisy is an excellent audience when I’m practicing a speech. She listens politely, never interrupts, and only rarely falls asleep while I’m talking.

  No matter how well prepared I was, the jitters always got me. Sometimes my knees shook so much that I had to hold on to the podium for fear my legs would buckle. I usually printed out my talk, but then my hands shook so hard the pages rattled when I turned them.

  What finally saved me from being so scared was the audiences. They always listened intently, and afterward many people came up to thank me or to say my remarks were just what they needed to hear. Their kind words meant more than they will ever know.

  The year after my mother died, I mentioned her death in a speech to the Texas Library Association. As soon as I spoke the words, a wave of grief washed over me, and I was unable to continue my talk. I stood there in front of several hundred people, struggling to control my tears, feeling foolish and apologetic. Then, from every corner of the room, spontaneous applause broke out. People clapped, letting me know they understood, and that my tears were okay.

  I still have a few butterflies before a major speech, but now as soon as I’m introduced, I look out at the smiling faces and I know I have nothing to worry about. These people are not just an audience—they are my friends.

  I look forward to signing books after my talks. I like the chance to visit with my readers, and after all those years of “dejection slips,” it is amazing to see a long line of people waiting for me to autograph their books.

  I was asked to talk to kids in Seattle’s juvenile detention center. When I arrived, I went through a metal detector, then through a locked door which was watched by an armed guard.

  My destination was a small room that served as a library. An earnest young librarian who wanted to make a difference in the lives of her patrons waited for me. She had placed some of my books on a table.

  “After you speak, they can check out books if they want to,” she said.

  Soon my audience arrived: twelve teenage boys, all wearing orange jumpsuits and identical bored expressions. As they filed in, they barely glanced at me. Their body language clearly said, “You have nothing to say that will interest us.”

  I suspected they were right.

  The chairs formed a circle. Each boy sat down, leaned his head on the back of the chair, stretched his legs out in front of him, and closed his eyes.

  I knew I could not give the talk I had planned. I was used to eager audiences—children who had read my books and were excited to meet the author, or adults who were every bit as interested in books as I am.

  My mind raced, trying to come up with a dramatic statement that would get the attention of these boys right away. If I couldn’t do that, I knew I might as well save my breath.

  The librarian introduced me.

  There was no polite applause.

  I stood and said, “I once got a brand-new car for writing only twenty-five words.”

  The eyes opened.

  “It was a Honda Civic,” I said.

  Someone mumbled, “No way,” but the boys sat up and listened as I told them about the contests I had won. Then I said I entered the contests because I wanted to be a writer, but nobody bought what I wrote. I explained about the rejections, and how long it had taken me to publish my first book.

  Next I talked about some of my books, including Danger at the Fair, in which one of the characters steals cars, strips them down, and sells the parts. Heads nodded knowingly. I pointed out that my character ended up in jail.

  One of the boys asked how much money I make, so I explained how royalties work. They were indignant when they learned that if someone bought a paperback book for $3.99, I ended up with less than twenty-five cents.

  “You should get it all, man,” one said.

  “I can’t paint a picture for the cover,” I replied. “I don’t know how to print books or bind them together, and since I live in Washington, who would sell my books in Tennessee? I need the publishers and the bookstores and the libraries.”

  By the time our session ended, we had all learned something.

  Three of the boys stayed behind to check out one of my books. The librarian was overjoyed. “Our last speaker left in the middle,” she told me, “because the boys were so rude.”

  I was glad I hadn’t known that ahead of time.

  { 16 }

  Sharing a National Tragedy

  Most of my school visits were exciting and fun. Student artwork based on my stories usually decorated the halls; outdoor reader boards said WELCOME PEG KEHRET; every class had read my books aloud; kids jumped with eagerness, impatient to meet the author.

  In April 1995, we took the motor home to Oklahoma City to do some school visits. Two nights before we got there, we turned on the television news and learned that the Federal Building in Oklahoma City had been bombed. One hundred sixty-eight people were dead.

  Like the rest of the country, we watched in shock as the news unfolded. We drove on to our destination, where I called the librarian or principal of each of the schools that I was going to visit.

  “You can cancel if you want to,” I told them. “I’ll come back another time, if that would be better.”

  Each of the schools wanted me to come as planned. “We need the distraction,” I was told. “We need to think about something besides the bombing.”

  But how could they? How could any of us?

  At the first school, Carl and I were given ribbons to wear in memory of the victims—loops of lavender, yellow, and blue, secured together with a button. Everyone in Oklahoma City wore ribbons, and we wore them, too, every day.

  We did not know any of the victims or their families, yet this was a crime against all Americans and we suffered along with those who had lost friends and relatives.

  The tragedy overshadowed everything. Children clutched teddy bears in class, seeking comfort from the unthinkable horror.

  I talked at a middle school where six students had lost one of their parents and a teacher had lost her brother. The day I was there, a tree was planted on the school grounds as a memorial to the victims.

  At another school, I was signing books when a fifth-grade girl hurried in with a book to be autographed. “I’m sorry I missed your talk,” she said. “You’re my favorite author, but my uncle’s funeral was today.” I hugged her, and we cried together.

&
nbsp; One boy attended a school where I wasn’t speaking. His mother had him called out of class early so she could bring him to meet me and get some books signed. The boy ran to her car in tears, afraid he’d been excused because another bomb had exploded. He thought his father was dead.

  It was not illogical; one of his classmates had been picked up from school early the day of the bombing, to learn he had lost his dad.

  Some children lost loved ones; they all lost innocence and their sense of security.

  The governor of Oklahoma asked for a minute of silence throughout the state, to be observed exactly one week after the bombing. That minute came in the middle of one of my school talks.

  The principal had warned me ahead of time that this would happen, but I still was not prepared for the emotion that filled the room. By then we were all beyond tears, yet grief seemed tangible, as if I could reach out and pluck it from the air.

  When the minute ended, I couldn’t continue to talk about books and writing as if nothing had happened. Instead of my usual remarks, I spoke of my personal belief that the best response when something bad happens is to put some good back into the world. Help someone who needs it. Do a good deed. Be kind.

  I talked of my conviction that violence is never a solution, no matter what the problem, and said that this is why the characters in my books use their brains to get out of trouble rather than shooting the villain.

  At that time, the bombing of the Federal Building was the worst act of terrorism in our nation’s history. My words of comfort felt woefully inadequate, but words were all I had to offer.

  We did not visit the site of the bombing that week. Several years later, however, we returned to Oklahoma City and went to the beautiful memorial which is now on the site where the Federal Building once stood.

  I will always have a special place in my heart for the people of Oklahoma City. It wasn’t easy for those teachers and students to welcome a guest speaker in the midst of their mourning. By celebrating reading and writing together, I hope we put some small good into a time of tragedy.

  { 17 }

  Happy Ending

  When I was at the Sheltering Arms, I spent two hours every afternoon in the hospital’s school. One day the teacher suggested that we each write a letter to our favorite author.

  I loved the Betsy-Tacy books by Maud Hart Lovelace, but I refused to write that letter. Mrs. Lovelace was a famous author. I didn’t think she’d want to hear from me.

  One of my roommates, Dorothy, did write to Maud Hart Lovelace. Two weeks later she got a reply. Not only did Mrs. Lovelace write back, she sent Dorothy a booklet about her life, and the booklet included her photo. I was so jealous I could hardly stand it, but I still never wrote to Mrs. Lovelace myself.

  I know now that Mrs. Lovelace would have appreciated a letter from me. I had read all of her books many times, owned three of them, and was in a hospital recovering from polio. No doubt she would have been delighted to learn that her writing gave me pleasure. I’m sorry that I never told her.

  I now receive many letters about my books. The best ones are the true fan letters from children who love my books. Many are signed “Your #I fan” and include a school picture or a list of my books that the child has read. These letters are welcome, and I try to answer them promptly.

  Often a class will read one of my books together and then decide to write to me. I’m happy to reply to the class, answering all of their questions.

  Letters sent to me in care of one of my publishers are sometimes not forwarded for several months. Far too often, I get mail from kids who are doing an author project on me, but by the time I receive their request for information, school is out for the summer. This problem has eased with the Internet because my mailing address is on my web page (www.pegkehret.com) along with the biographical material that is usually needed.

  Sometimes children beg me to write back—but they don’t include any return address.

  Children frequently ask if I will be their pen pal. I have to say no; I can barely keep up with the correspondence when I answer each person once.

  Not all of the mail is from youngsters. Many adults, including me, love children’s literature.

  A man in Pittsburgh, who learned to read at age forty-six, wrote that Small Steps was the first book he ever read. He compared his situation to mine, saying he “is taking small steps to overcome the handicap of not being able to read.” He thanked me for encouraging him. Letters like that provide motivation to keep writing.

  In 1995, I received the Minnesota Young Reader Award. It is called the Maud Hart Lovelace Award in honor of the Minnesota author whose books I liked so much when I was a child.

  I got a letter of congratulations from Miss Beck, my fourth-grade teacher. She enclosed a photograph of Mrs. Lovelace, taken at a library event that Miss Beck had attended in Mankato, Minnesota, decades earlier. Miss Beck said she wanted me to have the picture. What a wonderful gift! I don’t have to be jealous of Dorothy any longer.

  I am thrilled each time one of my books wins a state “children’s choice” or “young reader” award because kids do the voting. Carl had a special necklace made to celebrate these awards. It has a silver charm for each state whose children’s book award I’ve won. The charms are shaped like the states and are engraved on the back with the year and an abbreviation of the winning title.

  The necklace is one of my most precious possessions. As of this writing, it has twenty-one charms.

  Two other awards are especially meaningful: the 1996 Golden Kite Award in nonfiction from the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and the 1997 PEN Center West Award in children’s literature. Both honors were for Small Steps.

  If there is ever a Late Bloomer Award, I will surely qualify. I was fifty years old when I published my first book for children.

  Once I got started, though, the books flowed from my fingertips to the keyboard nonstop. Perhaps I needed fifty years of living in order to have stories worth telling and to know how to tell them.

  As a beginning writer, I listed the three magazines I most wanted to see my work in. I still set goals, but now they are about the process of achievement rather than the end result. My goals must be something that I can control.

  For example, I would love to have movies of my books, but movies are not one of my goals because I can’t choose books for the companies that make films. All I can control is how I write the books.

  That doesn’t mean I can’t hope for a movie. Hopes are different than goals.

  A movie producer paid for the right to make a movie of Night of Fear, and a TV company paid for the right to use the characters in my Frightmares books in a television series, but nothing has happened yet.

  So far the closest one of my books has come to being on film was when Acting Natural was a prop in a movie made in Canada. An actor talking on the phone picks up a copy of my book and looks at it.

  I still hope that a movie will be made of one of my books, but my goals are more practical: Finish five pages a day. Try to make every book entertaining, informative, and insightful. Create characters who solve their problems without resorting to violence. Help readers feel empathy toward all creatures.

  Carl and I live in a log house on a ten-acre wildlife sanctuary just twelve miles from Mount Rainier National Park in Washington State. We walk on our nature trail every afternoon and view fabulous sunsets from our porch. My fingers are purple as I type this; earlier today I picked sweet wild blackberries for tonight’s dessert.

  One room of our house is my office. It has rows of bookshelves, an old library table that I use as a computer desk, and a view of our bird feeders, wildflower meadow, the woods, and far in the distance, on clear days, the Olympic Mountains. Posters of my books hang on the walls, along with a Time magazine cover from 1954. The cover picture is of Dr. Jonas Salk, who developed the polio vaccine. The cover is signed by Dr. Salk.

  Just as I knew that I would have a happy life whether we adopted children o
r not, I know that my life today would be joyful, productive, and fulfilled no matter where I lived. Contentment comes from the inside, from the ability to appreciate and savor each day as it unfolds.

  Children sometimes ask me, “Are you going to retire?”

  I have already quit doing school talks. Because of post-polio syndrome, I tire easily. Book talks at schools take a lot of energy, no matter how much fun they are. I don’t speak at out-of-town conferences as often as I used to for the same reason, but being a public speaker was never my job. My job is to write.

  I began my career by writing about the neighborhood dogs. I still write about dogs, but now I also write about children who use their wits to resolve their troubles.

  I awake each morning ready to work, eager to find out what’s going to happen next. As long as readers enjoy my books, I’ll continue to write them.

  My Ideas Box is overflowing.

  by Peg Kehret

  Books for Children

  Acting Natural, 1992.

  Backstage Fright, 1996.

  The Blizzard Disaster, 1998.

  Bone Breath and the Vandals, 1995.

  Cages, 1991.

  Cat Burglar on the Prowl, 1995.

  Danger at the Fair, 1995.

  Deadly Stranger, 1987.

  Desert Danger, 1995.

  Don’t Go Near Mrs. Tallie, 1995.

  Don’t Tell Anyone, 2000.

  Earthquake Terror; 1996

  Encore! More Winning Monologs for Young Actors, 1988.

  Five Pages a Day: A Writer’s Journey, 2002.

  The Flood Disaster, 1999.

  The Ghost Followed Us Home, 1996.

  The Hideout, 2001.

  Horror at the Haunted House, 1992.