The difference is: in a book you can dispatch your parents however you please. Writing is very convenient that way.
Have you ever noticed how many orphans there are in children’s books and movies? Oliver Twist. Anne of Green Gables. James and the Giant Peach. Harry Potter. The list, as they say, goes on. That’s not because we authors have some deep desire to kill off our parents; it’s because we’re trying to remove them from the action, and death is the most expedient way.*
So, how do you want to get rid of your parents? Sorry, I mean, your heroes’ parents. (I’m sure you want to keep any real parent you happen to have!) If they’re not home when A____ and Z____ wake up, your reader needs to know why.
CHECK ALL THOSE THAT APPLY:
They died in their sleep.
They were buried in an avalanche.
They fell through a wormhole.
They were lost at sea.
They’re currently floating in outer space.
They’re trapped in a parallel universe.
They’re geologists who work year-round in a subterranean laboratory studying the earth’s fiery-hot core.
Actually, they are alive and well. It’s just that they are oblivious, head-in-the-clouds types. They don’t notice when the toast is burning, let alone a child.
Other, more peculiar reason for parents’ nonappearance:
(One thing we know for sure: your heroes’ parents are not good responsible healthy living parents who are very concerned with their kids’ welfare. That would never work in a book.)
Phew. Now that’s taken care of.
Bye, Mom!
Bye, Dad!
Pseudo-intelligence: Beware a bad back!
Once you’ve picked your preferred method of parental execution, how do you impart that gruesome information—or backstory, as we call it in the writing trade—to your reader? Any number of ways. A____ and Z____ could bring up the memory of a parent in dialogue. There could be photos of their parents in their bedrooms or in the kitchen. A____ or Z____ could have a morbid fear of whatever it was that killed their parents. (Perhaps their parents choked on peanut butter, and A____ and Z____ have never been able to hear the words peanut butter, much less eat the dread spread since?) Or you could simply tell your reader what happened; sometimes the direct approach is best. One word of warning: backstory is very boring if it’s not written properly. A bad backstory can stab your story right in the back. My advice: write your backstory like your front story—i.e., like it’s taking place in the present. When in doubt, erase your backstory altogether—even if it means leaving your book as backless as a hospital gown. On second thought…
OPEN REFRIGERATOR.
FIND NOTHING THAT YOU WANT TO EAT.
CLOSE REFRIGERATOR.
REPEAT.
(Remember, we writers are working all the time, no matter what it may seem like we’re doing.)
Location: The Author’s House
Let’s get back to the question of what happened the night before. What exactly did Z____ hear? Who laughed? Who cried? What made that thud? Yes, it could turn out that he imagined the whole thing, but I’d prefer that we come up with a better explanation. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always hated the old it-was-all-just-a-dream scenario.
Since I’m in such a good mood, I’ll start the second chapter for you. (It must be the way you got rid of your parents so handily—I mean your heroes’ parents, your heroes’ parents!) If I miss a few words here or there, please fill in the blanks.
The Case of the Missing Author
Chapter 2
INSERT CHAPTER TITLE HERE
In which A____ and Z____ wonder about what happened in the author’s house the night before.
With their parents gone, it was A____’s responsibility to bring in the newspaper and the mail. After finishing her
whole-grain cereal
sausage-and-pancakes breakfast pockets
cold leftover pizza
homework
farm chores
morning calisthenics
game of pinochle
she stepped out onto their front porch.
The house across the street was quiet. She shivered, looking at it. Had she been too quick to dismiss her brother’s concerns the night before, she wondered. What if something terrible had happened to their neighbor?
Pushing away her grim thoughts, she opened the mailbox; on top of a pile of junk mail was a bulging manila envelope. When she saw the name on the envelope, she wrinkled her face in confusion. Why on earth would an envelope addressed to him land in their mailbox? She looked at the address under the name—and gasped in surprise.
“!”
So that was who was living across the street!
“It could be a joke,” said Z____ a moment later. “Maybe somebody just calls him that because he’s so secretive or something.”
“Did you look at the return address? It’s from his publishers—Little Clown.”
Z____ stared at the envelope on the table. It just didn’t seem possible that their mystery neighbor was actually I.B. Anonymous, his favorite author in the—
It just didn’t seem possible that their mystery neighbor was actually I.B. Anonymous, his
favorite
least favorite
author in the world.
“I thought he was living in the jungle or Greenland or someplace,” Z____ muttered.
“Yeah, and he also says he has a talking rabbit assistant who types his books for him!” said his sister. “That’s all pretend. Duh.”
“You don’t know anything about him,” said Z____.
“I’m the one who gave you his books!”
Z____ turned over the envelope. “We have to open this. That’s the only way to know for sure it’s him.”
A____ looked at her brother, aghast.
“It came to our house, didn’t it? Besides, look at the way it’s taped. We can tape it right back up. He’ll never know,” said Z____. “C’mon, admit it, you’re curious.”
“That doesn’t matter; it’s not ours. That’s like… stealing.”
“Never mind, you’re right; we should just put it in his mailbox.”
“Well, we don’t have to put it in his mailbox,” said his sister slyly. “We could knock on the door. That’s what most people would do, isn’t it?”
Z____ grinned. “Yeah, you’re right, it’s more polite. And if we accidentally see inside his house, well, that’s not our fault…. Besides,” he added, his expression growing serious, “we should probably make sure he’s OK.”
A____ nodded. That was what she’d been thinking.
Now, if this were my book, I might try to draw out the suspense at this point. Rather than letting them immediately knock on I.B.’s door, for example, I might throw in some more background information about A____ or Z____. Or I might have somebody call on the phone to say one of them had won a big prize or that their school had burned down or that they had missed a piano lesson.
Or I might just linger on the description of I.B.’s house as A____ and Z____ slowly walk toward it. Like this:
From the outside, I.B. Anonymous’s house looked—
What am I doing? You’re the writer. What does I.B.’s house look like? You tell me.
Think about it: he’s a secretive author. He wouldn’t want his house to call too much attention to itself. For that reason, the house might look like every other house on the block. Anonymous, in other words, like I.B. himself. But what if his house is the only house on his side of the street; how could he make his house blend in then? Is it camouflaged? Protected with an invisibility shield?*
Perhaps there’s something else about I.B. you want to convey in your description. His eccentricity, for example. (Maybe the house is painted royal blue? The front door is on the roof? The house is upside down?) Or his absentmindedness. (The yard is overgrown? He parks his car in the living room?) Or his paranoia. (Maybe there are telescopes on the roof? Bulletproof glass? Multiple alarm
systems?)
Pseudo-assignment: Instructions
Invent a strange new device—something you might find on an alien planet, for instance. Write instructions for using the device without ever giving away exactly what the device is used for. Alternatively, think of a very familiar item—for example, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—and write operating instructions for an alien to read. (Remember, the alien may never have eaten anything before, let alone a sandwich.) Show instructions to your friends and make them guess what the instructions refer to. If you have no friends, then give the instructions straight to an alien.
WRITE THIS:
In the space below, please describe I.B.’s house.
Draw it, too. Even if your drawing isn’t very good (my drawings never are), it might help you visualize what you’re writing about.
The Case of the Missing Author
Chapter 2 (cont.)
In which I.B.’s house is first described.
Do you feel like you got I.B.’s house right? (I certainly hope you didn’t—I, I mean, he has enough trouble staying hidden as it is!) In any event, let’s move on. Your reader has waited long enough. It’s time to look inside.
Z____ knocked on the door, his heart racing.
There was no response from inside. But as he knocked a second time, the door opened ______ ly.* A____ and Z____ held their breath, waiting to see who opened the door—I.B. or his murderer or some other, unknown force.
If you think the door opened by magic—whether by mechanical illusion or real magic—you can add a sentence here saying so. Of course, the other possibility is that the door wasn’t completely closed and the force of Z____’s knock opened it.
“Hello?”
When nobody answered, they stepped inside.
Pseudo-assignment: Snoop training
No, I do not recommend that you walk into your neighbor’s house and snoop around uninvited (although I admit it might prove inspiring for a budding writer’s imagination). As an alternative, try snooping around your own home, pretending you’re a first-time visitor. What things stand out? What can you conclude about the people who live there? Write a list of observations and hypotheses based strictly on what you see, not on what you already know. And if your brother gets mad at you for looking in his closet, tell him you had no choice; P.B. made you do it. It’s all part of your training as a writer.
Location (Continued):On the Inside
The Case of the Missing Author
Chapter 3
INSERT CHAPTER TITLE HERE
Having read all of I.B.’s books, A____ and Z____ had been expecting the inside of I.B.’s house to look like a _____, but instead it looked like a ______.
Nothing suggested that a tragedy had occurred the night before. More than a few ______brand chocolate bar wrappers littered the floor, but they looked as if I.B. had just dropped them there, not like they’d fallen in a fight.*
“What a slob!” whispered A____.
Aside from the ______ brand chocolate bar wrappers, the one thing Z____ recognized from I.B.’s books was an old, fraying black top hat, perched on top of a bureau.
“Hey, it’s Italo’s hat! Or it’s just how he described Italo’s hat, anyway.”
If his books were to be believed, I.B. had inherited his top hat from the old magician Italo Barbero, leader of the secret organization known as the Cester Society.
In his Series of Secrets, I.B. wrote about himself in the character of middle school student Jon-Thomas, an aspiring magician (as well as aspiring comedian). Together with his best friend, Tess, Jon-Thomas joins the Cester Society and comes to think of Italo as a sort of father figure. At the end of I.B.’s series, Italo disappears, leaving only his hat for his young friends to find—a conclusion both Z____ and A____ had found frustrating, to say the least.
Z____ placed the manila envelope on the bureau and glanced inside the top hat, half-expecting to find a rabbit, but the hat was empty.
Under the couch, I.B.’s gray cat
Tiger
Snowball
Boots
Muffin
Cocoa
Cacao
(Other)_____________________
crouched, his hair bristling on his back. When A____ reached to pet him, the cat slunk out of sight.
Strange, A____ thought; when she’d met him on the street, the cat hadn’t been especially affectionate—how many cats are?—but at least he had permitted her to touch him.
“When did he get so scared of me?” she whispered to her brother.
Z replied:
a. “What am I, psychic?”
b. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
c. “I don’t know, it’s kinda weird.”
d. “Maybe he figured out you’re part dog.”
e. “_______________________________________________.”
Pseudo-intelligence: A dialogue about dialogue
Scene: A young author kneels by the sickbed of his aged master, Pseudonymous Bosch.
Young author: Oh, wise master, please tell me the secret before you depart from this life…
P.B.: The Secret?
Young author: Yes, the secret of good dialogue.
P.B.: Oh, that secret. Give me a pen, I’ll write it down—
Young author: Because it’s so secret you can’t say it out loud…
P.B.: No, because it’s too long and boring—wouldn’t be good dialogue.
When you write dialogue for a novel, it’s useful to pretend you’re writing dialogue for a play. In a play, there is almost nothing but dialogue; dialogue does all the work. Playwrights rely on a character’s lines not only to establish a character’s personality but also to tell a story. In a novel, you should try to hold yourself to the same standard. After you’ve written a few lines of dialogue, read them aloud. If a line doesn’t help define your character or advance your story, cut the line. If a line contains necessary information but doesn’t sound like real conversation, put it in prose form. Notice how I made the aged P.B. write the “secret of good dialogue” on paper? I tried to write the secret in dialogue form, but it was too clunky. Hence this clunky paragraph, which I will now exit as fast as possible.
Cautiously, they began to explore the rest of the house, starting with the kitchen.
“If he knew he was going away, he could have at least done the dishes,” said A____, looking at the sink.
“He wouldn’t have known he was going away if he was kidnapped by the Evening Sun,” said Z____ darkly, referring to the villainous organization that haunted the Cester Society throughout I.B.’s Series of Secrets.
“The Evening Sun? First of all, I keep telling you, his books are just books. They’re not real,” said A____. “Second of all, I don’t see any white gloves lying around, do you?”
“Exactly. They never take off their gloves.”
“So you’re saying the fact that they didn’t leave gloves proves that they were here? That makes no sense.”
There was an open doorway at the end of the hall. I.B.’s office. They were drawn to it like ______ to a ______.
Most of the room was piled high with more ______ brand chocolate bar wrappers and half-eaten pieces of ______. But, curiously, the middle of the room was empty. It was as if some centrifugal force had spun all of I.B.’s belongings away. Except for a single leather notebook that lay on the floor in the exact center of the room.
A handwritten note was clipped to the notebook. “Look—it’s for us!” cried Z____, holding up the note to show his sister. “How did he know we were going to be here?”
Dear A____ and Z____,
Welcome! I’ve been inspecting you. Here’s my new book for you to expect.
By the way, can you feed the cat?
I may be gone awhile….
Secretly, I.B.
A____ frowned. “Expect? I think he flipped the words. He must have meant inspect—you know, like, I’ve been expecting you. Here’s my new book to inspect.”
“You??
?re missing the point—it’s his new book and it’s not even published yet! You know how many kids would kill to get their hands on this?!”
“Well, I hope they wouldn’t kill him—”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
Z____ eagerly opened the notebook, but as soon as he started flipping through the pages, his face fell.
“What—what’s wrong?” asked A____.
Z____ turned the pages toward his sister. The notebook was blank. “Why did he leave it for us if it’s not even written?”
A____ shrugged. “I guess he meant expect after all. There’s no book yet to inspect.”
“Maybe it’s written in invisible ink?”
Z____ performed a few quick tests, but he couldn’t find evidence of any hidden writing anywhere in the notebook.*
He was about to toss the notebook aside when A____ pointed to a page near the front. “Hey, what’s that say?”
There were four names written faintly on it—not in invisible ink, just old-fashioned number two pencil.
Horatio
Eleanor
Leopold
Penelope
“Do you think he was trying to pick names for his characters?” asked A____.
“No, look at the first initials,” said Z____, growing excited again. “It’s code, just like in his first book! H – E – L – P. HELP.”