WARNING I – THIS BLOG IS LONG ON LAUGHTER BUT SHORT ON BREVITY
WARNING II – THIS BLOG CONTAINS RECYCLED JOKES
My kid sister, Voulez-Vouz (yes, her legal name is Voulez-Vouz Allez-Vouz, but those of us who know her well, know that Voulez-Vouz is actually short for Voulez-Vouz Coucher Moi Ce Soir – but whatever, to each their own),
broke her hand a couple weeks ago. Let me be more clear – she broke her hand on a hockey player’s face.
The hockey player in question started sniffing around a couple years ago. I met him once, when he first made his affection for Voulez-Vouz obvious. Being a concerned older sister, I asked the two of them to join me for pizza, so I could judge whether or not he was worthy.
It quickly became apparent that the amorous stick-handler was incapable of conversing about any subject that was not related to hockey. I am not completely disinterested in hockey, and know a thing or two about the sport, so I capitulated and engaged the boy.
I must confess to having a bit of a crush on one Sidney Crosby. He is, I must say, absoutely dreamy.
He also happens to be the best hockey player in the world.
But my sister’s suitor – whom I will refer to as Oscar, for reasons to be made clear later – took umbrage at my assertion that Sid the Kid is the slickest thing on skates. He insisted that Alexander Ovechkin is, by far, the most awesome dipsy-doodling dangler on ice.
I will give Ovechkin his dues; he is a fantastic hockey player. He is Pavel Bure with an extra 30 pounds of solid muscle. But… forgive me for being so shallow, but he looks like a hockey player. Like a Russian hockey player, which he is. Like a 1970s Russian hockey player. Seriously. The man is suffering from a serious aesthetic deficit from the neck up.
It seems obvious that Alexander the Great was repeatedly struck in the face with a not-very-pleasant-to-gaze-upon stick at some point in his life.It wouold seem that, when God was handing out looks, Alex thought God was saying, “books,” and grunted, “No thanks, I don’t want none.”
Forgive this, another old joke, too, please; Alexander Ovechkin is so lacking in comeliness that his mother had to tie pork chops around his neck, when he was a child, so the dog would play with him. It’s not all his fault that he is so hideous, of course, but with all that money (13 year contract – $124 million) you would think the man would, at the very least, stop cutting his own hair, unless it’s his dog that commits that atrocity.
When I brought up the subject of Mr. Ovechkin’s facial shortcomings the table fell silent. It took a few seconds for me to realize my faux pas – Oscar was no better looking than Ovechkin. That was obvious, obviously, but sometimes we can become oblivious to the obvious when we got caught up in a passionate defense of those we love, or hope to one day love.
Quickly recovering, I asked who of the two owns not only a Stanley Cup ring, but an Olympic Gold Medal, as well. The answer, in case you don’t know, or can’t guess, is Sidney.
Oscar screwed his face up into an awful, awful mess, and replied, “Ovechkin could kick the s___ out of that little b____Crosby!”
Oscar went on, at some length, describing exactly how thoroughly Pork Chop could pummel poor, sweet Sidney. He then demonstrated a remarkable (but a tad disconcerting) knowledge of sexual terminology by telling us what Pork Chop would do to poor, sweet Sidney’s poor, sweet mother, when he finished pummelling poor, sweet Sidney. Fortunately, miraculously, Oscar somehow managed to not spray us with saliva during his oxygen deprived tirade. It always comes down to violence with sub-literates brutes, doesn’t it?
Aghast, I pulled out a silver bullet that I had picked up somewhere, aimed it at Oscar’s protruding, neanderthal forehead, and fired, “Tell me something, please: What shape is a book? Circle, or triangle?”
You could hear the gears grinding inside the boy’s head as he stared at me like a moose.
Mooses, like all wild animals, are loathe to get too close to humans. However, when you encounter them from a not-too-distant distance, you can feel that they are not so much looking at you, as they are looking past you. When you have met a few mooses, as I have, and had the good fortune to have them stand still long enough for you to observe their majesty, you come to understand that they look upon humans with confusion and trepidation. They instictively know that nothing good can come from remaining in your presence, and they inevitably bolt, before you can harm them. And so it was with my kid sister’s unsuitable suitor.
Oscar the Cro-Magnon’s consternation was conspicuous. Voulez-Vouz knows the moose look. She recognized it on the face of her wannabe paramour, and she could not stop herself from bursting into laughter. Her laughing fit triggered mine.
The boy may not be endowed with a triple digit IQ, but he was smart enough to understand that he was being made fun of. Not bothering to offer an answer to my question, Oscar mumbled a number of disconnected expletives, and fled.
Now, I want it to go on the record that I do not actuually believe that Sid the Kid is any more literate than David Beckham is. It is as if the two of them were hee-hawing it up when God was passing out brains, and mistakenly thought the BIG GUY had said, “trains,” and tragically replied, “What? Trains? No thanks, dude, we have enough moneyz to catch a plane.” But that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t… ah, but I digress.
And what, pray tell, is the point? Bear with me, please, gentle reader, for I am rapidly coming to that, and forgive me my wont to simultaneously entertain and enlighten, if you’d be so tolerant and kind.
I imagine that word of my flight from the North American continent reached and emboldened the aforementioned, mercilessly mocked Oscar, because shortly after Christmas he friended Voulez-Vouz on Facebook. It took him a few weeks to manage to charm my too-easily-charmed little sister, but charmed is not necessarily disarmed.
I don’t want to know the details of their brief affair, but I was more than happy to get the skinny on how it concluded, and I am likewise happy to share that story.
Oscar got all octopus on her. She punched him in the nose. She broke his nose. She broke her hand.
The End.
(and that’s why I call him Oscar, because long before you, gentle reader, knew it, he was going to end up being an octopus, and I love alliteration!)
Good story, or what? See, I can embrace the concept of more is less, more or less… once in a while.
Now, the point. Voulez-Vouz has a wide array of raw talents, not all of which will earn a girl an unsavoury reputation. The girl happens to be a fairly good visual artist. Alas, she does not have a great deal of imagination to go with her raw talent, but she can take directions. So, it was to her that I turned when I started writing my Sweet and Salty Crackers series.
As is the case with most artists, she was slow out of the gates. After more than a month, she managed to produce exactly one pic.
A pretty good pic, I will admit, and I hope you will agree. But now, with a busted mitt, she is useless to my mighty important mission, so I have started looking for someone to replace her. If that seems a bit harsh – she will, I am told, be out of her cast in no more than two months, after all – please understand that we are sisters, and we have our differences. I love her like a sister… which means that I sometimes hate her. Like when she wears my clothes. And ruins them (likely because some drooling, knuckle-dragger on skates has been pawing at her). And sometimes my dear, sweet, not-so-innocent little sister commits the most heinous of all wardrobe crimes by having the gall to look better in my clothes than I do.
We also have creative differences. Creative differences between artists who practice different disciplines can often be worked out, but if those artists happen to be siblings there is a great possibility that Mexican standoffs will be prolonged, and the magic will not only die but fester into a putrid abomination that no one wants to approach ever again.
That being undeniable, I put out an ad looking for a professional. The first response I received was from a woman professing to have more than a deacde of experience illustrating all manner of things, including kid lit. I liked her portfolio, but before asking about her prices I sent her the texts of my five completed Sweet and Salty Crackers books, along with the pic produced by Voulez-Vouz, and asked her to tell me whether or not she thought she could picture herself illustrating the series.
Here, for your entertainment, is the verbatim email exchange that ensued between us a week later:
Artist: Sorry it took me a while to read these, I just started a new job. I was reading the first one and had a question, is Rah Rah Ronny a bunny? I keep picturing him as a bunny…and is this like a series broken up into smaller stories?
Writer: bunny? no, he is not a bunny. it’s a non-linear series. there are no connections from one story to the next, they merely have the same main characters
Artist: Oh, okay. So what is he? It keeps saying furry feet but I don’t see where it says what he is?
Writer: he’s a six year old boy. bon bon bonny is his twin sister. their friend is silly sally. you can see the three of them on the left hand side of the pic i sent you
Artist: Oh, okay then why does it keep saying “furry feet”, that’s the part that confuses me. Sorry about that.
Writer: ummm… because he has furry feet
Artist: I got that, but what kind? There are all different types…
Writer: he has the feet of a six year old boy. they are covered in fur. what kind of fur? ummm… soft, silky smooth. maybe like fox fur, because foxes are also redheads?
Artist: Ah, okay! That’s what I meant. Again, sorry about the confusion.
I have begun what I am told will likely be a soul-destroying search for an agent to represent my series of early reader books called Sweet and Salty Crackers. Here’s the first of five stories that I have completed:
SWEET AND SALTY CRACKERS:
NO YOU CAN’T EAT MY FURRY FEET
It was raining cats and kangaroos on a cold and clammy day
“Let’s sing the silly ‘I love’ song to chase the clouds away,” said Silly Sally.
Rah Rah Ronny, a rowdy, red-headed rascal with fuury feet, roared, “I love lazy lions and I love licorice.”
Rah Rah Roony’s twin sister, Bon-bon Bonny, bellowed, “I love giant giraffes and I love juicy jam.”
“Juicy jam?” asked Silly Sally
“Juicy jam, juicy jam, juicy jam, juicy jam!” jabbered Rah Rah Ronny. “I’m doing the juicy jam dance!” Then they all did the juicy jam dance!
“I love funny froggies and I love French fries,” sang Silly Sally
“I love funny froggies and I love my furry feet,” laughed Rah Rah Ronny.
“Hee hee hee, ha ha ha, ho ho ho,” everyone laughed, pointing at the red-headed rascal’s furry feet. “Furry feet, furry feet, furry feet, furry feet,” they all sang.
“Ha ha ha, hee hee hee, ho ho ho,” they all laughed.
“But we can’t eat your furry feet,” sang Silly Sally.
“No, you can’t eat my furry feet,” laughed Rah Rah Ronny. “No, you can’t eat my furry feet, they’re not meant for you to eat, Silly Sally, Silly Sally, Silly Sally, silly girl ”
“I love laughing llamas and I love lasagne,” boomed Bon-bon Bonny.
“MMMMM! Lasagne!” mmmmed Rah Rah Ronny.
“Nummy nummy, yummy yummy, nom nom nom,” they all mmmmed
“I love laughing llamas and I love my furry feet,” laughed Rah Rah Ronny.
“But we can’t eat your furry feet,” laughed Silly Sally.
“No, you can’t eat my furry feet, they’re not meant for you to eat, Silly Sally, Silly Sally, Silly Sally, silly girl,” laughed Rah Rah Ronny.
“Furry feet, furry feet, fury feet, furry feet,” they all sang.
Silly Sally sang, “I love mini monkeys and I love moo moo milk.”
“I love mini monkeys and I love my furry feet,” laughed Rah Rah Ronny.
“But we can’t eat your furry feet,” laughed Silly Sally.
“No, you can’t eat my furry feet, they’re not meant for you to eat, Silly Sally Silly Sally Silly Sally, silly girl,” laughed Rah Rah Ronny.
“Furry feet, furry feet, fury feet, furry feet,” they all sang.
“I love you and I love you and I love me,” boomed Bon-bon Bonny.
“I love you and I love you and I love me,” roared Rah Rah Ronny.
“I love you and I love you and I love me,” sang Silly Sally
“I love me! I love me! I love me!” sang all three.
“Ha ha ha, ho ho ho, hee hee hee,” they laughed, with glee.
Then they looked out the window and it was not raining cats and kangeroos anymore. It was not cold and clammy. The sun was smiling. All the love and laughter had chased the clouds away.
THE END
In my research, I have discovered that agents do not like simultaneous submissions. I can understand that, but can they seriously expect unknown writers to wait six or more weeks for a decision before sending a query to other agents?
There are hundreds of kid lit agents, so a writer could spend years doing nothing more than trying to get one to represent a book.
I have also learned that publishers generally are not interested in picture books that are already illustrated, unless the artist is a recognized professional.
But that would mean that a writer would either have to: leave a picture book without pictures, in the hope that a publisher will contract the rights to publish the book; or hire a professional artist to illustrate the book, at great expense; or pass up the opportunity to self-publish it as an ebook.
And what happens if a writer does decide to publish an ebook and then captures the attention, and adulation, of a publisher? Will the publisher insist that the writer just drop the artist that has done so much work? That’s not fair.
I don’t want to start what I hope will be a long career as a writer of kid lit by angering the professionals of the industry – that’s trouble, with a capital T, and that rhymes with D, and that stands for “don’t-quit-your-day-job” – but I think I have legitimate questions about real problems.
When Dr. Seuss Meets Mother Goose, Things Get Grimm 