Why is there air?

And why does everyone think we all understand football? Last week I finally saw The Blind Side, whose climax involves a football game and a kid learning how to change from being a crap football player to a great footballer player. I couldn't tell the difference between what he was doing wrong and what he was doing right, despite the p r o l o n g e d football footage.

Now I'm reading Louis Sachar's new book The Cardturner, which revolves perhaps obsessively around the game of bridge. But what does Sachar, via his narrator Alton, evoke to explain it? Yup:

"I realize that reading about a bridge game isn't exactly thrilling. No one's going to make a movie out of it. Bridge is like chess. A great chess player moves his pawn up one square, and for the .0001 percent of the population who understand what just happened, it was the football equivalent of intercepting a pass and running it back for a touchdown."

Now I'm two times deeper in the dark.

I'm gonna see the folks I dig, I'll even . . .

. . . oops, don't want to have to make like Sylvester and use my magic pebble to hide from the boys in blue. But I am going to California next week and will be giving two presentations to which you are all invited. Both are free.

The first is on Thursday, February 18th, where I'll be at Pomona College in Claremont, speaking on "Children's Literature and Adults: Where do we get off?" It's at 4:15 PM, Ena Thompson Room, Crookshank Hall. I hear there will be snacks.

On Friday the 19th, I'll be speaking at my alma mater Pitzer College, also in Claremont, with fellow alum Susan Patron on "What Makes a Good Banned Book?: How Children's Literature Gets Into Trouble." That will be from 2:00 PM - 3:00 PM, reception to follow, Broad Performance Space. Those with testicular fortitude are welcome to join us.

Winnie lives

In my new fascination with readers-as-fans, I've been visiting fanfiction.net, where readers become writers, choosing their own adventures for Harry, Hermione, and Bella (is that name an hommage to Mr. Lugosi?). While the site has more than 350,000 Harry Potter stories and 32,000 Twilights, who would have thought that Tuck Everlasting would have 182?

Here's a taste:

"Fuck that Amy, Give me the bottle." Beatrice had just downed her third shot that night and was reaching for the entire bottle of Jack Daniels as her drunk friends looked on, laughing their heads off. Her alcoholism had just begun that past month. It was two twenty am and she was already high, getting drunker by the second.

She was a victim of unrequited love.

She had fallen into a downward spiral of depression, and only one man could pull her out.

-

Winifred Foster went to work every morning, no matter how hungover she was from the previous night. 7:00am at the local diner, close to where the spring used to be. She was now 107 years old. But to her 'friends' and colleagues, she was 17 year old Beatrice Allen, new to the town of Treegap since a year ago, when she had grown tired of Tokyo. Winnie had dyed her naturally chocolate hair black, and bought some hazel contact lenses to hide her vibrant green-blue eyes. She did this in fear that somebody should recognize her, over time. She kept a low profile, and traveled around a lot, blown off lots of replaceable friends, but she did this because she could not risk the secret of Tuck Everlasting.

The spring had survived, she was still the rightful owner of the wood, she refused to sell it. Even if she had wished to, no buyers would be able to track her down. So many years of aliases, and fake IDs. Her actual identity was a mystery to anyone who wanted to find out. She only faintly remembered the 'Man in The Yellow Suit' now, but he was still there, taunting her somehow. Maybe it was her remorse, for not being there when her mother died, for faking her death and leaving everyone behind. It wasn't her fault she had begun getting older and not a thing had changed. She had no choice but to run. She had a new life to expect then. Now? After nearly one hundred years, and still no Tucks. She had no idea what to expect.

And as she poured some water for a kind gentleman in his booth, she wondered if she could make it another day, in her meaningless existence. She contemplated drinking herself into alcohol poisoning; but 'of course', she thought with a bitter laugh she would never die.

Somebody owes Lisa Yee a Mac

(Thanks to Lolly Robinson for the tip.)

NOT by the hair of her chinny-chin-chin, apparently

Off to the Eric Carle Museum today for tomorrow's program; let's hope the weather holds out! [UPDATE: It's not going to. The event has been canceled and will be rescheduled.]

Just read that the multimillion-dollar-lawsuit-inspiring Misha, a Holocaust memoir in which the author claimed to have been sheltered by wolves for a time, has been exposed as a complete hoax. ['nother update: Globe reporter David Mehegan has more on the story.]

For reals?

I'd like to take a moment to thank HarperCollins for putting a nail into the coffin of a word that's long outlived its usefulness. Explaining their plans to publish a series that will provide opportunities for product placement, Harper children's boss Susan Katz explains:

“If you look at Web sites, general media or television, corporate sponsorship or some sort of advertising is totally embedded in the world that tweens live in. It gives us another opportunity for authenticity.”

So that's what we're calling it now.

Play Ball!

Claire has a roster of A-team sports books for you, so batter up before I run out of metaphors.

RedSoxtober

Barring funerals, pretty much the only time I hear from my now far-flung McNally relatives is when the Red Sox are doing well at whatever it is they do. Which, I guess, they've done. Honestly, I feel like I should trade houses with my California (or Delaware, Maryland . . .) cousins, because while I live a scant three miles from Fenway Park, the only reason I even check the game schedule is to find out if we're going to have trouble parking for the movies. I went to a game once, forty-five years ago with my Cub Scout troop (oops, I automatically spelled that troupe, how gay is that?) and all I remember is that we got popcorn in little cardboard megaphones. But I'm glad my family is happy.

I've got a three-way going on with Jules and Eisha, the gals of Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast, reviewing Perry Moore's Hero; check it out.

Going to New York for a few days to see Elizabeth and attend a memorial celebration for Lloyd Alexander; tonight I'll be dining with the Child_Lit crowd, bloggers Betsy, Cheryl and Monica among them. That should be particularly lively as the list is currently divided among* those who think J. K. Rowling is a hero for her recent revelation re Dumbledore, those who think she is a publicity-seeking fame whore, and those like myself who haven't read Book Seven and are just staying out of the whole thing.

* Joanna Rudge Long recently called me on following between with three things. Is it really wrong?

Kathy Griffin Isn't the Only One to Drag Jesus into It

And at least she was funny. Last month, we got a letter from a woman who decided she wanted to cancel her subscription to the Magazine because of Patty Campbell's report on the word fuck, Susan Patron's account of the little scrotum that could (and did) and our then upcoming special issue on gender, the one you, ahrmmm, should be holding in your hands. Fine. Let her go join those subscribers who left when I presumed to give some advice to the First Lady. (Incidentally, young Jenna's book has some good things going for it; see my review in our November issue.)

But then. But. Then. We sent this disgruntled former subscriber a refund for the balance of her subscription, and apparently we mistakenly mailed her two checks or something, and Margaret, our business manager, asked her to send one back. All she had to do was stick it in an envelope or, hell, say "Suck it, Horn Book," and cash it but NOOOOOO. "I received your message on Wednesday and am happy to return the check that was written in error. As a follower of Jesus Christ, I cannot take from Horn Book what is not due me. It would not be honoring to my savior, and so here is the check."

I think I'll use it to buy her a Mass.

Horn Book 2.0

Just in time for May Day and in service to workers the world over, we're proud to introduce our newly designed and rejiggered website. What's newest is our Horn Book History section (make Laura Ingalls Wilder's gingerbread!), plus there is now a handy what's-new page, which updates additions and revisions to the blog and website. And for a hint of our glamorous environs, see this picture of the Horn Book Guide office. Lolly Robinson tells me that if you are a frequent visitor to our site you will need to refresh your web cache to see the new stuff. Many thanks to Lolly, our designer and webmistress, and Kitty Flynn, our newly anointed online content editor, for all their work. Please let them know of any problems or suggestions at info-at-hbook-dot-com.

Also appearing today are selections from the May/June issue of the Magazine, including links to my editorial ("Balls! says the Queen," was my preferred title, but I was overruled) our science reviewer Danielle Ford explaining what makes a good dinosaur book, and blogonatrix Betsy Bird, aka Fuse#8, on the why and wherefores of cyber-nattering and with a list of her favorite blogs. Yes! Go see if you are on it!

Maybe this is what Susan Patron was thinking.

In his powerful new picture book memoir The Wall (Frances Foster/FSG, forthcoming in September), Peter Śís quotes from his journals about the darkness following the Prague Spring of 1968:

There is a whole science to learn about dealing with censors. You have to give them something to change. For instance, if you're making a film or a painting, or writing a book or a song, you put in a big church. You can be sure the censors will tell you to take it out, and perhaps they won't notice the smaller, important things. Theater people have the "little white dog" theory. If you let a little white dog parade across the front of the stage, the censors won't notice what is happening in the background.

Well, you do know it's going over the net.

I like the commenter on Alison Morris's new ShelfTalker blog at PW (welcome, Alison) who says that the cover for the new Harry Potter looks like our lad is serving a tennis ball.

Maybe if I had read Harry while imagining he looked like Roger Federer I might have gotten further in the series than 2.5. And there's a Higher Power of Lucky joke somewhere in here but I can't seem to get my hands on it.

Susan Patron has company.

from the copyright page of Sweet!: The Delicious Story of Candy (Tundra, 2007):

This book is dedicated to the sweet memory of our mother [name redacted because otherwise mine would come down from heaven and KILL me], who liked her black balls two at a time.

Martha sent me this,

and it's a far funnier variant on this joke than we usually see. Thank God for gay people (Paul Rudnick, I mean, not Martha).

From the Man Who Did This Already, Already

Did anyone catch the shoutout to Maurice Sendak on The L Word this week? He didn't, but allowed to me this morning that Jennifer Beals nekkid would definitely be worth drawing (I'm not being gratuitous; see the recap).

In any event, he was far more worked up about Susan Patron's problems with a few librarians, having been there himself, and wanted me to tell you all how disgusted he was by the whole controversy. "This is such a putdown to those of us who spend our lives creating art for children. It's acutely embarrassing to adults, and shows a complete lack of respect for children and their books, especially when you know children's fascination with and candor about the body. Bravo for the lady who put it on the first page."

Oh, those sneaky sneaks!

The New York Times weighs in with what is quite possibly the most inane comment yet on Lucky's scrotum:

"Authors of children’s books sometimes sneak in a single touchy word or paragraph, leaving librarians to choose whether to ban an entire book over one offending phrase."

Bagging our principles

Fuse 8 led me to Susan Patron's defense of The Higher Power of Lucky's Scrotum at PW online, and while it is admirably articulate and refreshingly undefensive, I am bothered by one line: "If I were a parent of a middle-grade child, I would want to make decisions about my child's reading myself."

So would I, because the world would run far more pleasantly if everyone just did things my way. I do dislike it when librarians and ALA place the censorship debate into the hands of parents like it's a gift: "we encourage you to come to the library with your child and select books that both of you blah blah blah." We don't really mean it--at least I hope we don't. Libraries should be a place where children can run happily afoul of their parents fears, aspirations, protection and authority. What better place to learn to think for yourself? I was pleased as punch when the Conservative Christian Resource Center years ago lifted from one of my editorials for their "Quote of the Week," labelling it a really scary viewpoint: "Just because parents have the legal right to control their children’s reading does not mean that we should encourage them to do so."