The other night I was at a small concert attended by a whole range of people, from little kids (most of whom were running around) to elderly folks (some of whom were dancing –it was a pretty lively concert). One boy, middle-school aged, sat in the front row reading a book, completely tuning out all the bouncing bodies and rockin’ music around him. At one point one of the band members announced she was awarding this kid one of their cd’s, for being “Best Reader.” He was embarrassed, but pleased–like who wouldn’t be?

My husband and I were sitting nearby and happened to notice the book he was reading seemed to have more pictures than words. “Oh, he’s just reading a comic book!” my husband commented. “Graphic novel,” I corrected him, and went on to say that there’s some pretty happening writing going on right now in that format.

Just because a book has pictures doesn’t mean it doesn’t also have complex characters, plot, ideas, and especially vocabulary. Heck, my oldest son practically taught himself to read on “Tintin” and “Calvin and Hobbes”! (Some GREAT words in C & H–I sure miss that strip…) Yeah, I can see how pictures take away the pleasure of reading great visual descriptions, but let’s face it, not all authors are all that good at those anyway.

What do you think? Do graphic novels “count” as novels? Why or why not? Have you read one which you’d like to recommend?

Note:  This is taken from the middle of the chapter, so as not to give anything away that for Book One. After you’ve read it, let me hear from you! Has anything like this happened to you? Do you feel sorry for Jocelyn in this scene? Why or why not?

The rest of the day went downhill from there, starting with Savannah’s mom picking us up for school.

You try carpooling with someone you’re not speaking to. Our teachers used to joke that Savannah and I were “joined at the hip,” we were so close—kind of funny since we look so different, stick-person Joss and Wonder Woman Savannah, but that’s how we were. Carpool, lunch, every single class, carpool again—then home to one of our houses, together. But these days Savannah leaves the front seat open so I get to sit there answering her mom’s questions, while she sits in back with Michael, dropping hints about what she and Tyler do together. By the time we got to school, I felt like a nine year-old.

Didn’t help that First Period is math. I don’t hate math, okay?  I mean, I’m not one of those dumb girls who “don’t get it” and send Ms. Schneider into a lecture on You Girls Are Creating Your Own Negative Stereotypes.  It’s just not my favorite, all this right or wrong, black or white neatness. There’s no wiggle room like there is with words.

Someone had passed out chocolate hearts and kids were stuffing them into their mouths before class started, because Ms. Schneider’s one of the strict ones. Tyler Howe had managed to gather a double handful, which he tried to stuff down the front of Savannah’s shirt when she went to give him a perky little nose-kiss. She giggled her head off, up and down the music scale like she does. Made me want to throw up.

“Happy V.D., Hamburger,” Nate Cowper said. Of course he was sitting with Tyler the Jerk. How can anyone like someone who likes someone like that?

“Get your feet off my chair,” I snapped.

“Whoa, somebody took the Burger to McDonald’s and got her an Unhappy Meal,” Nate sighed, shaking his head like a grownup. His hair’s only blond in the summer; now it was kind of dark gold.

“There’s no McDonald’s on Dalby, idiot,” was my lame reply. I hate that stupid Burger nickname. Tyler started it when he first moved here in 4^th grade, and of course it stuck:  Burgowski Burger, Hamburger, or just Burger for short. I sat down and turned my back.

But then Ms. Schneider started rattling through morning announcements and handing out our worksheets. The goat pen! I had forgotten we were starting the design today. Eighth graders were going to get a pair of goats, already pregnant (we hoped), to take care of and study and write about. One was being donated, and the other we had fundraised for, selling wrapping paper and cookie dough. But before they arrived, we had to build their pen, which meant figuring out how much wood to buy. Boom:  math, science and language arts, all in one goaty package. I love my weird school.

Today, though, it found a way to get to me. Ms. Schneider put us in groups of three to work out our calculations of area, and I guess she thought she was doing me and Savannah a favor by putting us together. Either she hadn’t noticed us glaring at each other, or she had and thought this would fix it. Teachers can be tricksy. And she threw poor old Molly in with us as a buffer.

“So, length times width…that’s, like, fourteen times twenty-one, right?”  Molly started her equation in her horrible handwriting. Savannah had slid her chair to the far end of our table, hanging her arms behind her so Tyler could draw on them.

“Nuh-uh, don’t forget, the part which attaches to the shed is, like, five feet shorter, right? So we have to do two different length times width thingies,” I explained.

Savannah examined her arm, where Tyler had drawn something that looked a lot like boobs. “I think, when the baby goats are born, we should name them Paris and Avril,” she announced to the ceiling.

“Why?” asked Molly.

“Sophistication, dahling,” Savannah said, batting her eyelashes. She’s been wearing a ton of mascara lately. “Our goats gonna bring some class to da house, y’all, knawmean?”  Suddenly she was all ghetto.

“Since when do you talk that way, Savannah?” I said. “And those names aren’t sophisticated, they’re ridiculous.”

“Oh, yeah, you would know, right?  ‘Cause you’re so much more sophisticated than the rest of us.”

“At least I don’t have boobs on my arm.”

“What, this?”  Savannah extended her arm like an ice skater. “FYI, this is a picture of the tattoo Ty’s gonna get. I would tell you where, but I’m not sure you’re ready to hear that.”

“Wow, you sure are sophisticated all right,” I snarked. Behind us, Tyler and Nate were snorting, enjoying the show.

I reminded myself:  she’s been jealous ever since I got to live on the mainland last year. Even though I kept telling her how horrible McClenton was. Jealous, that’s all. Then she tilted her head back so her hair was practically in Tyler’s lap, closed her eyes and ignored me, and I wanted to slap her sophisticated face.

“Hey, you guys. Are we gonna do this problem?”  Molly asked plaintively.

“Yeah,” I said, turning my back on Savannah. “What do we got so far?”

“Um…two hundred and ninety-four?”  Molly looked up hopefully as Ms. Schneider breezed over.

“How you doing, girls?  Let’s see how you’re working it.”

Suddenly Savannah tossed her hair and leaned back to our table. “No, look, Molly, here’s what you do,” she said, like she was the teacher. She began zipping Molly through the problem, Molly  nodding with grateful understanding. Not me. I was too busy feeling pissed. Ms. Schneider caught my eye, gave me a little half-smile and moved on to the boys behind us.

Some BFF.  I started doodling cubes on my scratch paper, nice dark ones, while Molly and Savannah became the first in the class to summon Ms. Schneider and tell her exactly how much wood to buy. Ms. Schneider was in the middle of praising their Teamwork when someone kicked my chair.

I turned around, ready to throw my pencil at Tyler, and saw Nate’s face…or rather, mine, which I guess he thought he was imitating. I do not pout my lip out when I’m mad, but that’s what Nate was doing, and I had to clench my jaw to keep from smiling. Just because it looked so stupid.

“Mm, what’s that smell?” his lips whispered. “Burger got burned.”

Two parts of me felt suddenly warm. My face, duh, because someone else noticing is what really burns, right?  The other warm part was more like my stomach. Something about the shape of Nate’s lips when they made the word “burger”…

“Shut up, Cow-pie,” I whispered back, clenching away.

He leaned across his table, looking up at me through his eyelashes. They’re super-long, and I bet he knows it. “Here,” he said, and stuck something down the back of my sweatshirt.

I scrabbled my fingers, trying to pull whatever-it-was from behind my bra strap. Feels like…a piece of paper…and…My stomach glowed. It’s one of those foil-wrapped hearts…from Nate!

It was. Taped onto the back of some red construction paper. Ohjeezohjeez. Totally first-gradey, but totally adorable. Is this really happening? Nate Cowper? I swept it into my lap so no one else would see.

Another kick to my chair. I leaned my chin in my hand before turning around so Nate wouldn’t see how red I was.

Good thing. ‘Cause I got even redder when he hissed at me, “Don’t give it to her till lunch, okay?”

And that’s when I pulled the valentine out of my lap, turned it over and saw the sticky-note which said: “Give to Savannah,’k?”

Maybe everyone wasn’t looking at me, but it felt like they were. I snatched the thing back into my lap, but not before I caught Savannah’s eye. She didn’t need me to pass on that valentine. She already knew. And my BFF looked sorry for me.

My stomach wasn’t warm anymore, it was all squinched up in a lump of humiliation. I walked as slowly as I could to Language Arts, studying the floor tiles.

How exciting is this? Book One, The Flying Burgowski, is DONE and I’m busily trying to find myself a new agent who can sell it for me. Book Two, The Flying Burgowski Disaster, is MOSTLY done; my wonderful writing group is helping me polish it up through one last draft–kind of like bringing out the finest sandpaper once you’ve already sanded it down pretty smooth. So now, in the middle of all of this, I’m starting the last book of the trilogy!

Unless it isn’t the last. Who knows?

Also unknown: the title. Once I’ve got it written I might throw out some possibilities and let you, my readers, help me choose.

Coming soon: a snippet from Book Two!

But right now I’m too excited to say any more.

I’ve been talking around the edges of my book, The Flying Burgowski, for long enough…it’s time to share a little. How about Chapter One? Does that sound about right?  After you’ve read it, write in and tell me…Do you agree with Jocelyn’s attitude that people who only see the movies of Harry Potter are idiots?  Why/why not?

If you saw a “ghost” video like this on the internet, would you think it was real or fake? Why?

Does Jocelyn’s relationship with her brother Michael remind you of any brother-sister relationships you know of? Wanna share?

Chapter One: Pretty Basic Ghost

If you think Harry Potter’s stupid, you might want to stop reading right now.

I know. But some people think that. When this kid in my Language Arts told Mrs. Mac, “Harry Potter’s stupid, I just watch the movies,” I couldn’t believe it. “You’re stupid,” I told the kid—it was Tyler Howe, he’s a jerk. Mrs. Mac told me not to be rude, but she was smiling so I know she agreed with me.

But my point is, some people can’t handle that kind of wildness in a story. And if you’re one of them, you won’t like mine.

You have been warned.

My name is Jocelyn Olivia Burgowski. It spells JOB and I used to sign my name that way, but I have a better signature now, way better:  The Flying Burgowski. Too bad I don’t get to use it.

That’s why I’m writing this. Some things you just have to tell; some secrets eat away at you like rust until you get all weak and crumbly. I was starting to feel that way until I decided to write my story down. I can tell that’s a good idea because I already feel kind of fortified, like someone just gave me a thick new coat of paint. When you’re a Flyer you have to find a way to deal with the biggest secret ever. Because I’m the only one. I know I am. That stupid video’s just a hoax.

Harry Potter didn’t have to worry about keeping his magic secret; everybody around him was magic too. I’m really more like Spiderman, but without the tights and the mask and stuff. That would be stupid. And I don’t need to grab on to buildings. But I’ll share some inside info, so you know I’m not making this up. #1, When you’re flying, the sky smells like lilies. No kidding. And #2:  Flying doesn’t come with instructions, like a new video game. So if it cuts out on you, sorry—no customer support. You’re on your own.

My story started with flying dreams, way last spring. Aren’t those awesome? I usually had one after falling asleep re-reading Harry. Next day I’d tell my best friend Savannah about zooming over the clouds or whatever, and she’d go, “Whoa, that sounds like the one I had where…” I mean, she could relate. But then the dreams changed and I quit telling about them.

On the last Saturday before the end of school, I woke up grabbing my bed frame for dear life. Whoa. Flying in spirals! Never knew a dream could make you dizzy. Good ol’ Saturday Pancakes is what I needed, and I shuffled into the kitchen. But instead of Dad flipping them on the stove, there they were, already cooled on a big plate. And a note:  “M & J, theres s-berries & w.creme in the frig. Do yr. chores. J check vac bag. Back @ 9:30 w/ special present.”  Dad’s not the best speller, but strawberries and whipped cream!  Major treat. And “special present”?  It sounded like Dad was doing his part to polish up my shiny pre-birthday excitement.

My birthday’s on Summer Solstice, June 21^st, and this year I was becoming a Teen, the first age with its own name. When Michael joined me in the kitchen I started planning out loud.

“Hey, maybe I’ll have an Unlucky Party. You know, invite thirteen people? And everyone gets unlucky favors, like…toy black cats. Or ladders.”  I took my pancakes out of the microwave. “What else is unlucky?”

My brother took a giant bite and glommed it around in his mouth without saying anything. I hate when people don’t answer you, and Michael knows that so he does it on purpose just to make me mad.

“Oh, and I can have, like, black frosting on the cake. Or maybe that’s too Halloweeny. Oh, maybe orange, like a caution sign!”

He swallowed, took another half-pancake bite.

“’Cause thirteen’s unlucky, get it?”

Michael put his fork down, opened the milk carton, and sniffed. “This better be better than yesterday’s. It was stamped the 14^th and it was already off.”  Dad brings us the milk that’s too near its expiration date to sell at our store, so we have to be careful. But right then I hoped Michael would get a whole snootful of sour milk for being such a jerk.

“Whaddya think?” I asked him right out.

“’Bout what,” my brother grumbled.

That did it. “You know, you sound just like Mom when you do that.” He does, but that’s not why I said it. I said it ‘cause it gets his attention.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”  Finally I saw his eyes as he swept the hair away.

“At least she’s got an excuse for not listening. At least when you’re taking a bunch of pills or something it’s not really your fault if your brain’s out taking a walk or…or riding a trapeze, or…”

“Shut up, Joss.”

“No, you shut up!  You’re the one who doesn’t want to say anything!  Fine. I can plan my party without you or Mom, or anybody!”

“Hah!”  Michael sat up straight. “You think Mom wants to have anything to do with your party? You must be delusional. Remember last year? Your ultra-original Harry Potter theme and you tried to get her to dress up like a witch? Oh, that worked out great, huh?”

“That wasn’t my fault!”  My throat tightened and refused the last bite of pancake. “She was all into the idea, I thought she’d love it…”

I’d thought she would. A month before my party last year she’d sounded enthusiastic. “Harry Potter, huh? You know I haven’t read ‘em, but I think I’m the only person on earth who hasn’t. So go for it, babe. Sounds cool.”

“Can you dress up too, Mom?” I’d asked on the phone. “All the guys are wizards and all the girls are witches, so you’re a witch.”

She had laughed her funny, scratchy laugh. “Always wondered when my daughter would start calling me that. Sure, babe, I’ll be a witch. What time does your thing start?”

She had even been on time, at least for her. Dressed as a witch. Long, fake nose and warts and scraggly wig. Too bad I hadn’t told her the Harry Potter witches don’t look like that. How was she supposed to know? So the third girl who pointed this out to her, Molly, got an earful.

“Well, you’re thoroughly into character,” Mom snapped at Molly, and her warty nose and the wig went sailing across the living room. “What do these Harry Potter witches do, then? Fly on broomsticks?”

“Oh, yes!”  Poor old Molly thought Mom had finally figured it out. “Here, you can use mine if you want.”

I absolutely hate it when people bring up bad memories. Like you really need help with that.

“Oh, loved it, she did,” Michael said in his snottiest Yoda voice. “Threw the broomstick right through the window, she did. Good one, Joss. Way to make your loving mom look like a psycho in front of all your friends.”

“Dad said it wasn’t my fault,” I insisted. “He said it was a tough time for her. So that’s how I know he still loves her.”

All our fights ended up here sooner or later.

“Oh, grow up, Joss,” my brother snorted. “You said it yourself—you think Mom’s a mess, and so does Dad. Why would Mr. Perfect want to re-hitch himself to a druggie alky?”

“She’s not a druggie, she just has issues with self-control sometimes, Dad knows that…”

“Yeah he does. Which is how come he likes Lorraine now. That lady’s never had an ‘issue’ in her life.”

“They’re just friends! Dad said so.”

“Keep dreaming, babycakes,” Michael smirked. “You saw how he touched her shoulder last week when she came in for flour. Mr. and Mrs. Perfect, that’s what they’d be, and Mom—”

“Nuh-uh! You didn’t hear him on the phone with Mom yesterday. He sounded…” I looked for the right word. “…tender. He asked if she was coming for my birthday, said he’d pick her up from the ferry. Why’d he say that if he was interested in Lorraine?”

“So is she?” Michael asked nastily. “Coming for your birthday?”

“She—she said she’d try,” I said, “but Dad said she really meant it ‘cause—” Michael cut me off. “Whatever, babycakes. Enjoy your happy-rainbow life. I

gotta go clean out the shed or Mr. Perfect will go ballistic on me. And you better vacuum.” He slammed out.

“Dad!” I don’t usually tattle, but Michael was asking for it. I crossed the kitchen to pull back the quilted curtain that separates us from the back of the store. Dad calls it our front door since so many people come in that way, sticking their heads in to say hi while they stop off for milk or fishing lures.

There sat the empty cash register stool guarding the darkened aisles.

Shoot. The note. The cold pancakes. I had forgotten.

Well, I wasn’t about to vacuum just ‘cause Michael told me to. I stomped back into the kitchen to call my best friend. Savannah wasn’t home, and her cell phone wouldn’t go through. We get a crappy signal out here on Dalby Island.

“Great,” I said aloud. “Fine. I’ll just bike over to Louis’s.” Louis doesn’t have a phone, but what he does have is a built-in easygoing streak. Just the distraction I needed.

It was hot in the shed where Michael was lugging out piles of old fishing net. He was already sweaty and dusty. Hah.

“Where’d you put the bikes?” I asked him. He pointed with his chin, not bothering to answer.

Sure enough, my bike was around the back of the shed. With two flat tires.

“Whyn’t you tell me?” I yelled at my brother, spoiling for another fight. But Michael wasn’t playing. He shrugged, dumped his load, and went back in for another. I stood there in the sunny yard feeling as flat as my tires. Fine, I’ll vacuum. Maybe that’ll help.

I used to pretend the vacuum was a rampaging hungry alligator , but that’s stupid—I’m almost thirteen. Shoving the machine around in pointless jabs, I thought,

What’s the matter with me? Half the kids in my class have stepparents or boyfriends or girlfriends. Louis’s mom seemed like she lived with a new boyfriend every time I went over there. Why shouldn’t my dad like Lorraine if he wanted to?

Because she’s the librarian, my brain tried. She thinks she’s the smartest person

on the island. She just wants Dad because he’s all buff and manly and she’s tired of people making librarian jokes.

Even I knew that was stupid.

If Michael’s right, Dad’s not going to try to get back together with Mom.

Ouch. Yeah. But Michael was just being snarky. Even he doesn’t believe ex-

fisherman Ron Burgowski could trade someone as wild and fun as Mom for a whispery mouse like Lorraine.

All of a sudden the vacuum wouldn’t suck up anything, not even a stupid dust bunny, and I realized I’d forgotten to check the bag even after Dad’s note, so now it was all stuck with gunk and fuzz, and I was going to have to unplug it and poke all the crud out with a chopstick, and I got so frustrated I gave a huge stomp and shouted, “Damn it!” which I never do. I yanked the top of the vacuum open and the bag detached and all this dust and stuff I’d fed to the alligator last week got regurgitated all over the living room rug.

“Forget you,” I muttered fiercely. “Forget all of you.”  I left the vacuum sitting in its own mess and slammed into my room to re-read Harry Potter Book III. Once a day decides it’s going to be horrible, you might as well turn into a lump and wait for it to pass by. Reading helps.

I dived back into Book III—my favorite, ‘cause it’s the last one with a really happy ending. It kills me that Book VII is a whole year away. It better end happy too…

“Whoa, check out this video!” Michael was calling from the living room. I hadn’t heard him come in—Harry was meeting the hypogriffs. Part of me wanted to remind Michael that he’s been banned from web-surfing for, like, ever. But a new video…? I joined him.

“Says it was filmed here!”  Michael’s hair was so sweaty it stuck where he’d pushed it back. He hit the “play” arrow and a pale, fuzzy image started moving while a voice whispered something too low to hear. Then: “There she goes!” the voice said distinctly, and the image seemed to leap and disappear. The rest of the video was plain darkness, with the voice repeating, “Did you see that? Did you see that?”

“Did you see that?” Michael echoed.

“What is it? One of those ghost videos? We watched a ton of them at Savannah’s birthday party.”

“No, dude, she flies. I mean she takes off. One second she’s walking and the next, vroom. Ghosts don’t take off.”

“Show me again.” We watched it about five more times. It was pretty lame, just this slightly-lighter shape moving sort of upwards, and then: step, step, boom. Gone. “The guy just moved the camera,” I said. “Anybody could do that.”  But there was something about that last move…step, step, boom. “One more time,” I demanded.

“Yeah, I know, pretty faky,” Michael admitted. “But dude, it’s Dalby.”  He pointed to the video title:  Dalby Island Ghost? “Wonder who made this?”

“Zoom in,” I demanded. “I wanna see her feet.”

“Can’t zoom a video,” Michael grunted. “But it’s her face I want to see. Don’t you think she looks kinda like…”

“Mom, yeah. The way she, like, bounces when she steps…Show it again.”

“Ha, Mom in a nightgown! Let’s send it to her.”

We looked at each other. I know, it was the dumbest thing ever. What would Mom want with a grainy fake-ghost video? But I could tell we were thinking the same thing, like back when we used to stick together.

“Yeah, okay,” I said, and watched Michael hit “forward” and type in Mom’s email address. “But then you better go finish the shed. Dad’s gonna kill you if he sees you online.”

“Not if nobody tells him.” Michael gave me his dangerous look. I’m not scared of him, but it was pretty nice of him to show me the video, so I nodded. “Nothin’ wrong with a little surfing,” he added.

“Is that how you found the thing? I wonder why we didn’t find it at Savannah’s when we were looking for stuff like that.”

“Duh, Joss. Someone must’ve just posted it.”  He got up, stretched, and slouched himself back outside.

I hate when people say “duh” to me, but I was too distracted to snap back at him. What was it about that last second of the video, the step, step…? I plopped myself into the chair, went to “History” and found it again. Even with the volume turned way up, you still couldn’t hear anything the filmer said until “There she goes!”  How does he know it’s a she? I wondered. Looks like a pretty basic ghost to me. Really, nothing like Mom except for that bouncy step-step. That seemed so…familiar, somehow. I couldn’t place it in my brain, but my stomach seemed to recognize it, a kind of lurch…

Whatever!  I switched over to my favorite Harry Potter fan site to read about the delays in the latest movie.  It might be a crappy day, but I, at least, was not banned from the internet. And Harry made me forget about vacuums and parents and girlfriends for a whole hour. Till Dad came home with my special present.

The other day I was buying a cd on Amazon (yup, we older folks still buy whole cds instead of individual songs–I just like having something to hold in my hand and look at), and I was surprised to see the word “explicit” next to a couple of songs from a band that I did not think of as…well, that kind of band. Of course the explicit part wasn’t available to play as a sample on Amazon, so I went ahead and bought the cd. Turns out the “explicit” referred to the casual use of what we call the “f-word” on two songs, not in a nasty way, but more as another way of saying “Don’t mess around.” That was it! But someone’s rules required that this be labeled.

I am constantly horrified at the violent and twisted stuff we get exposed to on TV without any warning, even through ads. (Just check out some of the trailers for Halloween movies that are airing now!) Why isn’t anyone worried about that?  But, bringing this closer to the point of Wing’s World, what about “explicit” language in YA books? As a writer, I always have to walk the line between what’s authentic and what will make an editor say, “I can’t sell this to young teens!”

What’s ok? What isn’t? In my book, for example, I use “pissed” but not “asshole,” and I’m still nervous enough about the stronger words to refer to them here only as “s-word” and “f-word.” But WHY? Is this being realistic? Appropriate? Silly?

Bottom line: should there be certain language that is not ok to use for books 10-12 year-olds might read, even though it’s ok for 13 year-olds?  If so, what words–and more importantly, WHY?

…of the first Word! Teen Slang Contest. From Ms. Alexandra Rodriguez comes this synonym for money: “Bread.” Gotta say, I’m surprised to see that one’s still around, ’cause I remember it from the 60s! Guess there’s no killing the classics.

I promised to explain why Jocelyn Burgowski, the heroine of my trilogy-in-progress, made the decision to tell someone that she could fly.

Two reasons:

1. guilt

2. excitement

In the case of guilt, she was feeling like a bad friend to someone who was being a very good friend to her, and so she decided to share her secret, like giving a gift. This turned out to be a very good idea.

In the case of excitement–not so much. She hadn’t thought it through, and the person she told ended up not only not believing her, but using her telling against her.

Doesn’t this seem backwards? Wouldn’t you guess that an action propelled by guilt might come out worse than one urged on by good ol’ healthy excitement?

Can you think of a time when you did something motivated by guilt that ended up working out well–or not so well?  Care to share?

Hmmm, this post is a bit late. I try to get ’em out there for the weekend. But I’ve been working some long hours at the bakery these days, and I’m finding I’m too tired at the end of the day to have anything very readable to say. Which raises the question…

…is writing work? Sometimes it feels like it, even though there’s no paycheck attached, and no boss watching–except my own conscience. But when I was 10,11, 12–heck, right up until college, writing always felt FUN. It was a place I could be completely myself, like going into my own room (which I never had until my sister left home).

And now? Writing feels like work, I realize, only when there is a deadline attached: “You have to have this done by Sunday.” It becomes homework, I think, and brings back that kind of tension in my stomach. So that’s when I decided I would give myself a couple of days, so my words could be plump and fresh, not some stale things I dragged out of my dusty mental cupboard.

How about you? When is writing work? When isn’t it? Let us hear.

So last week we were discussing the question of whether or not you would share your secret flying power with the rest of the world if you suddenly got it. I can certainly think of some advantages, but I’d rather hear from you. What would be some of the good parts about the public knowing you could fly?

And…what would be some of the down sides? (Just a hint: how do you feel about strangers calling your phone at any hour of the day?)

Harry Potter didn’t have to deal with this, you see. His kind of magic was able to make any Muggles who were exposed to it forget all about what they might have seen. Jocelyn Burgowski, the heroine of The Flying Burgowski, does not have that option. If someone sees her, well–she is seen, that’s all.

In my next installment, I’ll tell you how Jocelyn made the choice of To Tell or Not To Tell, and why she made it.  But meanwhile, let’s hear from you.

You know what hibernation is, right? Bears and other furry critters in cold climates all do it: eat a lot in the fall to put on fat, then bed down in their cozy dens and sleep through the winter. Their brains fall into something deeper than normal sleep, their heartrates and breathing slow WAY down, and they’re able to conserve energy and survive the harsh winter without a fuss.

There is only one kind of primate that hibernates. Primates–apes, monkeys, and good ol’ us–have much more complex brains, which everyone thought needed too constant a supply of energy to ever be able to shut down for a season like that. But turns out there is one that can: it’s called the Fat-Tailed Lemur and it lives in Madagascar (where all lemurs live).

I am not making this up. I know this because my father is a research zoologist, and he is studying them.