Psst. Hey, you. Yes, you. I’m talking to you. The aspiring author sitting there struggling over your query letter. The guy or gal wondering just how to approach an editor, an agent, whomever. The one trying to decide on business formality or sass, beautiful prose or wit, eye-catching originality or appreciable directness. The writer trying to figure out just the right way to walk up to this person who could hold the key to your career as a published author and say “hi.”

Well, hi.

No, seriously. It’s as simple as that. Just say hi.

Yes, you’ll need to tell me about your book. A little about yourself, too, though don’t overwhelm me. But really, just to start off with, say hi. Smile. Be polite, be friendly, and give me your message. It’s just like making friends.

And just like making friends, it requires a little tact.

Tact means not complaining about how you don’t like the submission format. Tact means not trash-talking other writers. Tact means not whining about how stupid you think the publisher or agent’s requirements are. Tact means not deriding the other agents and editors who rejected you. Tact means not proclaiming yourself the One True Savior who understands the truth of the publishing industry and will show us all the light of your genius.

Tact also means keeping your crazy quite firmly under your belt where I can’t see it.

You wouldn’t let it all hang out like that when making a new friend. Don’t let it hang out with me. There’s time enough to show me how quirky-awesome you are, when I know you well enough to appreciate it. On that first meeting, what I need to know is that you’re sane, you write well, your story engages me, and you’re capable of understanding the business aspect of this entire crazy machine.

So just say hi, and hope we hit it off well enough for your book and my editing schedule to be friends.

We won’t be friends. We can’t be. I can’t be your friend and do my job. I can’t worry about hurting your feelings when I’m chopping apart incorrect modifiers or urging you to drop the passive voice and use more active verbs. I can’t be your friend when trying to train you out of your little bad writing habits, even if I’m doing it in your best interests so your talent can shine through and showcase the good writing habits that made me love your story in the first place. I won’t be your friend, because friends can’t be honest with friends about their writing.

But we’ll be friendly. We’ll learn to love each other and hate each other–but more than that, we’ll learn to depend on each other through revisions and deadlines, galleys and proofs, cover art quibbles and panicked last-minute changes. We’ll learn each others’ senses of humor and share inside jokes swapped via tweets and MS Word comment boxes. We’ll tease each other about quirks, find out strange little things about each other, and know each other in ways that often, friends don’t. Writing reveals a lot about a person. So does editing. So do those moments at three o’clock in the morning, when we’re both ready to tear our hair out trying to fix that one last sentence before the book’s due in to production the next day.

And when your book releases I’ll share a drink with you in celebration, although I’ll never come to your kids’ birthday parties or help you shop for Christmas. I don’t care about photos of your dog in sunglasses or slideshows of your vacation to Redondo Beach, and please don’t tell me about your hot date last night or the guy you found your wife in bed with. I don’t want to know. I’d rather not picture you that way, and it’s really not my business.

So no, we won’t be friends. But we will be establishing a unique relationship that, if all goes well, could last for many years and through many books. You wouldn’t start a friendship by approaching a stranger and criticizing their choice of those shoes with those slacks. You wouldn’t walk up to someone in a bar and, without even saying hello, begin a spiel of negativity about every person who ever hurt you in the past.

So why would you start a relationship with an editor or agent by antagonizing them?

WESTERN BEATRICE CLOVORT ADVISORY

For immediate release by the Office of Clovort Reduccion:

A clovort’s mouth is a dirty thing. It is best to keep all digits and appendages clear of its gray lips. On the rare occasion you discover an intelligent clovort, do not engage it in conversation. They are manipulative, and you might find yourself asking the clovort to taste you. In reply, the clovort will nod sheepishly and respond with, “All right. If you insist.”

If you spot a clovort while walking through the woods, do not stretch out your arms and make hooting noises to scare it away. This will not work. Do not tap the clovort on the nose. Do not urinate, fall to the ground and curl into a ball, stare it straight in the eye or turn around and run. All of these things will only make you more appetizing. The best course of action is to roll yourself in milk and pray the clovort is lactose intolerant.

If possible, and if not at risk to your physical intactness, tag the clovort with a personalized beacon dart. Then, when you visit the Office of Clovort Reduccion to file a complaint of clovort harassment, we will know whom to give credit to once we have captured the beast.

Any citizen caught using a clovort for manual labor will be punished severely. Given the relative girth of the clovort—usually six hundred pounds and eight feet tall—this prospect may tempt farmers. These beasts are exceptional at pulling ox carts and plowing the fields. However, farming jobs should be awarded to law-abiding citizens and not abominations of God.

Your elected officials are working tirelessly to rid Western Beatrice of this infestation. Despite our best intentions, we are constantly affronted by attacks from Clovort Right’s groups. Rest assured, King Perlezod and the Office of Clovort Reduccion will prevail. We count on your efforts to eradicate this abomination and create a clovort-free society for you, your children and your children’s children.

The Office thanks you for your cooperation.

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If you enjoyed that little bit of hilarity from author Jason Beymer, there’s more clovort-stomping fun coming when his debut novel, Rogue’s Curse, releases from Lyrical Press this August.

If you didn’t enjoy it, well…hush. He saved me from having to actually revive this blog myself. Go be nice to him anyway. He’s an introvert, and he needs to be dragged out of his shell. Kicking and screaming, if need be.

Besides…I owe him. Hard. Bugger stuck my name in the acknowledgments. Go. Mob him.

So yesterday a silly tweet or two (or three…or twenty…) turned into an entire day of wombat snarkiness on Twitter, with Allison, LaTessa, Kerry, Janelle, Jeffe, and Kristine all getting their wombat on up in dis place. (Yes, wombats. Don’t ask. FYI, Thursdays are now Wombat Day. Ffft ffft.) Of course Allison, in all her goofy glory, had to take it a step further. And thus this was born:

When I finished laughing (and that took a while), I promised revenge. Revenge in the form of…BACON. For never was there a nuttier bacon nut, and one day I shall bribe her for ARCs with entire pans full of greasy goodness. (Because really, what else is a pig good for?*)

Oh, and this:

(Click for the larger version.)

I’m not dead! …I think I see a little light past this pile of manuscripts and resumes…

Anyway – I may be quiet here, but I’ve been quite noisy elsewhere. Namely over at Fresh Voices Friday, where Sue London interviews me as an unpublished writer / aspiring author (what? I still write in between editing? Gasp!):

http://cmdrsue.blogspot.com/2010/05/fresh-voices-interview-with-adrien-luc.html

Drop by, say hi, and be nice.

Also, if you’ve got cash to spare, there’s an auction going on over at http://dothewritethingfornashville.blogspot.com/ – run by several authors and agents, trying to raise money to help flood victims in Nashville. You can bid on everything from signed books to ARCs to swag to agent chats, with all proceeds going to charity.

Hey, guys. While Lyrical Press is almost always open for submissions, I wanted to put out a submissions call both to spread the word about the press and with the active intent of building my list. Since I’m one of the newer editors with the house, I’m looking to expand the group of authors I personally work with throughout their careers at Lyrical. What that means is right now you have a better chance of acceptance; there will be times when I have to say no to a project I’d otherwise love, just because I don’t have time for another author or another book. Right now is not one of those times. I have the time, and I want your books. Or short stories. Or novellas.

To submit, you need to read the Lyrical Press submission guidelines and send your query letter, synopsis, and manuscript to submissions@lyricalpress.com. I’d advise looking over the website and getting acquainted with Lyrical, our books, and our authors, so you can make an informed decision as to whether or not Lyrical’s the right publisher for you. Also, keep in mind that I’m not the only editor who reviews submissions, we all have different tastes, and all subs do go through a standard review process. I can specifically request a submission I like, but so can the other editors. Lastly, scroll down past my wishlist for a quick list of things not to do when responding to this call.

While the sub guidelines cover in detail the genres and formats we accept (and don’t accept), I’m personally hoping to see a few specific things. Lyrical does favor romance, so if your story hits these marks and features romance (even where it’s not specified), you may have a better chance. My wishlist:

• Dystopian and darker sci-fi. I love dystopian stories with an intensity that would probably be disturbing were they a person or an inanimate object. Dystopian stories are generally sci-fi, often post-apocalyptic, but I’d be just as happy to see well-done dystopian fantasy, alternate realities, or alternative histories. If you have a sci-fi story that’s fairly dark in nature with a strong noir theme but doesn’t really fall into the dystopian category, that’s up my alley, too.
• Dark, gritty urban fantasy. By “dark, gritty” I don’t mean “full of as many perverted, disgusting things as you can think of.” I mean I want to see darker worlds where the cities that make this urban fantasy have become as degraded and dark as the iconic Gotham, the heroes are flawed, and you have to struggle to find the light of redemption past the filth of corruption – but it is there, and eventually shines through in some kind of happy ending. Sometimes that kind of setting can mean using perversion, violence, etc. as part of the story, but such things should be well-crafted and entirely necessary to the plot, not used for shock value. Note: I am including paranormal and paranormal romance under this category, but be warned that I’ve reached my saturation point for vampires, werewolves, shifters, and witches. That doesn’t mean I’ll turn down a story with those elements; they’re one of Lyrical’s strongest areas. It does mean that the story must be exceptional for me to request it. Faeries are still fair game.
• Steampunk. I admit, I’m not as rabidly into steampunk as many others, and sometimes the movement is downright annoying. But when a steampunk story is good, it really floors me; the genre itself is wonderfully versatile, and the general setting required for steampunk is one of my favorites. Your steampunk can have magic or pure technology, I don’t care. Let’s just get some steam rolling.
• Stories with LGBT and cultural diversity. Within the limits of Lyrical’s accepted genres, of course – and this can be combined in with any of the other things on my wishlist. I don’t want to read stories about being gay, bi, trans, black, Chinese, Tanzanian, Aborigine, whatever. I want to read stories where the characters happen to fall somewhere within that spectrum, and it’s an integral part of their character without being a stereotype – but isn’t essential to the overall story. It’s just who they are, just as being white and straight is who classic mainstream protagonists are. They need a plot external to their sexuality, gender identity, or race, but neither should be diminished. (Of course sexuality or gender identity would be more prominent in a story where the romance is the central plot, but that should go without saying.) I want to see a Native American woman as the star of a steampunk story, treated the same way a white woman would be in the same role – but without her culture marginalized. It doesn’t matter if you passingly mention her skin color or tribal affiliation, but let her be recognized as something other than the default assumption of white. Or I’d like to see an urban fantasy where the main protagonist is a gay man. No cliched angst and agonies about coming out, but casual acceptance that he has a boyfriend or actual sexuality-related issues that affect the plot. These are just examples, not a specific request to write these things. I just want you to understand that I’d like to see stories where primary characters are ethnically diverse, LGBT, or both, not stories about the characters being those things.
• Western or frontier romance. Cowboys and Indians, Little House on the Prairie with a shot of sensuality, desperado meets schoolmarm…or anywhere in between. I’m a sucker for a well-done romance set on the wild and woolly frontier, as long as it’s authentic to the setting and time period.
• Historical romance. Give me London, give me France, give me Scottish underpants. Or go really multicultural on me and send something from the Edo period of Japan, I don’t care. I want history – anyone’s history, as long as it’s interesting, sexy, and gives me that marvelous feeling of seeing something old and forgotten in a new light with characters who really bring it to life. I’ll melt for ancient Assyria, Persia, Egypt…but also for Scotland in the 1500s, or ancient Mayan civilizations (just please, nothing about 2012 in modern day; it has to be set in the actual time of the Mayans). You never know what will catch me.
• Gangland stories. Guys and dolls and slinky gang molls, show me a fantasy story set in the Dillinger era and I’ll probably love you forever. I might also squee a little over jazz-era tales.

Don’t fit that list? It’s okay. Lyrical represents a broad range of genres, and as long as your submission meets the criteria posted on the submission guidelines page you’re welcome to submit. For one, I’m not locked into my preferences. Two, if I don’t want it, someone else might. I may be building my list, but other Lyrical editors are always looking for new authors to work with.

Now for the unpleasant part. A few warnings:

• Do not address your submissions to me. Send them to the head honcho, Renee Rocco – and be as professional as you would in any other query letter. This is not a direct submissions call; it’s a general submissions call with my notes on some things I’d personally like to see, and that I may request out of the submissions pool. All submissions still go through the full group of Lyrical editors. This is a good thing for you, trust me. It means there’s a better chance someone will fall in love with and request your story, whether I like it or not.
• Do not send anything to my personal e-mail address. Everything goes to submissions@lyricalpress.com. Everything. Anything that shows up in my personal inbox will be deleted without response. Keep that in mind: deleted, not forwarded, not politely redirected. I don’t give special consideration to people who can’t follow explicit instructions.
• Remember that I do not make the final decisions. I can request something from the submissions pool if I want it, and that has weight in the final decision…but in the end it’s over my head, and if you and I happen to be friends that has zero impact on the last word and no bearing on the merit of your submission, which will be judged on quality alone. So don’t ask me for special consideration; don’t gripe at me if you get rejected. It’s not personal, and it shouldn’t be taken that way. It’s all part of the business.
• Read the submissions guidelines thoroughly and make sure you follow them. I shouldn’t have to tell you that again, but inevitably someone will send something we don’t publish: YA, a 400K memoir, who knows what else. At the very least if you send it to the right e-mail, Renee will be very nice about informing you of your error. Specifically pay attention to genres. We get YA and “New Adult” submissions even though we specifically say that we don’t accept them. I love YA. I write YA. That doesn’t change that Lyrical doesn’t deal in YA, and any young adult, middle grade, or children’s submissions will be automatically rejected. (And “New Adult” is only at St. Martin’s, people. No other publisher is dabbling in that.)

If you have questions, feel free to post them here and I’ll answer them here (so others can benefit if they have the same questions).

Lately every time my mind wanders, it goes limping down memory lane. Maybe it’s a sign of early-onset senility. Maybe it’s just that time of year when one reflects on one’s life. I can’t say I’ve done much reflecting; I’ve done a lot of cringing, remembering stupid things I’ve done and embarrassing situations I’ve been thrust into. But while dodging the specter of my humiliating freshman Latin class or trying to forget how I lost a track meet by two inches of distance on a shotput throw, I stumbled across another memory: my English teachers.

I only had two between 6th grade and senior year; I had the good fortune of being in the AP English & Creative Writing class, which meant the same teacher guided our progress year after year and gave us personal attention when developing our speaking and writing skills. For my freshman through senior years, that was Mrs. N. She was utterly out of her mind – and utterly brilliant. She was the one who shaped my love of reading and writing, and encouraged me even when others admonished me to get my nose out of the books and go do something normal kids would do. Her lessons have remained with me for my entire life, along with her frizzy yellow hair and enormous coke-bottle glasses.

Actually, she looked a hell of a lot like the principal on South Park. Only crazier. A lot crazier. We’re not even getting into the incident with the eggs and the beeswax.

No matter how dotty she was, though, Mrs. N was a great teacher…and she saved me from Mrs. L, my teacher throughout the three years of middle school.

Mrs. L was a nice woman, for the most part – in that rather false way that said she was only being nice to her students because it was her job, though she really did work hard at teaching us the foundations of proper English while still letting us have free reign to develop individually. She even tried to stimulate our creativity, which led to our 6th-grade project.

We had to write a book.

Oh, not a full-length book. Forty pages, double-spaced…which was still quite daunting to a 6th-grader. We had a semester to write it. Most of us dove in with eager enthusiasm, chattering about our ideas all through class and completely ignoring Mrs. L when she tried to call us to order. I still remember my book; if I recall, it was called CAT PRINCESS.

I was in 6th grade. Shut the bloody hell up.

My heroine was Taylana. Her mother was a postal worker, just like mine. She was as confused about girls as I was about boys. I was projecting just a little – no, a lot. I was young, and at that age where every story I read cast me as the hero inside the shell of the author’s character. So when I wrote my own story, I wrote a story I’d want to be in and a persona I’d want to adopt, with the gender reversed. Taylana had bright green eyes, because I thought mine were too brown and ordinary. She had long, dark hair that didn’t need special treatments to be straight, and because she was a girl she didn’t have to argue with her mother about keeping it long. She had a black cat just like mine.

And she had brown skin, just like mine – though darker. She was purely African-American, while I’m only part.

There were a few other influences; Occula from Richard Adams’ MAIA, along with another story I’d recently read (but can’t remember now) about a middle-aged woman who was transported to another world and at some point discovered her real heritage…about the time her inner self transformed her into an angry mother bear. Literally. Thus Taylana was the lost princess of the cat people, who’d been sent to the human world to keep her safe; the black cat was actually her guardian, and could talk to her. She shapeshifted into a panther.

Let me remind you: I was eleven. Maybe twelve.

I wish I still had the story, for nostalgia’s sake. Other than a 3rd-grade effort about Dolores the talking hamster, it was my first real work of fiction. Well, it would be if I’d finished it. I failed the assignment, because about two thirds of the way through I put it down with no desire to ever touch it again. It was stupid, it was wrong, it was bad, I shouldn’t have even bothered. Or at least…that’s what Mrs. L led me to believe. During our progress check-ins, she’d read the stories and offer a little advice.

In my case, her advice was to make Taylana white.

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, why is she black?”

“Because she just is.”

“She needs a reason to be black.”

“Why?” I asked again, confused.

“Because without a good reason for her to be black, no one wants to read about her. Nobody wants to read a story about a black person. Those stories don’t matter.”

And that was it.

Just like that she’d rendered my character and my story invalid without any consideration of its merit, its worth; all that mattered to her was that the character was black, which made it wrong.

Even worse, she’d rendered me invalid. She’d told me my perspective, my voice didn’t matter…and never would. She’d told me that even though I grew up around people of so many races – most of them not white, especially the majority of my family, my neighbors – there was nothing important about the stories they had to tell, real or fictional. There was nothing important about their thoughts, their perspectives, their cultural insight. There was nothing she could ever possibly relate to, simply because of the color of their skin. The color of my skin.

I felt small. I felt transparent, invisible, dehumanized. I was already a wallflower before, but after that I became wallpaper. I retreated into my books, hid my notebooks full of scribblings, and avoided my friends…my primarily white friends, who found plenty to relate to in our common childhood experiences and had no idea what Mrs. L was talking about, or why it should matter. They liked my story, with the unbiased view of the young – but it was too late to change my impressionable young mind, as an authority figure had already told me it was worthless.

It took another authority figure to straighten me out: Mrs. N. She gave us creative writing assignments starting in freshman year, and noticed mine were a bit stiff, unnatural. I wrote about white boys and white girls, not as normal people, but as ideals of what Mrs. L had told me people wanted to read. I wasn’t comfortable with them, and she could tell in every word – when I even did the assignments, as I felt like there was no point in even picking up a pen. She tried to work with me, despite my mutinous silence and withdrawn nature. After some patience, she managed to pry an explanation out of me.

And when I finally told her about my misgivings, she laughed.

Not at me, no. At Mrs. L. She also called her a few interesting names I won’t repeat here. And then she told me,

“Adrien, who cares what color they are? Who cares what color you are? Every day African-Americans and Chinese people and Arabs and Malays and Latinos and hell Nigerians – everyone’s out there having the same experiences as you and I. There’s a fourteen-year-old Mexican girl somewhere right now staring at a handsome boy with her heart in her throat and hoping he’ll notice her, and just because they’ve both got brown skin and black eyes doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel the same damned things as the blonde white girl when she’s looking at her handsome green-eyed boy.” Then she rapped my knuckles with her pen.

“Ow!”

Then she rapped hers. “Ow!” And she laughed. “See? I’m a nutty old white lady, and you’re a stubborn mule of a young – wait, what are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you’ve got pretty skin. It’s like nutmeg. And mine’s like flour. Young dark boy, old pale woman. But the pen still hurt us the same way. And if you wanted to write about it, you’d write it the same way, because we have the same experiences, and they mean the same thing. Exactly the same thing. Your pen smack isn’t my broken leg. Do you get it?”

I nodded slowly, though I wasn’t sure I did, and wasn’t sure I wholly believed her. I’d been burned once already.

“Good.” She started to smack my knuckles again, then grinned when I yanked my hand back before she could. “You learn quick. Let’s see if you’re as quick with a pen. Throw this shit away, don’t tell your mom I said shit, and start over. Write stories about people who matter to you, and if they matter enough…they’ll matter to everyone.”

It took years before I had the maturity to really grasp what she was trying to tell me, but I’d already grasped one important thing: the hand she offered to lift me out of the pit of misconception so I could stand on even footing with everyone else. And what she taught me stuck with me beyond even high school and college, even though I didn’t know until five or six years ago that I wanted to be a writer. I’d thought about computer programming for a while, ended up in data analysis before moving on to full-time writing and editing…but thanks to Mrs. N I never stopped writing on the side, whether it was college assignments, fanfic, or random little drabbles of no importance.

And there was always someone brown in the stories – not just because Mrs. N said it was okay, but because it was what I wanted, and most importantly Mrs. N had taught me to stand up for what I felt was right regardless of any authority figure’s opinion. Whether the protagonist, antagonist, or supporting cast, there were always brown people as part of the landscape of the story – because brown people have been part of the landscape of my life. We’re part of the landscape of your life. You interact with us every day; maybe we’re part of your story. Or maybe you’re part of ours, and we’re the star; that doesn’t make the story any less valid, especially if you stop to think about the fact that we have enough in common in our lives for them to overlap. You talk to us every day; you know us. We’re your friends, your coworkers, people you pass on the street. We have the same concerns you do, the same joys, the same fears.

Just like you, we read. We write. Yes, there are higher rates of illiteracy among the ethnic population, but we’re fighting to change that. We’re fighting not only to make our voices heard, but to learn the right ways to communicate our message on common ground.

We’re fighting to tell stories that give us a little something more to identify with. We’ve grown up reading stories where the white person is the star, and anyone dark is a marginalized token that’s often stereotyped. Yet we’ve found something to identify with in those stories; we’ve found something to love, something that fires our imaginations and makes us want to write our own stories with people like us. People like you, with only a few differences of language, culture, and coloration. We’re trying to be recognized as part of the mainstream – because “mainstream” shouldn’t mean “white only.”

And it doesn’t, anymore. Despite some old voices who still insist no one will buy books with an ethnic protagonist, more and more writers are striking out to speak with colorful voices on every page of their stories. Are readers having trouble identifying? No. No, instead they’re falling in love with the stories and the characters, because good fiction is good fiction – period. They’re proving the status quo wrong.

One day I hope to prove Mrs. L wrong. One day I hope to see Kensington, Akhilesh, Sujit, Hai, Rio, Crow, Akai, Vice, all my rainbowed cast in print – and not just the ethnic rainbow. Grayson, Vee, Marcus, Sebasien, Kira – another rainbow, on the LGBT spectrum; another set of voices who are just as mainstream as the heteronormative ideal.

We aren’t any better than you. You aren’t any better than we.

We’re all the same, but no one asks if there’s a good reason for your characters to be white.

So why do we need a good reason not to be?

From Adri: Jason agreed to guest post for me today, to end this blog’s idle streak and give you guys a chance to get to know him. We’ve been working together on his book for a little over a month now, and I’ve been taking delight in making his life a living hell – while he’s been startling me by taking my suggestions, applying his talent, and producing some amazing results. If you like dark humor, this post will give you a clue of what you’ll find in the humorous fantasy ROGUE’S CURSE (only not quite so graphic).

And I’ll have you know, I didn’t edit this post one single bit.

———————————————————————————

Killing Peter Rabbit
Jason Beymer

Adrien invited me to guest blog today. It’s not easy guest-blogging for your editor. I expect to see puddles of red highlighter all over this post, bearing familiar comments like “Watch your adverbs,” “An octogenarian is not a type of monkey,” and “You think this line is funny? What, are you seven?”

It would be disingenuous to say Rogue’s Curse is my first book. When I was five years old, I plagiarized The Tale of Peter Rabbit a thousand times, peppering it with unspeakable kindergarten horrors and bunny-on-bunny violence. I didn’t know my alphabet yet, and my penmanship consisted of squiggly lines. At first I copied Beatrix Potter’s story word for word. Eventually I improved it. I was a pioneer, like Gus Van Sant when he allegedly shouted, “Balls! I’ll remake Psycho shot for shot, but this time in color and with full-frontal boobies!”

In the original work, a naughty bunny runs away from home to go a’noshin’ in a carrot garden. He barely escapes Old Man McGregor, who chases him with a hoe. No, I was still too young to comprehend that word’s comedic potential. “Hoe” wouldn’t enter my vocabulary as a double-entendre for another six years, when I snuck into the living room and watched Eddie Murphy’s Delirious on HBO. Moral of the story? Don’t piss in Old Man McGregor’s garden. Or, as Momma Rabbit put it, “Your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor.” Yikes! If that doesn’t stain your underroos at age five, nothing will.

The more I rewrote this story, the more it transformed. I became curious. How much of Peter Rabbit’s body could I dismember without killing him? It sounded innocent coming from my five year old mouth: “Mommy, if I wooze my arms and wegs will I still wiv?” The question was cute; the motive was not. Look, I didn’t have the Internet back in the ’70s. I didn’t have TLC and the Discovery Channel to conduct research with. If I wanted to turn on TV and gawk at a man with no legs and half a skull I had to wait for Donahue to hit the summer slumps.

So began Peter’s dismemberment stage: leg ripped off while escaping, ear severed by flying glass, paw lopped off in a sewing machine accident, etc. Soon Peter Rabbit wasn’t sneaking around Old Man McGregor’s garden searching for carrots anymore. Why not? How would I know? I’m five, remember? A new question came to me: How does one ‘accidentally’ put an old man into a pie? I researched it. All authors are expected to research their novels, right? I didn’t want to tarnish my credibility before my first pubes broke the skin, so I went to work. I watched the Looney Tunes classic “French Rarebit” and studied how the French chefs prepared Bugs Bunny for “Louisiana Back-Bay Bayou Bunny Bordelaise … a la Antoine.” Now the tables were turned: Peter Rabbit tossed Old Man McGregor into a cooking pot and baked him into a blueberry pie. This concept worked for several iterations and then I got bored.

And when I got bored, characters randomly died. This concept hasn’t changed much in thirty years. Random death is the spice of life. Peter stepped on a landmine, the carrots turned evil and attacked the Rabbit family, and the McGregors succumbed to an awful case of burning farmhouse.

Editing done, I prepared to show my creation to the world. This got me booted out of Cub Scouts. The pack leader claimed I was channeling Satan (psst, she was right!). So what is the moral of this guest-blog post? Squelch your child’s creativity at an early age, lest the Church strap him to a ducking stool.

Jason’s debut novel Rogue’s Curse is scheduled for release in August 2010 from Lyrical Press.

Visit Jason Beymer’s blog at http://www.beerandtv.com/.
Follow Jason’s Twitter at http://twitter.com/beerandtv/.