The Book That Changed Me

Michael Connelly's THE POET is, undoubtedly, the book (maybe I should say, the first book) that changed the way I feel about reading and writing; and thus, changed a lot in my life.
I can't continue until I make a confession. Librarians and teachers aren't going to like this. But here it is: Unlike most readers and writers, I didn't have a childhood filled with the love of books. Actually, I didn't read a book for enjoyment until I was about twenty-six years old. Seriously, I never read Judy Blume or Trixie Beldin (my BFF Chris read those) or Nancy Drew...none. But, (and this is a big BUT) I always wrote stories, and poems, even plays.
As an undergraduate English major, and French literature minor, and I read only what I absolutely HAD to, which familiarized me with a vast array of fancy writers and poets. I did well in a Shakespeare class. I loved studying Shakespeare...I did not, however, enjoy reading Shakespeare, (I opted to watch the BBC movie version whenever possible) or Chaucer or Thoreau. Yet, I admire, like and respect those works.

This is all kind of messed up, huh? Here's where the story changes.

At about 26 years old I had my own apartment, as in 'no roommates.' And I was finishing my MBA, and I did a lot of text book readings, as well as trade magazines, newspapers, and stuff like The Economist. But, not for enjoyment.
One day, I can't remember the circumstances, I find myself in Borders flipping book jackets. There is a new release called THE POET. The cover looks good. Never heard of the author, but I'd never heard of any main stream authors.
I bought it, and read it...the WHOLE book...cover to cover. I loved it so much that I went back, and spent my precious waitressing dollars on everything else written by that author, and I built a relationship with his main character, Detective Harry Bosche, and followed him from case to case. I quickly branched into The Firm (Grisham), Disclosure (Crichton), The Body Farm (Cornwell), Orchid Beach (Woods). I loved them too. So the mountain on my nightstand grew with every book those authors ever wrote. I became a real mystery lover...still am, but I like to think I've diversified. I read and/or listen to twenty-thirty books per year. And the more I read, the more my left brain re-awakened and wanted to write again. As you know, in the last six years I've written three and a half novels. KELLY QUINN'S SECRET COOKING CLUB (due out from Aladdin next fall) is the first middle-grade project. One of my many objectives with KELLY is to draw kids in and keep them turning because I don't want them to miss out on twenty-six years of reading.

It all comes back to Connelly's THE POET. It convinced me that I could enjoy reading a book.

The Boy Who Fell Down Exit 43

Why does the UK get all the coolest stuff first?? Check out the latest:
The Boy Who Fell Down Exit 43
By, Harriet Goodman.
The 411 from Amazon:
"For a millionth of a second the car grazed the drenched moorland. If it had come down on any other patch of ground Finn would simply have been another statistic. Death by dangerous driving. But the car hit the surface of the Earth at Exit 43. It slid through the membrane like a hot knife through butter, plunging into the darkness and catapulting Finn from its shattered windscreen as it fell. Finn Oliver knows he'll never come to terms with his father's death, but joy-riding over the moors in his mum's beat-up old car is a quick fix of freedom and forgetting. Until the accident happens - and Finn finds himself hurtling through the wafer-thin divide between the worlds of the living and the dead. Adventurous, charming and poignant by turns, "The Boy Who Fell Down Exit 43" is a quirky debut novel laced with humour and a dollop of magic."

Harriet and I are agent-siblings. That means we have the same awesome agent, Sarah Davies. I wish Harriet all the best with her debut novel.

Have you looked out the window?

Have you looked out the window?
Rain is coming down in slanted sheets. The sky is jam-packed with bleak clouds, angry and bloated. It’s dark enough to feel like dusk, a time of day when I'm usually pooped. But, since it’s only 7 am, I’m awake and my creative energy is fresh. A parade of muses dance around my head, clockwise. The white noise of a bazillion drops hammering on the roof sharpens my focus. What am I getting at? Simply put, it’s a PERFECT day to write. More specifically, it’s a PERFECT day to write spooky, Gothic, melodramatic scenes. I can’t think about anything else.

The Obligatory Back2School Post..and SOCCER!

Has anyone noticed that Back to School is creeping earlier and earlier?? For crying out loud, camp hasn't even officially ended.
The bitterness of back to school is: matching socks, tucking shirts, forms, writing checks, forms, homework, forms, etc...
But, the sweet, sweet smell of CLEATS balances everything out!
Once again I'm coaching the JV Bulldogs, *the* awesomest co-ed soccer team.
What's the big whoop? The sound of cleats on pavement, the look of concentration as a player tries to increase their juggling by just one, the feel of the leather ball in your hands for a throw-in, and even the sweaty smell of shared goalie shirts and pinnies...totally yuck, and totally wonderful. (Of course my teams gets them freshly out of my dryer each week.)
Yelling at these kids is totally acceptable, even expected, and I'm a yeller: "Hustle", "pass", "clear it", "head it" and "SHOOOOOT!". But mostly, I love playing the game with them. And it always amazes me how they get better every week.
Am I reliving my youth? Nope, I'm waaaaayy too young to be reliving anything. so, I'm just living it....living the dream of fall school soccer...

Go Bulldogs!