2024 Minidoka Pilgrimage Keynote

I was honored to be asked to give the keynote address at the Minidoka Pilgrimage this year. Over 200 descendants and survivors come from all over the country to visit and discuss what the incarceration means to us. The keynote is meant to set the tone for the weekend. This is that speech.

I’d like to thank my mother, who is here with me today. It was not until I became a parent that I understood the gravity and magnitude of the task of raising a child with honesty. I see now that it is a daily discipline, a source of exhaustion, and a monumental undertaking. I took it for granted as a kid because my mom just… told the truth. Even when the truth was devastating. I know now how tempting it is, to shield our babies from anything that could hurt them. I know now how deeply a parent loves their children, that we would do anything to keep them safe from hurt and strife and fear. But her discipline has imbued in me the bedrock belief that we all deserve the truth. That honesty is integral to any education worth having. And that the courage to wield the truth with compassion and clarity is perhaps my own highest calling. Thank you, Mom. 

It is thanks to her hard line on truth that I wrote my book, Love in the Library, which takes place in Minidoka. Of all my work, that book has had the most impact on my life, as an author and as an activist. It is the true story of how my mother’s parents met in Minidoka.

Tama was a writer herself, and a talented one. But the racism toward Japanese Americans was such that she was never able to secure a publishing deal. That is why it was essential to me to end the book with her words: “The miracle is in us, as long as we believe in beauty, in change, in hope.” With the privilege and good fortune I now exercise, her words have, at long last, seen print in a book. And that makes me so proud. 

I was honored to come to Minidoka, as a guest of Friends of Minidoka and the Idaho Librarian Association in early October of last year. In the airport, on the flight home, news came out of Israel of a horrendous attack. And even then I knew what would follow would only yield new horrors. I knew it as a Jew. And I knew it as a descendent of Minidoka survivors; that the single most perilous time for all nations comes in the wake of shocking violence. 

The assassination of a German politician by a Jewish student was the justification for Kristallnacht, the first night that portended all the violence that was to come. The attack on Pearl Harbor, which saw our families put into a prison camp, still commemorated with little mention of the follow on acts of violence our government committed against its own people. We saw it in my own lifetime, after the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon on September 11th, which gave way to endless, ruinous wars all across the middle east, not to mention the establishment of a mass surveillance state that we still live under. 

I scrolled my phone on October 7th as the death count swelled. As Israeli flags were posted across many of my own family member’s accounts. And I braced myself for the violence that was to come. But nothing could have prepared me for what we’ve seen.

When I wrote Love in the Library, I did not start with a mention of Pearl Harbor. I made this choice on purpose. Leading with the state line of justification for the deep injustice that followed is a mistake with several insidious repercussions. To start, a justification for the unjustifiable will always minimize the cruelty, absurdity, and violence of the reaction. It will also minimize the pain of survivors — sure you were uncomfortable, but what was the US supposed to do, not defend itself? — and treat their lives as acceptable collateral damage. 

It will also occlude the climate of injustice and racism that preceded it. As if Japanese Americans had been whole-heartedly embraced by the American community until our ancestral nation attacked the Pearl Harbor; as if Palestinians had been treated equitably and justly by the Israeli government until the attack on October 7th; as if Jews posed a unique threat to the German people, and were hell bent on destroying that nation through crooked dealings and manipulation. 

These lies can only survive in a climate in which the truth is suppressed. 

It is no coincidence that in all three of these cultures— pre-WWII Germany, WWII America and contemporary Israel— stories that may beg to differ were and are violently suppressed. Japanese Americans who fought against incarceration were imprisoned, their voices subsequently erased from our history books. Even as a Japanese American I was not taught about the No-No boys until my adulthood. Nazi Germany simply burned the books that would threaten their Führer’s vision for the future. And in Israel, peace protestors are increasingly intimidated, fired from their jobs, and arrested for speaking out. In the United States, protestors with the same goal of peace are slandered as antisemites, even when thousands of us are Jews ourselves.

Injustice thrives in disinformation. 

Disinformation is, of course, the defining characteristic of our time. From a convicted felon who dubbed all bad press about him as Fake News. To the rising culture of book bans that have swept our nation, and particularly in this state, in Idaho, where hb 710 has made libraries all financially liable for any complaint ANYONE makes about ANY book they find there for being “inappropriate.” 

With Project 2025 looming over our nation on the fascist candidate’s ticket, we could see the dissolution of the Department of Education, which will only accelerate the dissemination of disinformation and the exclusion truth. Already books about Japanese incarceration are banned— my own book included. If we lose this upcoming election, it is not a stretch to believe that telling our stories at all could become illegal. This is by design— Project 2025 seeks to harden hegemony and hegemony requires the erasure of stories like ours. 

In the United States, the fight against book bans has changed dramatically since Banned Books Week was started by the American Library Association in 1982. Book bans have always ebbed and flowed along with moral panics in the United States. But gone are the comparatively quaint days of banning Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark for being too, you guessed it, scary.

Now, bans don’t just seek to pull purportedly “offensive” content from the shelves. It’s to defund the shelves they sit on, in any institution of public learning that is funded enough to have shelves. The dark money, far-right extremists that favor bans have learned to capitalize on easily inflamed bigotries against LGBTQ+ and BIPOC creators who have only just been allowed entrance to the literary world. But, perhaps most infuriatingly of all, this has been accomplished through a contagious and pernicious lie: that there is pornography in the kids’ section. And that teachers and librarians are pedophiles, bent on grooming our children for sexual abuse. 

A horrifying prospect! If it were true. 

It’s not. But that doesn’t seem to matter. That these are life-ruining accusations has not slowed down anyone bent on banning books. Nationwide our fellow citizens spring up, deputized by their fear and resentment, and lob these bombs onto educators just doing their jobs. It’s a neat bit of psychological warfare. Because as soon as you have to say: “I’m not a pedophile!” you sound, unfortunately, just like a pedophile. And so institutions scramble to respond, wasting massive amounts of time and energy in institutions already short on funding and staff, fear spreads, and whole communities of educators are brought to heel and quietly start to censor themselves. 

The argument is of course that they are just protecting the children. That’s why Huntington Beach, California’s public library is having every single one of their children’s books– from board books to young adult– relocated out of the children’s section until they are audited for pornography. That’s why the public library in Donnelly, Idaho is “adults only” as of this last Monday. That’s why, apparently, it could soon be illegal to be a member of the American Librarian Association in Louisiana. To protect the children? 

This is a lie, too. No child is safe in a classroom stripped of its books when someone with an unregulated AR-15 comes to school. Nevermind that pornography is easily sought on the internet, with just a couple key words, and that most children spend more time with their devices than they do in the public library. Ignore the very real accusations of grooming that come from various religious organizations. 

Because this was never about the children.

That Black and LGBTQ books are so often the target of these bans should be no surprise. The framework for doing bodily harm against these groups is already in place. Police kill people from these groups with near impunity, and even citizens seem to have been deputized, as George Zimmerman’s exoneration proved, as the canonization of Kyle Rittenhouse on the far right has proved, and as the treatment of the man who murdered Jordan Neely proves.

And so it is a perilous time to be in our nation. I have been told we are witnessing the death rattle of a violent minority. But I believe that we are witnessing the rise of a uniquely American fascism. I hope I am wrong, but with all the recent decisions from the Supreme Court just this week, I doubt it. 

If you wondered what major publishers are doing during this perilous time I have some bad news. Likely if you’ve heard of me before you are either facebook friends with my mother, or because of the story I’m about to tell you. 

You’ve seen this logo before. Maybe you know Scholastic well from their book fairs or their book clubs. Probably your kids’ school has a direct relationship with them. They’re unique that way among big publishers because they go directly into schools. Their reputation among educators is powerful. 

And a year ago, their Education Division offered me a deal. They wanted to license this book, LOVE IN THE LIBRARY. They wanted to repackage it, and bring it into all those schools they work with. Which is an incredible opportunity.

But only if I made an edit. My offer was contingent upon it. A whole paragraph about how what happened to my grandparents was not an isolated incident. How it’s part of a tradition. 

But not only that: the word RACISM would be removed from the author’s note altogether. 

I said no. Absolutely not. And I said so publicly. 

I knew that saying no was passing on a strong opportunity to better poise this little book that I love and believe in so much for greater success. I wrote LOVE IN THE LIBRARY so it would be used in classrooms. Scholastic could make that happen for me. But the deal was too toxic to accept. Unwittingly or not, Scholastic was participating in the white supremacist tradition of using Asian stories as means to cast us as the model minority. Sure, Japanese Americans were interned back then, but look at them now! This drives a wedge between us and other marginalized groups. It divides us. And as the old adage goes, divided we fall.

Scholastic wanted me to occlude the truth of my grandparent’s story so that they could court the very same readers who have banned my book for being “Un-American.” They were more invested in reaching a small corner of the market than they were in preserving the most essential truth of their story. And this story is typical in traditional publishing. They are not unique in this tact. 

We must be realistic. Capitalism will not save us. Our institutions are not proving up to the task of withstanding far right infiltration and destruction. Only our collective action opens the door of possibility for a better future. Only our commitment to truth and justice. 

As the genocide in Palestine rages on, I wonder what offers have been made to Palestinian authors, if any offers have been made at all. There are a grand total of 4 traditionally published children’s books from major publishers about the Palestinian experience for the American market. By contrast, there are more than 30 books about Japanese American incarceration. We have a relative privilege. Our history of marginalization happened long enough ago that some white people will let us speak to it. That it took 80 years to reap this slim gain is a shame. However, it is our obligation to use that privilege all the same. Not just for our ancestors and families who deserve to have their experience honored, but for those whose stories bear tragic resemblance to our own, so that they can know that they are not alone. 

That we stand with them. 

If we had been presented with a wide array of Palestinian stories, told by Palestinian people, what would national opinion about the currently unfolding genocide look like? We don’t know, because those stories have been suppressed. And we, as the descendants and survivors of Minidoka know what it means to have our stories suppressed. To live in fear of our own voices. To feel obligated to sand down the sharp edges of our truths so we might even be invited to the table. 

But remember: 

Our grief humanizes us. 

Our anger is galvanizing. 

And our solidarity is more dangerous than any gun.

When we tell our stories with honesty and clarity, when we make the connections that desperately need to be made to other marginalized groups, we plant the seeds for change. It is our obligation, our responsibility, our duty as the keepers of these memories to ensure that they are not siloed away into sanitized capsules, unable to commingle with like narratives. 

When I visited Minidoka last year it was the first time I had ever had a chance to visit. I was given a tour and videotaped as they walked me around and I tried my best to understand something so unfathomable. I came away freshly dedicated to telling my grandparents’ story. 

I wondered what sites would some day be likewise preserved to ensure the commemoration of other brutal histories. If one day there would be a walking tour of the cages where immigrants on our southern border were held, punished for the dream of being American. If some day I would walk through the ruins of Khan Younis in Gaza, as a guide pointed out to me mass grave sites. But I wonder and I fret if we will ever be allowed to tell those stories at all as they deserve to be told— in 80 years, or ever.

We are all connected. Our liberation entwined. There is no Japanese American equality without Palestinian equality. There is no justice for the Holocaust without justice for the Nakba. No reparations for the descendants of the enslaved without land back for the first nations. There is no pride in genocide. Any injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. 

The time for quiet distaste and disapproval has come and gone. To meditate on the truth of marginalization is to be called into action. Anything less than that only reveals a lack of true comprehension.

About a month ago, I took my son to an ice cream shop. He’s four. It was a big deal. He got a sundae. It was a perfect afternoon, the kind that just reinforces the great joy of being a parent, the endless delight of a child’s smile. I took a picture of him and like many insufferable millennials, I went to post that picture on instagram. 

When I opened the app on my phone, I was immediately confronted with a video from Rafah— the city farthest to the south in the Gaza strip, where Palestinians were ordered to go by the Israeli military— the video was of a man, frantic, running through debris and flames with the body of a decapitated child. I looked away. I had to. But I have spent every day since October in the same state of numb horror that I think a lot of us are perpetually in, mourning for a child whose name I did not know, who was still my child all the same. A child who deserved everything my son has. To wear a silly hat, and to have a sweet with someone who loves them for exactly who they are. 

All children deserve this. As James Baldwin said: “The children are always ours, all across the globe, every single one. And I am beginning to think that those who do not understand this are incapable of morality.”

That boy’s name was Ahmad Al-Najjar. He was 18 months old, the same age as my daughter. His brothers who survived saw what happened to him. They wept as they described the scene to an AJ+ journalist, just babies themselves. Their mother had been killed in a previous airstrike. Ahmad spent his last day playing soccer with his brothers. He called his father “potato.” He had a beautiful smile, and full toddler cheeks. He is survived by his father, and two brothers. Ahmad did not live the life he deserved. But at the very least, he deserves to have his story told. He deserves to be remembered.

I stand for Ahmad Al-Najjar not just because he is a child, though honestly that would have been enough. I stand for him because I understand as a Jew what it means to be dehumanized on the global stage by those who would see you dead. I stand for him because as a descendent of Minidoka, I understand what it means to be punished for the act of a government you had no control over. I stand for him because I have learned enough to know that great injustice relies on people like me failing to make those kinds of connections. 

Ahmad was my child. And he was yours, too. 

In Timothy Snyder’s excellent book ON TYRANNY, he details the steps all regular people must take to resist totalitarian regimes. 

Step one is not to comply in advance—which is what Scholastic did. They bent to fascistic demands before they were even made in the hopes of selling more books. Just one more reason I could not accept their offer. I will not comply in advance. 

Step two is to choose an institution— the free press, voting rights, intellectual freedom— and to defend it. 

This is why I stand against book bans. Because the essential connections between historically marginalized groups are most easily forged through narrative. If we each only fight for ourselves and our own, narrow communities we are easily divided and conquered. When we fail to recognize the humanity in others that we have been deprived of, we only compound the trauma of our pain because we force ourselves to suffer it alone. 

Book bans are small potatoes compared to genocide. But I think of the book burnings in Nazi Germany. I think of the intellectuals and artists who fled once their work was demonized. The suppression of history, of the stories of the oppressed, of free expression is one essential piece of the permissions structures that enable a genocide to happen.

I will never forget Ahmad. And even if it feels impotent to keep calling and emailing my state representatives who are either unable or unwilling to affect any change I keep doing it. I keep marching. I keep donating. I keep fighting. I keep writing. Because some day my kids will ask me what I did in this time while our rights were being dissolved, our books pulled from the shelves and our money used to make the bombs that killed Ahmad Al-Najjar. And your descendants will ask you, too. 

I hope you will feel satisfied with your answer. 

I know I won’t feel satisfied with mine.

To tell stories like Ahmad’s story is a responsibility. To hold the stories of our families is a responsibility. Not just to share their stories, but to do so without flinching. Their stories hold devastating truths about our world. But when we insist upon not only telling those stories, but telling them in their fullness, in all their terrible specificity and honesty, we not only honor them–

 We create the framework for protecting those like them. We do the arduous and sometimes impossible work of humanizing them in the eyes of those who viewed them with indifference or even hostility. We force bigotry to answer for itself. 

This is difficult work. Emotionally exhausting. Intellectually frustrating. Existentially crushing. There’s no way around that. But we know what the alternative is. And it is unacceptable. 

We cannot be solely focused on our own suffering. We cannot afford this. The world cannot afford this. 

Again, it is only right to end with the my grandmother’s words, words she wrote while being victimized by this nation we all call home:

“The miracle is in us. As long as we believe in beauty. in change. In hope.”

The Answer is Still No.

I would prefer, in all of this, to just take the licensing deal. I would like that better than solidarity, or kind messages of support, or retweets, or that flurry of sales that accompanied my initial blog post about what had happened. I still want that distribution, that reach that only Scholastic can provide. I want Love in the Library to be in schools, where teachers can expertly contextualize it. 

But the price remains too high.

I appreciate that Scholastic was swift in their apology, even if it took a couple tries to smooth the language into something more thorough. I appreciate that they made those apologies public. I appreciate that they amended their offer such that they would license my book with my author’s note intact. I appreciate, most of all, the current employees of Scholastic who reached out to me directly with apologies and horror. I am aware that it is an enormous corporation with so many people who did not deserve to have their essential work dragged through the mud because of a decision made by a different wing of the company. I appreciate that capitalism is cruel, and that is no single corporation’s fault. 

I have tried to approach this situation from the perspective of restorative justice, rather than that of revenge or punishment or shame. Nothing is gained, in my opinion, by screaming at someone until they offer a symbolic apology, if nothing changes. I was not only concerned that they made right by me, but that they made right for my community, which is the community of marginalized authors. I had hoped Scholastic would make amends in such a way that would demonstrate a better understanding of the problem, and change their behavior. 

But from what I’ve seen, nothing meaningful has changed. And I remain skeptical that anything will. 

I had a meeting a week after I went public with, among other people, Peter Warwick, the CEO of Scholastic, and Rose Else-Mitchell, the president of the Education Solutions in Scholastic. In it, I had hoped for three things. One, an honest and transparent recounting of what had happened, not just to me but also in regards to the accusation I had heard from Sayantani DasGupta, a mentor for the Rising Voices program who accused Scholastic of hesitancy to include any LGTBQ+ material in the collection. Two, evidence of durable process change to their curation process. And lastly, I wanted to hear what their plans were to combat the rising, fascist culture of book bans. The last to me was, in many ways, the most important. The edit had been asked of me to try and accommodate that same culture. If they truly meant the words of their credo, which had been quoted in nearly all their apologies to me, then surely they would have a plan.

But not a single one of these needs were met. 

To the first concern, no one in the meeting was prepared to speak about what had happened. The editor who had made the decision was not in the room, and no one was willing to speak to it in their absence. I personally, if confronted with the same decision, would have prepared at least one person to answer the very basic question of what happened. Instead, I was told it was a mistake, someone simply having a bad day at work, which is either an obfuscation or a lie. It was a weighted decision, one made to mind their sales priorities while also trying to heed the curation of the AANHPI mentors they had enlisted for this collection. I know this because justification for the edit was provided to my subrights representative from Candlewick. They did not slip and fall into censorship. They asked for it directly.  Whether that decision was made because the single editor who was not present thought my language was too strong, or if it was in response to a company culture of maintaining a rigid centrism I do not know and cannot say. Additionally, no one would even acknowledge the accusation of limiting LGBTQ+ inclusion in the collection, despite another mentor who was on the call chiming in that they too had witnessed it.

To my second concern, I was told that an external auditor would be enlisted to see what had happened. Of all my concerns, this is the only one in which I saw even the potential for incremental progress. I look forward to the results of their audits. But from what they told me at the meeting, the goals were small in focus, and did not necessarily mean it wouldn’t happen again. I worried as I listened to their plan that it may simply mean that they would get better at not leaving an obvious paper trail as they did with me, or that worse, they would simply not include any books like mine– in which a marginalized person speaks frankly– at all in the future, rather than request an edit.

To my third, and most essential concern, the answers were the most disappointing. Firstly, they told me they provide annotations to teachers and librarians who are fighting bans. This, to my understanding from the meeting, simply means giving them the good reviews and marketing language for the books. This kind of information is available, for free, on my website. Or on Amazon under book description. Secondly, they told me that one of the members of Scholastic who was on the call– and here I am in the wrong for forgetting their name and what their role is– serves on a task force with PEN America that is concerned with fighting book bans. I do not mean to diminish her good work with a good group, but the efforts of a single staff member of a billion dollar corporation is not impressive. And lastly, they told me they combat that culture with their curation. Given that we were on the call due to a curatorial problem this was, perhaps, the most disappointing aspect of their answer. Annotations are not lawyers. The time of a single employee is not an investment. And their curation efforts are clearly problematic. Scholastic is a billion dollar company with a unique reach and impact in the education market. Their directive as purveyors of truth and literacy must be held to a higher standard than other publishers because of that unique position and privilege. They simply must do better.

And so I told them on the call that my answer was no. I would not license Love in the Library with them. They had not earned my trust. But I told them that I hoped they kept us all posted about what they did going forward. That I hoped they would be transparent and honest. Because if real change IS made? Then that deserves to be celebrated.

There is a metaphor I use when I present Love in the Library in schools, and it’s this: Imagine a bully. And one day, they punch you. Later they apologize to you. They say they shouldn’t have done that, that it wasn’t fair. But then the next day you see them punch someone else. And then the next day they kick someone. Each of these incidents are separate, sure, in that whatever the perceived slight on the Bully’s part was may vary. But they are also the same in that the Bully has been cruel to each of you. Would you accept that apology? Would you believe that the Bully meant it if they persist in their behavior? 

In my presentation I am referring to the US government. But I think it can be used in this situation, too. The apology is a good start. It cannot be accepted until real changes are made.

Do I believe those changes will be made? No. But I’d sure love to be wrong.

Thank you to all who have offered your solidarity and support. For those who have asked, the book is available in its complete form wherever books are sold. If you would like a signed copy, please order through Mrs. Dalloway’s Books in Berkeley. Personalizations are available by request.

Scholastic, and a Faustian Bargain

Recently, I got an email with an offer from Scholastic’s Educational Division to license Love in the Library for an AANHPI narratives collection, I was thrilled. If you’ve been in kids’ books for more than ten minutes then you are aware of the staggering reach of Scholastic. And since I’m not published by Scholastic this seemed like  a thrilling opportunity. But as soon as I cleared the opening paragraph, my heart sank. 

I’ve been really proud of Love in the Library’s successes. Yas Imamura’s illustrations are incredible. My publicist, Jamie Tan, of Candlewick did her job with sensitivity and respect. Our editor, Karen Lotz, helped shape the book into its best form while never demanding the story be told in a way she deemed might be more palatable. There were starred reviews, Best of 2022 lists, personal letters from people whose families had been incarcerated to whom this story means so much. 

It is also true that I wish it sold more copies than it has. It’s a story I believe in, deeply, and a story that I think merits exposure– something Scholastic uniquely offers.

And Scholastic wanted to license the book! But only with a change to the author’s note. My offer was contingent upon it. Without even looking I knew what it was going to be. It was going to be the paragraph that inspires 1 star reviews from angry patriots, the one that sends them to my inbox with words unfit to repeat here or anywhere. And sure enough that was exactly what they wanted to remove. 

But not only that: the word RACISM would be removed from the author’s note altogether. 

They wanted to take this book and repackage it so that it was just a simple love story. Nothing more. Not anything that might offend those book banners in what they called this “politically sensitive” moment. The irony of curating a collection tentatively titled Rising Voices: Amplifying AANHPI Narratives with one hand while demanding that I strangle my own voice with the other was, to me, the perfect encapsulation of what publishing, our dubious white ally, does so often to marginalized creators. They want the credibility of our identities, want to market our biographies. They want to sell our suffering, smoothed down and made palatable to the white readers they prioritize. To assuage white guilt with stories that promise to make them better people, while never threatening them, not even with discomfort. They have no investment in our voices. Always, our voices are  the first sacrifice at the altar of marketability. 

And excuse my language, but absolutely the fuck not.

For a moment I wondered if there was a way to edit it so we could agree on it? But then I looked at the proposed edit, the one my offer was contingent upon again. The removal of the word RACISM made it all too clear. There was no compromise to be had here. There was no way to work with this. It was a Faustian Bargain, and I couldn’t take it. And, forgive my weakness, but I cried. For the opportunity I had, just moments ago, been so thrilled to receive, gone just as fast. For my resentment of being put in a position where I had to choose between my career and my ethics. For all the other people, just like me, who are likely given these kinds of choices all the time, but who— for fear of losing future opportunities, or for fear that this is their only opportunity, or who simply cannot turn down money—take the bargain. For the pure frustration that only years of dealing with the same kind of bullshit over and over again can inspire. For the fear that this kind of limitation will be what defines my career. I cried, and I felt ashamed that I was crying and furious that I’d been made to cry by an industry that will never cry over me. 

I waffled a bit, deciding if I wanted to talk about this in public. It could, I realize, smack of sour grapes, or dramatics. It could scare off an editor who sees this and thinks I’m too difficult to work with— I have a book out on submission right now. Not a chill moment to name a publisher. And I would be lying if I didn’t admit I am afraid, deeply afraid. That this will negatively impact my career in some irrevocable way. That I’ll be labeled as too sensitive or a primadonna. I am aware that reputations matter. I am aware people have faced worse. And I’m tired, and I’d rather not do any of this. It’d be easier not to. 

Every time I see a marginalized creator tell the truth about what they face, I feel this way: frustrated. Furious. Disheartened. But also less alone. Each incident reminds me that we are braver than they are, even if it’s only because we have to be. And that the more of us who do this, the more likely there may come a day when we can stop doing this. I can’t imagine what that looks like, and most days I can’t believe that day will ever come. I also can’t imagine not at least trying to get there.

And so, I’m making public both the proposed edit I was given (above), and the letter I sent in response (below). I hope it helps you on your way. 

edited to add on May 3rd, 2023:
Thank you for all the support. For those who have asked, the book is available for sale anywhere books are sold. If you would like copies signed by me of LOVE IN THE LIBRARY, please order from Mrs. Dalloway’s Bookstore in Berkeley. They typically have signed copies on hand, and if they don’t can get them quickly. Personalizations are available by request.

Stuck / Unstuck

I introduced Noah to STUCK by Oliver Jeffers a couple nights ago, and we've read it 8 times since then. For his last book before bed, and after school. In the morning after breakfast. It came out in 2011 when I was a bookseller, and I hosted Oliver for an event at Books Inc. in the Marina, so our copy is signed.

When we read it, I pointed out to Noah that it was signed to Mommy. “But it’s signed to me, too,” he told me. And at first, since I am a virgo and also the worst, I said something true like “well, this was signed a really long time ago, before I even met daddy.” But then, realizing that was not a concept a 3 year old cares about I told him that yes, it was, an answer he accepted. I smiled as he worked hard to pronounce the name Oliver Jeffers.

We've been reading lots of Oliver Jeffers books since Noah was born, and he's easily one of Noah's favorite authors, though he's still unclear on the concept of authorship. But he trusts Jeffers. He recognizes his drawings, and he’s more willing, more game for whatever’s to come. Mostly we read the Boy books, The Way Back Home being a particular favorite since it features an airplane but we’ve read them all countless times, all favorites from my time as a bookseller.

When I say bookseller, I think people typically picture a basic retail job in a single location. Which is how it started. But in 2011 I was getting my ass kicked by a new events/marketing/bookfairs job in the corporate office for Books Inc., a promotion I had basically begged for. August through December, there’d be days when I'd get up at 5:30am to get to a school in Menlo Park or San Rafael or wherever, and then get home after an event at 9 or 10pm. We called October Crytober, because that’s when— invariably— you’d lose it and cry on the steps of a school, or in your car, or outside a store. A grueling schedule, wherein most of my breaks were taken in my commute times. I ate a lot of gas station food. My car was trashed, the AC broken and the CD player finicky, prone to skips. 

There was a night I was alone in the warehouse, pulling titles for a Middle Grade order for a school book fair that was expected to gross something like $40k in sales. So, a sizable order. A mix of hardback and paperbacks, all in quantities of five or more. I was stacking them up on a table so that I could pack them quickly and easily once I’d made all my selections. I was near done. My cell phone had died a few hours earlier. I was working in silence, alone, in a dark warehouse right off the freeway. If I finished it that night, then I wouldn’t have to come in early some other day that week and do it. I just needed, so badly, to finish.

But.

When it happened I screamed, and there was no one there to hear me. The collapse was preceded by a crack. No other warning. Both of the left legs on the table buckled beneath the weight of the stacks, spilling everything. And since I’d been standing on the left side of the table, a fair number of those books had hit me— from my thighs to my feet— on their way down. I was quite literally stuck, mired in merchandise. All my work, all those books. I could see some at the bottom of the avalanche, spines broken under the weight of their peers. Books I loved. Books I hadn’t had the chance to read yet. Books that teachers swore by, and sold well in that particular school, but not at any of the other schools we visited.  

I extricated myself as gracefully as I could (not gracefully) and used the office phone to leave a message for my boss, Shannon, who was working constantly through her maternity leave covering whatever she could remotely. We hadn’t had a chance to connect all day, and I left her a pissy message about the books spilling, that I knew there was a mess, and that I was leaving anyway. I put my phone on a charger at home, and fell into a deep, unpleasant sleep.

When I finally looked at the phone the next morning, bleary eyed and still cranky there was a voice message from Shannon. Oliver Jeffers was going to come through on tour in a couple months, just toward the end of the brutal season. We could host him at the store I’d come up through, the Marina location. Did I want that?

Of course it’s my blurb in the Indie Next list for This Moose Belongs to Me. They were probably sick of me nominating every single book he wrote and were like, fine let her do it so she’ll shut up.

My next phone call with Shannon was mostly me screaming. “I knew your phone must have died,” she said. “Or you’d have called to do this sooner.”

If you knew me in 2011 you know I was fucking insufferable about Jeffers. Just his biggest, least chill fan. Obsessed. My coworkers roasted me, and I deserved it. I owned every single book he’d ever put his name on, including the art book, and the pop up edition of The Incredible Book Eating Boy that was only sold in the UK. The DVD of the UK Lost and Found animated short. No customer left the picture book section without being informed of his brilliance, I made sure of that.

Jeffers was on a national tour to promote his new book, Stuck. Of course I loved Stuck. It had all the things one expects from a Jeffers book— humor, absurdity, that charming font of his, dialogue that’s easy to imagine spoken with a Northern Irish accent, a truly excellent orangutan— and also particularly brilliant page turns that begged to be shared with very early readers. Like Fortunately by Remy Charlip that way, where the breath between every page offers this wild invitation. And I would get to host him for it. I was. Beside myself. 

I even made a landing page on the Books Inc website (that is still there somehow???) where you could buy ALL HIS BOOKS AT ONCE as a baby shower gift. I don’t think anyone ever did, though.

The roasting was taken up many degrees in the weeks leading into the event. “Are you going to propose?” asked one coworker. “Are you going to cry?”

Honestly, the latter was a valid question. I genuinely worried I might. And the anticipation only deepened that fear. That I’d say something stupid, act a fool, put my foot in my mouth, fall down, fart, vomit, who knows. I am nothing if not an endless pool of potential humiliations wearing a human suit, so the possibilities were infinite. 

Perhaps if I had not been so deeply overworked and exhausted, I might have had the energy to do something truly humiliating. But when the day finally came, I’d been working since early that morning at a school somewhere in the North Bay (Tiburon, maybe? I don’t remember anymore), and had been running restocks to another school in San Francisco until close to event time. If you do bookstore events, you know that 7pm on a weekday is not exactly a *prime* time slot. Most of your chosen demographic is on their way to bed by then. But somehow, miraculously (and also due to my CONSTANT handselling, informing and general screeching about Jeffers’ work in general for years to our customers, thankyouverymuch) we had about 80 people there that night. Oliver was lovely. He drew pictures for the crowd. We sold a ton of books. I didn’t do anything to shame my ancestors. He signed my very complete Oliver Jeffers collection. And then he was gone. 

I’ve never talked to or interacted with Oliver Jeffers since then, though I’ve had the opportunity at conferences and the like. My interaction with him that day was sufficient. I’d rather not ruin it. 

And in the decade since then many things have changed. I quit bookselling. I started a career as an author myself. I got married and started a family. And all the while that signed copy of Stuck has been waiting on the shelf to be shared with the children I used to imagine as a distant, hopeful maybe. 

The book jacket on STUCK is still stiff and un-crumpled, and so it felt like it was still brand new when I pulled it off the shelf the other night and asked Noah if he’d like to read it.  And when he loved it right away, I felt this bone deep sureness that I’d been right all along, but that now, just now, something had finally acknowledged that. Stuck was just as perfect as I’d told all those parents it was. Those page turns just as magical. That ending just as fun. I’d been selling this experience for so long. Now it felt like I finally got to taste it. 

And, excuse me, but I had fucking earned it.

Those long, taxing days. My whole life in shambles around a job that would never love me like I loved it. Rigorously educating myself about contemporary children’s lit, learning all the authors, illustrators, imprints and editors to watch. 2011 was a particularly rough year, and that event, that perfect event with my most favorite author was a rare high point. And what a high high. A few weeks after that event, I’d get an agent. And just a week after that she’d sell my first book. These are unrelated in the objective sense, but somehow it all felt of a piece to me. And Noah— an IVF baby, cherished for so long before he could arrive— loving this book now, feels a part of that, too. The way that this life in books and kids and kids’ books was meant for me, even if sometimes it broke my back. The way that I was meant for it, even if I had to take a rougher route to get there. 

And Stuck, after all these years on my shelf, shared with a little boy with a hundred questions. We both were finally doing exactly what we were meant to do, unstuck after all this time.

Why We Keep Telling You Not To Rhyme

You have an idea for a picture book! That’s great! And you want it to rhyme! Why is everyone running away from you?

Here’s a handy list of reasons why KidLit experts will reflexively push you away from rhyme. Does this mean you CAN’T do it? Never! Rules are meant to be broken. And there are lots of bestselling rhyming books out there. But below are the reasons why we want you to question whether or not your book MUST rhyme.

1.) Rhyming is super hard. Telling a complete story in 500-1000 words is hard enough. But add the necessity of perfect meter? That’s like doing gymnastics, and then deciding it’s not difficult enough so you light the uneven bars on fire. Which, good for you, if you’re Simone Biles. But you better be sure, because if you’re off by even a LITTLE, you’re going to set your manuscript on fire.

Take a look at authors like Anna Dewdney, Chris VanDusen, Mem Fox or Sandra Boynton. If your rhymes aren’t as clean as those, they’re not market ready. You can also listen to rap, (some) slam poetry, or musicals for some really strong writing dependent on rhyme. Even on Twitter, the Limericking account offers a near daily tutorial based on the day’s news. There are role models out there, and you should be holding your work against theirs if you think rhyming is an absolute must for you.

A page of excellent rhyme from Chris Van Dusen’s King Hugo’s Huge Ego

2.) Only Dr. Seuss is Dr. Seuss*. He’s one of the bestsellingest authors OF ALL TIME, and as agent and genius Jennifer March Soloway is fond of reminding us, no one is going to be him, again. Ever. He has the benefit of precedence, a money-hungry, business-savvy estate, movies based on his works that exponentially expand his reach and popularity every year, and a once-in-a-generation talent. There will never be a graduation display at a bookstore that does not feature Oh, The Places You’ll Go. Even the most perfunctory of kids’ sections will carry a Seuss title or three.

So, I think it’s cool that you dropped a bunch of acid in Baja too, but your weird off-kilter rhyming book full of nonsense words will probably slip through the cracks, because Mr. Geisel already has that corner of the market covered.

Even if someone like you cares a whole awful lot, no one can rewrite The Lorax, they’ll not.
Also you’ll note my meter is off in that stupid joke caption. METER IS HARD, OK?

*Note: is it a bummer that he was a big ol racist? YES. Will that effectively stop his legacy? Seemingly not.

3.) Most stories don’t need it. One of the main things I ask writers when they have an MS in rhyme is, WHY does this story demand to be told in rhyme? Does the form inform the function?* If you don’t have a reason, then just focus on the story. Story telling is hard enough, and most early picture book manuscript drafts suffer from a lack of proper, satisfying story arc as it is. What do I mean by proper story arc? I mean a beginning, a conflict, rising action, a climax and a resolution. That’s a lot!

For picture books that accomplish this with minimal words, take a look at Ed Vere’s BANANA!, or Jon Klassen’s I WANT MY HAT BACK. You can also (cough cough) read my book (coughs more violently), Also an Octopus, which is a story about how to tell stories by telling a story about an octopus.

It is also easy to ignore plot altogether when writing in rhyme. As my agent (best agent) Jennifer Laughran noted: “I would add that generally speaking, many manuscripts I get that are in rhyme are setting a scene, but they aren’t telling a story. It will be like ten stanzas about how Silly Sally is scared of Biff O‘Malley but they just go around in circles rather than progressing to fisticuffs or WHATEVER. Most people who write this kind of manuscript have not done the NEXT thing, which is to dummy it out and figure out what the pictures would be OF. Because if it is just Silly Sally staring stupidly at Biff for 14 spreads, that’s a problem. Every page turn has to move us forward, and every stanza has to give us something in the way of character AND plot progression. Which is hard when you are trying to figure out what else rhymes with Sally.”

A perfect moment of rising action.

*For examples of form informing function, read Sonnet 43 versus The Raven. Each demand rhyme but for very different reasons.

4.) It can be an immediate deal breaker. Don’t have an agent yet? I wish you the best of luck in finding one! It can be a really long and hard process for lots of writers. And it can be made even HARDER with bad rhyme. Why? Agents get TONS of queries every day. A big part of their job is keeping up with them. So, there’s a lot of stuff that can be a quick deal breaker. Lots of that is personal and subjective to each agent, but one thing I’ve heard consistently is that bad rhyming (which is often bad meter) is a quick and EASY no.

(It is also almost impossible to sell rhyming books in translation, because the words won’t rhyme anymore.)

A few books with perfect meter include: Goodnight Goodnight Construction Site, Each Peach Pear Plum, Ten Little Fingers and Ten Little Toes, and Llama Llama Red Pajama.

Want to know if your manuscript has healthy / clean meter? Have someone ELSE read your work out loud. If they stumble while reading it, it’s likely because the meter is off. Don’t read it yourself, because you know how it’s SUPPOSED to sound. And even most writing partners are dynamic readers, and so they’ll manage to make an uneven draft sound passable. If you REALLY want to test a manuscript, find a terrible reader, someone with little to no emotional inflection, and ask them to read it out to you. The mistakes will jump right out at you in their voice.

There are also short cuts like slant (or near) rhyme, that can feel lazy, and are tricky to read correctly. They really only function if your performance of the text is perfect, like in Kendrick Lamar’s Swimming Pools.

Even Lin Manuel Miranda has gotten roasted for using some slant rhymes in Hamilton! You know, the musical with amazing lyrics that won basically every single Tony? But again, the play benefits from professional performance. Your book will not. Your book will be read by anyone who picks up it, including learning readers, and as such it should sound good no matter who performs it.

Read this out loud and tell me if it doesn’t roll off the tongue perfectly. Dewdney was a master.

5.) There’s a million ways to make rhyming sound stupid. And your meter being off is only the beginning. Rhyming makes cliches even more difficult to avoid because things like Cat and Hat and Fat and Rat and Sat and Mat have already been rhymed together into the ground. It induces eye rolls all the easier because rhyme is a pattern we all know how to follow, which makes words predictable. It’s hard to make it fresh.

Mac Barnett’s Guess Again! is a book whose premise is completely predicated on subverting our expectations through rhyme, which makes it both a delightful kids’ book in its own right, and also a pretty solid satire of rhyming books in general. He, and Adam Rex (master illustrator and excellent rhymer himself) take what could be boring, predictable kids’ book rhymes and make them something weird and fun and fresh.

Rhyme can also push you into wonky syntax that doesn’t quite make sense, and is easy to mock. Like Yoda talk, but you’re not Yoda, so it’s weird, not cute. An example I always think of is in (my favorite Disney Movie) Mulan, when she’s singing about her imminent meeting with the matchmaker:

Ancestors
Hear My Plea
Help me not to
make a fool of me

Why does this stick out? Because WHO has ever said “Help me not to make a fool of me?” That bit of weird tongue twistery is demanded in order to stay in form for rhyme. And it feels weird every time I hear it. BUT the thing about both Hamilton and Mulan is that they have 2 other hours to couch a little bit of weird rhyme here and there. There’s NO WHERE TO HIDE in a picture book manuscript. Remember you have, like, 500 words! If THIRTEEN of them are off (as in Mulan) that’s a significant passage!

In Conclusion:
Am I dream pooper? Yes. I’m sorry I’m like this.
Is this good advice? Yes.
Am I your Real Dad? No. I’m also not your boss, or god.
Can my advice be ignored entirely in the face of lots of new rhyming picture books all the time? Absolutely.
If you master rhyming rules, are you allowed to break them? Yes, that’s the rule for all rules.
Is sticking to prose the best idea? Yes, for you, for me, for most of us.
Are you good at rhyming and also writing a picture book and at a level at which you are likely to be published and make millions of dollars and retire onto your own private island? Probably not, but I’d love for you to prove me wrong.

Spooky Scary Stories for All Ages (Beyond Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark)

Tis the season to be spooky! Here’s a list of recs for some Kid Lit Halloween reading at all ages. Disclaimer: I have not read Gretchen McNeil, the reigning queen of teen slasher novels, and this is a ME problem, not a HER problem, so if you’re looking for updated Christopher Pike, then look to her! I also did not include juggernaut favorites like: Goosebumps, Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark and Lois Duncan because I figured you could find those on your own.

The Scariest Book Ever by Bob Shea (4-6): This book is exactly what the title promises! Or, if it’s NOT, it’s at least the most hilarious Halloween book ever. Like The Monster at The End of This Book, this book is full of VERY DIRE WARNINGS that should ABSOLUTELY be listened to.

The Dark by Lemony Snicket and Jon Klassen (4-6): This book is gentle spooky, more eerie and than scary. And ultimately, we are invited to value the dark, as it allows us to see the light. It’s a great read-aloud, and if you want the spookiest version, try Neil Gaiman’s narrated eBook version.

In a Dark Dark Room by Alvin Schwartz (6-8): An early reader classic! The very short stories in this book vary in levels of scariness, and include the story on which Carmen Maria Machado based her short story, The Husband Stitch. It can definitely be given to younger kids who do not think The Dark is scary at all.

Nightlights by Lorena Alvarez (7-9): This is a GORGEOUSLY illustrated graphic novel that is legit spooky for the younger reader. It’s also set in Colombia, which is rad. It starts off whimsical, and rapidly gets creepy AF. Maybe not the best gift for the easily spooked, but will be spot on for those who don’t mind some scary.

Ghostopolis by Doug TenNapel (9-11): A rare comedy / horror book for the younger set! This story takes us into the technicolor underworld with a cast of unlikely characters. It’s also ultimately a story about loss, which can be rough for some kids, and also exactly what other kids need.

Coraline by Neil Gaiman (10-12): We have moved into the portion where books that scare the shit out of adults are being introduced. Tough girl Coraline accidentally wanders into an alternate dimension where everything SEEMS great. But her Other Mother is not quite what she seems. If you want a less psychologically scary and a more spooooky story from this same author, The Graveyard Book won a Newbery and is lovely.

Doll Bones by Holly Black (11-13): Holly Black has a terrifying imagination, and this story of growing up and out of the games you liked as a younger kid is no exception. Featuring a haunted doll made of a dead girl’s bones, three great main characters, and that feeling of a fairytale while still being set in the real world, Doll Bones is a Newbery Honor for good reason.

Dread Nation by Justina Ireland (12+): What’s scarier, institutionalized racism or zombies? Why choose? Reanimated corpses meander all over this Civil War era novel. It gets gross and grim and honestly it’s a delight the entire time.

Anya’s Ghost by Vera Brosgol (13+): Judging just by the illustrations I thought this book would skew a LOT YOUNGER, and then I opened it and there’s body dysmorphia, smoking and infidelity among teens. So, you know. It’s really for teens. And it’s GREAT. When Anya falls down a well, she accidentally brings a ghost back out with her when she emerges. And that ghost has motives of her own.

The Name of the Star by Maureen Johnson (14+): Lovers of the Sixth Sense will enjoy this solid ghost story, and its sequels. When a copy-cat starts reenacting Jack The Rippers murders in London, Rory Deveraux (an American teen) is the only witness. Probably because she was the only one who could see him. It’s creepy and upsetting and real, real fun.

Gideon the Ninth by Tasmyn Muir (15+): Lesbian necromancers in space! A horror / comedy / sci fi / fantasy mash up! This is the most wildly creative debut I’ve read in a while and it goes back in forth between being hilarious and very gross and dark constantly. If you’re wondering why everyone’s dressing up as a corpse on Twitter and Tumblr, this is why.

Introducing SQUAD!

I am so excited to get to talk about this now! I’m working with the hugely talented LISA STERLE and brilliant and insightful editor MARTHA MIHALICK on this teen graphic novel!

It’s as the announcement promises: a girl gang of werewolves targeting and eating the Brett Kavanaughs of the world. When rifts in their own group start to appear, things start spiraling out of control. Set in Piedmont with trips to Oakland, Stanford, and all over the Bay Area, this book is the most fun I’ve ever had writing.

If you’re interested you can mark Squad as To-Read on Goodreads, now!

EAT THE PATRIARCHY

So No One Came To Your Bookstore Event

Ouch. Firstly, I’m sorry. That sucks for everyone involved. There’s no worse feeling— as a bookseller or an author— than sitting with a bunch of empty chairs, watching the minutes tick away as no one walks into the store. Or worse, they walk in, but with complete disinterest in the event.

Authors and booksellers both have terrible and hilarious stories about events no one came to. The day they hit the New York Times Bestseller List. Or, the author who realized no one was coming, got rip-roaring drunk and snuck out the back. It’s because AUTHOR EVENTS ARE REALLY HARD TO GET PEOPLE TO. People complain that national tours are basically only for the ultra famous, but having also worked in publishing I can see why. A big name is not a guarantee for a big crowd, but it’s a BETTER bet. And yes, it would be nice if there were enough money to send everyone for the exposure but tours are SUPER expensive, and the results, for most of us, is mixed.

I was a bookseller who handled events for years, and now I’m an author. In both roles I’ve had plenty of events with no one at them. So with that history in mind, here’s a little guide for both booksellers and authors to follow in the worst case scenario that NO ONE CAME.

1.) PROMOTE

This is ALL predicated on the assumption that BOTH parties did everything they could to promote. That means the author and the booksellers should already have been in contact on social media. That means this event should be listed in the bookstores emails to customers, with signs in the windows leading into the event, and— if the budget allows for it— handouts to promote the event. If you do not have the bandwidth to do any promotion for a particular event, do not host it.

The author should be beating the drum on social media on the days leading into the event. Tag the bookstore. Likewise, bookstores, tag the author. RT each other, share. Bookstores should not expect authors to do ALL the promotion, and authors certainly shouldn’t expect that of bookstores, either.

The fact is, authors have the best line to their own fans, but bookstores can often find connections that authors may not have known about. The local cartography club, or a teacher who’s a fan and can get his students there. Who knows.

There’s still a good chance no one is coming.

2.) Be nice.

This seems like a no brainer, but it’s not, so let’s get into it. Everyone’s disappointed. So don’t ignore the author. Make sure there’s a bookseller on hand who knows their work, and can make that author feel at home. As the author, take it as an opportunity to make pals with a bookseller. They’ll have recommendations coming out their ears for you, and be more than willing to share. Chat. We’re all in this together.

Booksellers: Have the author sign ALL THE STOCK. Even if you end up returning some of it. There’s no worse feeling as an author when ALREADY no one has come to the event, and then the bookseller pulls 3 copies of the 20 ordered and is like, just sign these. We know what that means. Indulge us at least in this small courtesy.

Authors: Sign the damn stock. Be nice about it. Get to know the store. Buy something small— a card, even— budget allowing.

Updating this blog post with my pal, comedian, Red Scott’s perfect comment summing up why you should NOT be an asshole at your poorly attended event.

3.) Be prepared.

Booksellers: Don’t put out 50 chairs if no one has expressed any interest in the store about the event. Maybe start with 10. Put them in a circle. It doesn’t look as bad that 4 out of 10 chairs are filled as it does when 4 out of 50 are. Little touches like that can make the author feel way less HORRIBLE about the fact that no one expressed interest in the project they literally bled into for years. Because that’s what books are. Our BLOOD. So it’s DEVASTATING when no one cares. If no one on your staff cares about the book, then don’t accept that event (barring local author book launches, which are a totally different beast.) So be flexible, figure it out. One time, only two teens showed up to an event, so we walked them around the block to get cupcakes with the author. Did we plan that? Not really. Was it great? Yes.

Authors: Sure, you have a presentation that’s great for 40 people. But if only 1 person shows up, maybe have a back up plan. I mean, if that ONE person is dying to see your power point by all means get at it. But maybe a conversation would be better. With story time aged kids, I opt to read my story, but also two that THEY choose. Let’s just try to have fun now. If you do, everyone else is more likely to as well. Authors set the tone here, so may as well make it a good one.

4.) Be realistic.

This is for authors. Know this: 10 people at a bookstore event is actually pretty ok. That’s ten people who COULD be at home watching Netflix, or at soccer practice, or whatever. Sure, it’s not GOOD and it’s definitely not GREAT, but don’t sneeze at any number of people who show up. Those are just your new friends, and new biggest fans because they got to have some real quality time with you, the author they wanted to meet. More public events have between 5-15 people than 50+ that’s just how it is.

Events are not free for bookstores to put on. They staff an extra person most of the time, print materials to support the event, and also spent time booking, planning and promoting. So if no one comes, they’re taking a hit, too.

5.) Be selective.

This is for booksellers. We’ve all had things slip through the cracks. Maybe the person who booked the event left the company. Maybe things just got out of hand. But when you’re filling out your tour grids and considering who you’d like to host, remember that NO is a very kind answer. Don’t think you could possible get people to come? Say no. Don’t think anyone on your staff cares about the book? Say no. Suspect your community is only sorta interested in a topic? SAY NO. You are doing no one any kindnesses by booking things you’re likely to forget about. Even if you’re hyper selective, bad events will happen. So why not try and limit it?

6.) For Kids Books Only

School events are a metric ass ton of work to put on, but also far and away ALWAYS a great option for bookstores and authors to pair up. There’s guaranteed headcount— even if there aren’t guaranteed sales— and the school library will (should, tbh) buy a copy of the book so kids can keep reading it after you leave. So if you’re busting your balls organizing your own tour, which most of us do nowadays, put your effort into getting into schools. You get a guaranteed shot to talk to exactly the kids you wrote your books for. And some school visits will be better organized and better behaved than others. But it’s worth it.