Elvis Is In The Building!

It's a book!

I can't believe it's 9 days away from being in your hands, too. The big reveal. The big showdown. The big holy smokes of all Sammy's holy smokes!

And here's what I've got to say about this book:

NO SPOILERS!

I remember when my kids were younger and they were reading Harry Potter and my older son said to my younger son, "Have you gotten to the part where X dies?" My younger son gaped at him and said, "X DIES?" All my older son could say was, "Oops." My younger son threw the book down and never finished it.

So yeah,

NO SPOILERS.

The reviews so far have been very good (and have contained NO SPOILERS).

Which is nice. (Sometimes reviewers should be jailed, but so far, so good.)

I really, really hope you guys like the story, like the Heather subplot, like the Cammy stuff, and wish, like me, that you could be a stowaway in Sammy's suitcase.

Well, her backpack because, Sammy is, you know, impulsive and doesn't really take time to pack.

And who can blame her? She has no time to pack. She's in too big a hurry to stow away.

But, like I said, NO SPOILERS.

Anyway, thanks for riding along through 2012 with me. It's been wonderful to know you're out there, supporting me and loving Sammy. Happy 2013 to all of you, and I'll see you next year! On my birthday! (Really.) Which is two days before Elvis's birthday. Which is the day Sin City is released.

And on all these accounts, remember, NO SPOILERS!

An Elf Cap On A Happy State Of Mind

It's been a busy week! A boy (uh, make that 'young man') with a birthday, shopping, baking, wrapping for Christmas, and getting ready for last night's Risky Whippet gig. I went a little overboard making the gig a real Christmas party--we gave away a present after every song. At first I was just going to give away a few autographed books by a certain local author, but then I got carried away and pretty soon I had enough "real" presents to cover all 3 hours of music.

People were, like, Are you serious? thinking there had to be a catch, but I think it made me the happiest person in the room. (Well, I was playing music in a band with my kids and husband, which is an Are-you-serious? sort of situation to begin with, but the gifts were like an elf cap on my happy state of mind.)

Clearly  most of you couldn't attend the Risky Whippet party (I would have loved if you could have...and would have brought more books!) but I will leave you with a link to a little sample (below) of the "family band" in action. Merry Christmas to all of you, even if you don't celebrate it :-)

Risky Whippet does "Birthday" by The Beatles

If Only Tears Could Change What Happened

Like millions of others across the country, what I keep thinking about is what happened in Newton, Connecticut. And maybe other topics would push this one from our minds, but what seems most appropriate is a post of silence. So here's to those beautiful, innocent children, their heroic teachers, and all their heartbroken families.

Elvis Holds Sammy

This week we laugh.

Go ahead.

I sure did.

If you read the post from 2 weeks ago, you've probably guessed that this photo is courtesy of Nancy, who took the ARC of Sammy Keyes and the Showdown in Sin City to all the places mentioned in Sin City.

She couldn't find a Mini-Elvis, like I did during my research trip (and like Sammy does during Showdown), but this guy's maybe even funnier. I wonder how much Nancy tipped him to hold the book. I wonder how much work he gets, there on the Las Vegas Strip, offering to pose with tourists.

Maybe he has a good singing voice.

Maybe that's the motivation.

Still. I wonder if he knows he needs a little help perfecting the whole Elvis thing. I wonder who he is when he's not Elvis. I wonder if he's got a day job.

I really hope he's got a day job.

Anyway, January 8th is right around the corner.

You'll be able to hold Sammy, too.

And find out who her dad is.

Just remember, the year ends in 13.

Can't wait.

For My Mom

It's time for Sinterklaas!

If you've read the first couple of chapters of Sammy Keyes and the Power of Justice Jack, you'll know what this means.

Well, you'll know what this means Van Draanen style. For civilized Dutch folks it's a much tamer affair. 

Basically, Sinterklaas is the Dutch version of Santa Claus. Only he rides a horse. And his hat is way cooler than Santa's. And he comes early in December. And visits five times, not just one. 

Oh, and forget the whole coming down the chimney thing. Sinterklaas don't need no stinkin' chimney. Sinterklaas knows how to deliver spice cookies through the roof.

As Billy Pratt would say, The dude is awesome!

When I was growing up, Sinterklaas and his magic white horse (and cool hat) got all the credit. But the Royal Dutch Bakers for Sinterklaas are actually the ones who do all the work. 

As fate would have it, one of those Royal Bakers was (shhhh) was my mom. 

Yes, my mother had the recipe for the magic pepernoten that clatter through the ceiling / roof and onto the floor. She was a very busy baker, too, managing to make up to three thousand pepernoten in a few days, all while the kids were at school. 

Through this tradition, Mom filled my childhood Decembers with happy squeals and anticipation and fun. And since Sinterklaas kept a rather irregular schedule (depending on whether it was a school night or Scout meeting night, or whatever), peppernoten might fall on December 4th. Or 5th. Or (come on already!) 6th. 

Civilized Dutch stick to the 5th, but, well, we Van Draanens don't fit that mold, and the not knowing when pepernoten might come crashing down around us was half of the fun.

When I had children of my own, I, too, was recruited to become a baker for Sinterklaas. And although I cannot call myself a Royal Baker or boast 3,000 cookies in any season (or maybe, even, total), I have for many years baked lots of little cookies during the early days of December. And each time I did, I thought about my mom. About the dough sticking in her palms, about her airing out the house before school so we children wouldn't detect the sweet spicy smell of pepernoten baking. About how much time and effort she put into the tradition and the holiday. About how much I loved her for the joy it brought to me as a child.

What I haven't shared on this blog (because it's personal and hard and just...sad), is that my mother is in the last stages of life. She's down to 70 pounds and in a memory care facility. (Please, no sympathy comments, okay?) I visit her a lot. (I'm there so much many of the residents think I work there.) 

Some days--some visits--are better than others. Today's was really nice. I talked with her about Sinterklaas and pepernoten and how joyful she'd made this time of year for us when we were growing up. I spoke to her in the best Dutch I know (and she corrected me, as is her way), and she smiled more than usual and remembered along with me about the baking and the hiding and the magic. 

It was obvious that me remembering and appreciating everything she'd done made her happy. Which made me happy, too. Mom may be retired from the workforce, but she will always love--and be loved for--having served as a Royal Dutch Baker for Sinterklaas.

So, happy Sinterklaas to you Dutch. And to you non-Dutch, read the first 2 chapters of Justice Jack. You'll wish you were. 

Where's Our Girl?

I received a flurry of mysterious e-mails from Nancy (my editor) this week. They had a short teaser subject and an attached picture. No text, just the picture.

The subjects were "Where's our girl?" "Shady location," "Mystery man," "Hungry," "Searching," "Uh, oh"....things like that.

And as I opened them up, one by one, I was, like, HUH? Why is she taking a picture of the ARC of the upcoming Sammy Keyes in the midst of crackers and cookies? Wow, those are cool sunglasses, but...why?  And the book at the feet of suit of arms? Hello?

It was like my son was in kindergarten again and we were going around to odd places taking pictures of Flat Stanley. (Please tell me you had the Flat Stanley Experience as a child / parent.) But I had no idea why Sammy was in front of a fancy light. Or a stony sculpture. And I was feeling secretly dopey. Like, am I supposed to know what she's talking about?

And then, ZAP -- I got it.

It was the map. The corner of a map visible in the bottom of a picture.

I had studied that map when writing the book.

I'd studied it a LOT!

Stupidly excited, I wrote her back with the answer to where our girl was. Turned out Nancy had an elaborate series of pictures still in the queue--pictures that made it more and more obvious where Sammy was--and she was bummed that I'd figured it out so fast.

So right now you're going, Wendelin, hello? Sin City? How could you not have known? It's in the title, right?

I was in Flat Stanley mode, okay?

The first thing I thought was to share this with you. Especially since I've decided NOT to do a contest for ARCs of the book because I don't want some of you to know the identity of Sammy's dad before others do. No matter how fair the contest is, it just doesn't seem fair.

But I thought it would be fun to make a collage of the pictures she'd sent and post it for the super sleuths among you. (It was only after I was done with my little collage masterpiece that I discovered another batch of photo e-mails from her. I could share them later if you want, but I wasn't going to start over! For now, here's the first wave for fun (and to torture you a little :) ) ).

In the upcoming book, Sammy goes all these places. Can you identify any of them?

Have fun!

Mudslide By Moonlight

I've been cleaning our garage.

Really cleaning the garage!

And what I've decided is that through their lives, people acquire too much stuff.

It's hard to get rid of stuff. Stuff reminds you of other stuff. Or times. Or people. Or things you've always intended to do.

Or it's the kind of stuff you think might be useful.

In certain circumstances.

Which might arise.

Someday.

I'm a good organizer. I know how to label a box. I know how to maximize storage. I know how to juggle a puzzle of boxes.

Around here I'm known as The Master Packer.

So I am very good a squirreling things into spaces, but this time I've exposed the contents of all cupboards and have been merciless to the Little Voice that whispers, Reconsider...it might be useful in a full moon mudslide.

No.

Mercy!

No, you Widget! You get back in the Goodwill box!

Pleaaaaase!

Down, Widget, down!

Clearly, it's been a battle. And part of that battle has been books. My own books. Years ago I started with How I Survived Being a Girl and have continued through each of my 28 (!) books, to squirrel away 6 autographed first editions of each title. For, you know, grand kids, should they ever appear. And if they don't, for my sons to auction off for charity (or whatever) once I'm dead and gone and people think an entire series of first printing autographed Sammy Keyes hardcovers is worth something.

Thinking ahead can take up a lot of  space in one's garage.

I also have foreign editions. And copies of the audio book. And random publication paraphernalia.

Anyway. Aside from Book Stuff, I've been pretty good at letting go of Other Stuff. The trouble is, that only applies to My Stuff, and a lot of the stuff in the garage is not My Stuff. It's Their Stuff. And They don't want to get rid of Their Stuff.

For example, there are two tall, cheesy speakers that go with a tall, cheesy stereo system that my son got for (basically) free at a garage sale. The woman was so excited that my son wanted her junk that she actually loaded it into her truck and delivered it to our doorstep.

"No!" I cried when I saw it, because it was clearly out of someone else's garage, and I know spider poop when I see it.

"No!" my husband cried, because it was clearly a cheesy stereo system from the 80's and couldn't possibly work and was way too big for our son's room.

"Yes!" our son told us, and proceeded to haul his spider-poop prize upstairs to his room.

The system did work (which got ample HA!s from our son) but it is cheesy, and takes up way too much room, the proof being that  it's now back down to our garage where it sits waiting for its rightful owner (the dump truck)...only I'm not allowed to get rid of it. He demands that I leave His Stuff alone. "Stop trying to throw away my childhood!"

Ouch.

Garage-sale stereos aside, I guess it's my own darn fault that his childhood included so much stuff. Parents like to shower their kids with stuff. Stuff that they maybe didn't have. Or stuff that they really wish had been around when they were a kid.

Cool stuff.

But after a while even cool stuff starts to choke you out of your house. Not just your kids' stuff. Your stuff. The cool and the not-so-cool stuff. The useful and the mud-slide-by-moonlight stuff.

And you look around and realize--I don't need all this stuff.

I don't want all this stuff.

I just want my family and time.

If you don't manage your own stuff, people who are left to clean out your closets when you kick the bucket are gonna say, "Why'd she label this bin of bricks?" "What's with this box of buttons?" "Old curtains? Is that what these are? Why?"

And you can't pop out of the grave and explain, "Those curtains would make a FABULOUS dress, can't you see that? Haven't you ever watched Gone With The Wind? Stop! Put that back you stuff-trashing fool!"

I know I'll never make the dress. But thinking that I might gives my brain a little jolt of...someday. I like jolts of someday, because they make me feel like life will go on indefinitely.

Which it won't.

I know.

Not that I'm planning to kick the bucket anytime soon--after all, I have the final Sammy Keyes to write!--but I really need to sort my own stuff before some stuff-trashing fool comes along and does it for me.

Meanwhile, I'm done buying stuff. And if anyone wants to trade Stuff for Time, please let me know.

I'll make you a great deal.