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Photo: Nicolas Guerin/Contour

Chris Ware is only the second cartoonist to get the Paris Review interview treatment—Robert Crumb was the first—and it’s said to be one of his longest and most revealing interviews ever. With scholar Jeet Heer doing the interviewing, how could you expect less. But in a surprise twist, you can only read the whole thing by purchasing a copy of The Paris Review! However there is an online excerpt just to set the table:

Television was probably my first real drug. I have little doubt that it fired off the same dopamine receptors in my brain that marijuana later did. Specific hours of my childhood day would be tonally defined by what was on. Monday through Friday at three-thirty meant Gilligan’s Island, and so that particular half hour always took on a sense of bamboo and Mary Ann’s checkered shirt, later to be replaced by the tweed and loafers of My Three Sons. I was sensitive to the broadcast vibe of ABC versus CBS versus NBC versus PBS and to how their particular programs made me feel, even how the particular resolution of each channel was different.

So yeah, go buy a copy of The Paris Review already.

Photograph: Nicolas Guerin/Contour

Just a few things of interest today.

First, if you, like me, are still feeling a bit down because of Ray Bradbury’s death, go spend some time with him in his Paris Review Interview and some reminiscing from the intern who had to fact check it. In the interview he talks of his beginnings, his career, his thoughts on science fiction and writing, who his influences are, his love of poetry, libraries, writing the screenplay for Moby Dick, his dislike of ereaders, and so much more.

Second, thanks to my marvy sister for sending me the link, watch a 40 minute “movie” of actor Christopher Plummer recreating Nabokov’s lecture on Kafka’s Metamorphosis (via)

Bradbury did not think much of Nabokov or Proust, Joyce, and Flaubert. They put him to sleep, he says. Bradbury much preferred George Bernard Shaw, Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, Steinbeck, Huxley, Shakespeare, Hopkins, Frost, and Thomas Wolfe. Bradbury was also an admirer of Edith Wharton, Eudora Welty and Katherine Anne Porter.

Bradbury also says he was completely “library educated” and calls himself a librarian:

I am a librarian. I discovered me in the library. I went to find me in the library. Before I fell in love with libraries, I was just a six-year-old boy. The library fueled all of my curiosities, from dinosaurs to ancient Egypt. When I graduated from high school in 1938, I began going to the library three nights a week. I did this every week for almost ten years and finally, in 1947, around the time I got married, I figured I was done. So I graduated from the library when I was twenty-seven. I discovered that the library is the real school.

So I am sure he would really appreciate Bookyard. Bookyard is a joint art installation and library book sale in Ghent, Belgium. It will be up through September 16th with all proceeds from the sale of books going to local libraries. While I would like to visit Ghent someday, this summer will not be the time. If, however, you will be in Ghent this summer, be sure to visit the Bookyard!

A lot of people stop by this site because they’re curious to learn what it takes to not only write a children’s book, but to write a successful one. Some authors appear at workshops where they charge hundreds of dollars to dispense such insider tips. Not me. Today, I’m giving the good stuff out for free. I only ask that you thank me in your acknowledgements and cut me in on any foreign rights. It’s a fair trade for this invaluable wisdom. Let’s get down to it.

First off, the old advice is often the best advice. Write what you know. Do you know a puppy that’s a bit poky? How about some teenagers who hunt each other for sport? Connecting with children is about connecting with the world around you. A few monkeys don’t hurt either. That’s right. Forget wizards, vampires and zombies. Monkeys are what distinguish great children’s books. Try to imagine The Secret Garden without Jose Fuzzbuttons, the wisecracking capuchin whose indelible catchphrase “Aye-yaye-yaye, Mami, hands off the yucca!” is still bandied about schoolyards today? I don’t think you can.

Of course, the magic that is artistic inspiration must find its way in there. So how do you grab hold of it? Christopher Paolini swears by peyote-fueled pilgrimages to the Atacama Desert. I’m more of a traditionalist. A pint of gin and a round of Russian Roulette with Maurice Sendak always gets my creative juices flowing. Have fun. Experiment. Handguns and hallucinogens need not be involved. Though I see no reason to rule them out. Find what works for you.

Now, you’ll inevitably face a little writer’s block. There are two words that cure this problem and cure it quick. Public Domain. Dust off some literary dud and add spice to it. Kids dig this stuff. For instance, you could take some Edith Wharton and inject it with flatulence. The Age of Innocence and Farts.  Done. Easy. Bestseller.

I give this last bit of advice with a caveat. Resist the temptation to write unauthorized sequels to beloved classics. I speak from experience. My manuscripts for You Heard What I Said Dog, Get Your Arse Outta Here! and God? Margaret Again…I’m Late have seen the bottom of more editors’ trash cans than I care to mention. Newbery bait? Sure. Immune to the unwritten rules of the biz? Hardly.

Okay, let’s jump forward. So now you’ve got your masterpiece, but how the heck are you going to sell the thing? Truth be told, you’re going to need an advanced degree first. As anyone will inform you, kid lit authors without PhDs or MFAs are rarely taken seriously. If you can’t work Derrida or Foucault into a pitch letter, then you certainly can’t survive a 30-minute writing workshop with Mrs. Sumner’s 5th period reading class. So invest 60-100K and 3-6 years of your life. Then let the bidding war begin.

In the off chance that your book isn’t going to sell for six figures, try blackmail. Sounds harsh, but the children’s book industry runs almost exclusively on hush money and broken kneecaps. I mean, Beverly Cleary doesn’t even own a car. So why is she always carrying a tire iron?

Money is now under the mattress and the editorial process begins. Don’t worry at all about this. Editors won’t even read your book. They’ll simply call in Quentin Blake for some illustrations and then run the whole thing through a binding machine they keep in the back of the o

So Mikey Cunningham of The Hours fame was judging the NPR 3-Minute Fiction contest a couple months back. The rules were simple. Start a story with the line, “Some people swore that the house was haunted,” and end it with the line, “Nothing was ever the same again after that.” Don’t exceed 600 words and if you win, your entry will be read aloud the FM radio! Like Little Orphan Annie!

I entered a subtle little tale of teenage machismo and abandoned farmhouses. And guess what? Mikey didn’t like it. I lost. Actually, I’ll give myself some credit. I’m pretty sure I just missed the cut of the top 25 runners-up. That fact isn’t exactly confirmed by Carl Kasell, but I’m going to operate under the notion. And if 27th is good enough for the Maldives, then it’s good enough for me.

I thought of tucking the story away in a drawer and pulling it out on rainy Sundays to provide myself with a good windowsill weep, because what else am I gonna do, send it to the Paris Review? Postage to France is expensive! Then I remembered I have a blog and so I might as well share it in the style that is popular with the youth of today. That is, blogically (check Urban Dictionary for me, cause that’s gotta be something the kids say). So here you go. A very short story.

Oh yeah, and after reading it, read this real life tale that was uncovered a few weeks after my fictional one hit the bottom of Ira Glass’s trash can. Disturbing and creepy to say the least.

Covington

Some people swore that the house was haunted. Mark thought haunted wouldn’t fly. Poltergeists were subtle, and the time for subtle had passed. We needed raving. Bleeding. A sweaty lunatic with a painty maul.

Kelly had a girl’s name, but he insisted that back when men were men, they were called Kelly. Lesley. Marion.

“Sue?” asked Mark.

“Sure. Song about it, isn’t there?”

I drove. Always. Hand on the tuner. In search of night music. Not dark exactly, but something that stalked.

“This works,” Mark said.

“Whatever.” Kelly rolled down the window and I could smell the stuff they sprayed to kill mosquitoes. It was a summer of puddles, the summer that was supposed to matter.

We pulled up, noticed that Byron’s place had nylon siding and a sofa on the porch.

“Making crystal in the bathtub, I bet.”

I shook my head, but Mark probably wasn’t far off. I poked the horn, just enough to announce our presence.

Byron was out immediately, screen door snapping behind him. Kelly ducked down to hide his face and I motioned to the back seat.

We’d gone about half a mile when Byron acknowledged it was Kelly sitting shotgun. “Not hittin’ that party, are we?”

“Bingo.” Mark was e