When Albert Whitman & Company agreed to publish Small Steps, my joy surpassed even the delight I’d felt at the acceptance of my first novel. This book was personal; it meant more to me than anything else I had ever written.
The publisher wanted to put a picture of me in my wheelchair on the cover. I looked through all the old family photos and found none of me sitting in the wheelchair.
I called my mother, who told me that after I could walk on my own, she had destroyed every photo of me in my wheelchair and every picture of me using my walking sticks.
“I didn’t want to remember you that way,” she explained. “I wanted to put polio behind us.”
Her action reflected society’s attitude at that time. In 1950, a person who couldn’t walk was considered “crippled.” It was thought that such people could never lead as full a life or contribute as much as those without a handicap. President Franklin D. Roosevelt, who was also a polio survivor, hid his disability from the public, too, and his was harder to conceal than mine.
With my consent, the publisher put a picture of Dorothy and Alice, two of my hospital roommates, on the cover of Small Steps. This decision caused no end of confusion. Readers assumed, quite naturally, that since my book was a memoir, I was in the cover picture. Dozens of readers asked, “Which one is Peg?”
When the paperback edition was being planned, the publishers and I agreed that my picture should be on the cover, even without my wheelchair. A photo of me that had originally been in the middle of the book was exchanged with the picture of Alice and Dorothy.
When Small Steps came out, even people who knew me well were surprised to learn that I’d had polio.
For three years in high school, my friend Margaret and I spent as much time as possible together. We slept at each other’s homes, sang duets, went to basketball games, and shared our innermost thoughts. After graduation, we kept in touch.
When Margaret read Small Steps, she called me. “You never told me about having polio!” she said. “In high school, I thought I knew every detail of your life, but I never knew about your most extraordinary experience. I can’t believe it!”
I can’t believe it myself. My only explanation is that my parents chose to “put polio behind us.” Because they never talked about my hospital experiences, I didn’t talk about them, either.
Of all my books, Small Steps was the hardest to write, partly because I had to tell the truth. When I write fiction, if something doesn’t work well in the story, I change it. I make up characters and motivation and events. Small Steps is about real people. It’s more difficult to be honest about my own thoughts and feelings than about those of imagined characters.
In my case, the truth was liberating. Telling my own story helped me accept my past and made it easier for me to deal with my ongoing polio problems. If a young girl could survive such an experience and be emotionally stronger for it, then surely a mature woman can live with some physical problems and be emotionally and spiritually stronger, too. I’ve been far more fortunate than many polio survivors. I’ve had over fifty years of nearly normal mobility, and I’m grateful for those years.
After Small Steps was published, I got hundreds of letters from readers. One of my favorites was from a mother who told me her son began weeping at the end of the book. When she asked why he was crying, he said, “Because the best book I’ll ever read is over.”
Many children wrote to me about the physical problems they faced. I heard from kids with multiple sclerosis, diabetes, broken bones, muscular dystrophy—even one child who described, in bloody detail, her cut finger.
As the mail from kids with physical problems poured in, I decided to write a book about a disease that some of them still have to battle, the way I fought to overcome polio. Once again, I started reading medical material. I considered lupus and cancer in addition to the diseases already mentioned.
In the end, I chose juvenile rheumatoid arthritis (JRA). I had read that two hundred thousand kids in the U.S. have this disease. My immediate reaction was that most children would detest that diagnosis because they think arthritis is a problem for old people. Grandparents have arthritis, not kids.
As I read about the problems that JRA causes, I was reminded of my own struggle with polio. I knew I could write convincingly about this disease.
My Brother Made Me Do It is written entirely in letters from Julie, who has JRA, to her eighty-nine-year-old pen pal, Mrs. Kaplan.
The character of Mrs. Kaplan is based on my mother. She sees the good in every situation, she invents marvelous stories, she is loyal to friends and family, and she accepts what life hands her with humor and grace.
I liked Mrs. Kaplan so much, and she became so real to me, that I wept when I wrote of her death. Yet that character still lives because of my book, just as my parents live on in the minds of those who read Small Steps.
Perhaps I don’t write books for my readers so much as I write them for myself.
{ 14 }
Research and Revision
Although I write mostly fiction, I can’t just make up everything out of my head. I still need to do research. Some books require more research than others, but I’ve had to do some investigation for every book.
I especially enjoyed the research for Searching for Candlestick Park. While I was writing that book, Carl and I flew to San Francisco and attended a Giants’ baseball game.
Before the game started, I interviewed one of the ushers. He explained his duties and told me about all the items people have left behind when they leave the stadium. Much of what he said is included in the book.
As I sat in the stands, I wrote a description of the day, the crowd, even the small airplane trailing an advertising banner.
I went to San Francisco’s Greyhound Bus station, too, and I walked the streets where my character, Spencer, walks so that when I wrote those scenes, I could do it accurately. I did the same thing in Seattle, where Spencer’s journey began.
I took pictures of the ballpark in San Francisco, which at that time was 3Com Park. I sent those to my editor, to be forwarded to the artist. In case he used the ballpark in the cover art, I wanted it to look right.
Unfortunately, that was the only time my research included a trip to California to see a ball game. Most research is done by reading reference books, making phone calls, searching the Internet, or interviewing people.
The Secret Journey is about a girl in 1834 who sneaks aboard a sailing ship, hoping to accompany her parents to France. Instead, she gets on a notorious slave ship bound for Africa. Here are some of the things I needed to find out while I was writing The Secret Journey.
I. What foods would be served in Liverpool, England, in 1834? 2. What coin might a sailor there give to a boy who helps him? 3. What did the waterfront area look like? 4. What were sailing ships like at that time? 5. What constellations are visible from the deck of a ship off the coast of Africa in June? 6. What is the temperature of the ocean at that time and place? 7. How do chimpanzees behave? 8. What are the symptoms of malaria?
I like doing research, and I strive for accuracy. Sometimes I need to ask an expert for help. I found out the ocean temperature for The Secret Journey by calling a friend who works for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), and I got the correct constellations from an astronomy professor at the University of Washington.
Sometimes I ask an expert to read an entire manuscript before I send it to my publisher. The Volcano Disaster was read by the lead interpreter at the Mount Saint Helens Visitor Center, and Terror at the Zoo was read by two people in the education department at Seattle’s Woodland Park Zoo.
One of the Woodland Park readers told me, “We like the book, but you made a mistake. You mentioned a kangaroo, and we have no kangaroos in this zoo.”
“Then what are those animals with pouches and big tails, that hop along on their hind legs?” I asked.
“They’re wallaroos,” I was told. “It’s a kind of kangaroo.”
 
; Before I submitted the manuscript, I changed it to say wallaroo.
Then I heard from my editor. “What in the world is a wallaroo?” she asked. “No one will know what you’re talking about. Can’t you just say kangaroo?”
Well, no, I couldn’t. Not after the zoo people had objected.
I changed the sentence again, this time saying, “wallaroo, a kind of kangaroo,” and I hoped everyone was happy with that.
Except for the unpublished book about Alzheimer’s disease, the most time I ever spent researching one book was for Shelter Dogs: Amazing Stories of Adopted Strays. Each of the eight chapters in the book required one or more interviews with the dog’s owner.
But first I had to find the right combination of dogs for the book. This took days of phone calls before I ever began the interviews.
For example, I wanted to include a dog who had rescued his family from a fire, so I called the non-emergency number for every fire department in the Puget Sound region, where I live. I left messages explaining who I was, the kind of book I was writing, and what I was looking for. “If you know of a dog who rescued someone from a fire,” I concluded, “please call me.”
Someone from the Redmond, Washington, fire department called back to tell me about Ivan, a dog who had rescued a mother and child from their burning home. Both people were hearing-impaired and couldn’t hear the fire alarm.
My first question was, “Do you know where they got Ivan?” Since the focus of my book was dogs who came from animal shelters, I couldn’t use the fire story, no matter how compelling it was, if the dog had been purchased from a breeder or pet shop.
The fire department spokesman didn’t know Ivan’s background, but when I tracked down the dog’s owner, I learned that she had adopted Ivan from the county animal shelter. Ivan’s owner didn’t hear well enough to talk to me on the telephone so I interviewed her via e-mail.
I’ve had to find out the cost of a license to pilot a hot air balloon and the black market price for a bear’s gall bladder.
I’ve stood on the bank of a river where bald eagles go to catch salmon. I’ve examined (carefully!) antique Wedgwood china, attended a cat show, and had myself hypnotized. I once checked out so many library books about poisons that the librarian asked me to show identification.
Many times the research never shows in the manuscript. For two books, Deadly Stranger and I’m Not Who You Think I Am, I had to learn about mental illness, to be sure that the characters behaved in ways that were consistent with their sickness.
I also do extensive revision on every book. By now it would seem I should be able to write a flawless first draft. So far that hasn’t happened. I usually write every book at least four times before I’m satisfied
I rewrote the first sentence of Saving Lilly twenty-two times. The final version goes like this: “Not many sixth-graders get an opportunity to save an elephant.”
I work on a computer and do most of the revision that way. When the book seems as good as I can make it, I print it out. As soon as I read the words on paper, I see many places in need of revision. I go through the manuscript, making corrections in pencil. Then I put those changes on the computer and print again.
When I think the manuscript is finished, I send it to my editor, whose job is to be sure the writing is clear, interesting, and has no errors. Sometimes I’m asked to add material, or cut part of what I’ve written. It isn’t easy to eliminate paragraphs or even whole pages that I’ve labored over. Most of the time I take the editor’s advice, but not always.
The editors don’t tell me how to make the changes. They note what needs to be fixed, but it’s up to me to do the repairs.
A few times I have been asked to change the book’s title. When I wrote a book called What Happened to Grandma Ruth? my editor wisely pointed out that my title probably wouldn’t appeal to my readers. That book became Night of Fear.
First drafts are plain hard work for me, partly because I don’t outline in advance. I just jump into the story with a vague idea of the plot. Usually I don’t know how it will end until I write the ending.
Revisions are my favorite part of the writing process. I especially like to play with words, to see if I can improve a description or add color or texture to a scene. In my first drafts, I usually tell what the characters see and hear as well as how they feel. Later revisions often include what the characters taste, smell, or touch.
In Don’t Tell Anyone, Megan hides from her kidnapper in the forest. The first draft said, “She came to a large fir tree and hid behind it.” In the final version, I added, “She pressed herself against the rough bark. The tree smelled like Christmastime; Megan blinked back tears as she thought of Mom and Kylie.”
Toward the end of my revising, I read through the manuscript once, trying to cut three words from each page. This process tightens the story, and those excess words aren’t missed.
A student once confronted me after a school talk and said, “My teacher paid you to say that, didn’t she?”
“To say what?” I asked.
“That part about rewriting your books. She paid you to say that, didn’t she?”
I assured her that no teacher had bribed me to include anything in my talk, but I could tell she didn’t believe me.
Later she and her teacher came to the table where I was signing books.
“Lesley thinks I paid you to say you revise your work,” the teacher said. By the twinkle in her eyes, I knew she must have been telling Lesley all year about the importance of revision.
I held up my right hand. “I swear she didn’t ask me to say that,” I said.
The teacher held up her right hand. “I swear I didn’t even meet Peg until after her talk.”
Lesley looked at us, sighed loudly, and walked away.
“Thank you,” the teacher whispered. “Lesley wants to be a writer, and she has talent, but she won’t revise her work.”
If she wants to be a writer, I thought, she had better revise her attitude.
{ 15 }
Talk, Talk, Talk
Soon after Deadly Stranger was published, I was invited to speak to the Honors English class at a middle school. I agreed to do it, and then panicked. What would I say? I was a writer, not a public speaker.
I called a writer friend who visits dozens of schools each year and asked her advice.
“Oh, just tell them how you wrote your book,” she said. “Say where you got your idea, and answer their questions. It’s easy.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. I’m frequently ill at ease with people. Except with family and close friends, I often feel awkward, as if I am there by mistake. How was I going to talk to an entire class? I considered calling the school back and inventing an excuse not to come.
Instead I spent several days making notes and hoping I would not be too boring.
When the day came, I arrived early. The teacher greeted me, said she had a quick errand to do before class started, and left.
I was alone in the room when the bell rang. As the students filed in, I smiled at them nervously.
Two boys came in together. One whispered to the other, “Rats. We have a sub today.”
“That isn’t a sub,” the second boy said. “That’s the author!”
The first boy looked me over. “That’s the author?” he said, clearly astonished. “She looks like someone you’d see in the grocery store.”
He was right, and at that moment, I would have felt far more at ease pushing my cart through the produce aisle at Safeway.
I don’t remember exactly what I talked about that day, but the students seemed interested, asked lots of questions, and the teacher was grateful that I had come. I was mostly relieved to have it over.
This was the first of several hundred school visits. As I published more books for kids, and my books became better known, many speaking invitations came in. I visited nearly all of my local schools and found it was fun to meet my readers. Such visits also sold a lot of books, which kept my publishe
rs happy.
Before long I was asked to talk at schools in other states, usually for several days at a time. I went whenever I could work the invitation into my schedule.
I quickly grew tired of flying off alone and staying by myself in hotels, so Carl and I bought a small motor home, got the license plate BKS4KDS, and began traveling together to do book talks. We took our dog, Daisy, and our cat, Pete, with us.
On our first motor home trip, I talked at twenty-six schools and two public libraries, spoke to ten groups at a children’s literature festival, and autographed books at two bookstores.
We were busy, but we loved traveling by motor home.
One weekend, we stayed at the Indiana Dunes National Recreation Area. It rained Saturday night, and when we got up the next morning we found a tiny kitten hiding under our motor home, trying to stay dry. There were only a few other campsites occupied. We carried the kitten to each of them, but none of the campers had lost her.
We spoke to the park ranger who told us, “People drop off unwanted kittens here all the time. Usually the coyotes eat them, or they get run over.”
A car had parked for a time in the campsite across from us the night before, but the people had left without spending the night. Had they come only to abandon an unwanted kitten?
The idea that anyone would be so cowardly and inhumane made me furious. I cuddled the kitten in my arms.
“Pretty smart cat,” Carl remarked. “A big campground like this, and she found the humane society volunteers.”
We were concerned that the kitten might have a disease that Pete or Daisy would catch, and we didn’t need another animal in the motor home. Still, we couldn’t just leave her at the campground.
“Maybe there’s a humane society near here,” I suggested. “They could find a good home for such a pretty kitten.”
We drove to the local animal shelter. It was understaffed, overflowing with animals, and struggling financially. Someone examined the kitten, then said she appeared to be healthy and they would take her. But it was clear to us that they had too many cats already. Instead of leaving the kitten for them to worry about, we gave them a donation and took the kitten with us.