A Perfectly Revolting Book Trailer!

Fresh Summer Cobbler

In this issue I crow about my interview in The Monthly and the book trailer I finally made for Perfectly Revolting.

There's also a picture of me snuggling up to founding father George Mason.

What happened after? I must keep masonic...

Killing Osama

In the weeks following 9/11, I wished death to Osama bin Laden. But I am against death penalties and war as much as I am against murder, so I struggled with my feelings. I lay awake at night pondering capital punishment. How can victims express their hurt and anger without becoming killers themselves? Having a government do the dirty work seems like a good solution until you realize governments are made of individuals, and when it comes down to it, someone has to pull a trigger, push a button. I thought about firing squads and public stonings, hangings and guillotines — all efficient but imperfect — and at last the poetic part of me came up with a theatrical solution. I imagined a pageant for mass-murderers that could be used all over the world in events that provide emotional closure for victims and a reckoning for those who have brought evil. Without making murder anyone's professional calling.

That night, here is how I imagined Osama's final moments:

At Ground Zero, a chair is prepared where he will sit. Above the chair a canopy is stretched, a simple tarpaulin suspended by poles. Outside the poles there is a walkway that goes around the perimeter of the canopy, with stairs leading up and down on either side. Nearby, bulldozers have delivered a pile of rubble saved from the dark mess he made.


The crowd gathers around, and anyone who has been hurt by his actions may take a piece of rubble in their hand. Children, parents, widows, friends, firefighters, rescuers, targeted Muslims, air travelers file past Osama and tell him what he did. They walk up the stairs and toss their object onto the tarp in the name of the Lost, perhaps with a shout, a silent prayer, or the words they've been dying to say. As the day goes on, each small stone adds to the next and the canopy begins to sag. At some point it will break, crushing him under the rubble and pain he created. But the pageant does not end until all the rubble is gone and every harm is spoken.

My Life as a Reader...

I remember reading Richard Scarry's Cars and Trucks and Things that Go on my dad's lap with my brother. Dad would point to a word and if we guessed it right we'd get a sooper smooch. If we guessed it wrong he'd squeeze our feet 'til it hurt. Just a little.

I got to watch the first season of Sesame Street before I started kindergarten. I also loved the Electric Company, which came on after school starting when I was in 1st grade. Especially the "r... ead... read!" segment.

I remember the first time I realized I could read silently, in my head, without speaking the words. An "a-ha!" moment that showed me the power of thought.

The first "chapter book" I read by myself was Matilda, a book about a cat having babies. Then my own cat had babies. B is for Betsy was my first series.

In kindergarten, I tested at a 3rd grade reading level, so my teacher let me go to the school library alone at library time. In first grade, I went to the school library at library time and my angry (distraught?) teacher sent me to the principal.

In sixth grade, my friend Cathy and I spent our recess time looking for entrances to Narnia.

In junior high, I had a reading elective. I'd check out a book during 8th period each day and read it throughout the school day, annoying all of my other teachers. Especially when I could still answer all their questions. But during those years I was a lonely latchkey kid, so those books were my best friends.

I had a vague awareness at that time of how much books had given me. And the inkling of an idea to write one of my own some day, to give something back. A feeling that lingers to this day.

I couldn't decide which college to go to until I found one that was entirely based on reading. I met the "Great Books." When I got there I realized how hard reading can be. First you have to read something. Then you have to try to understand what the author is saying. Then, and only then, should you form your own opinion. It's easier to jump right to step three. Or just read easy books.

What a treat it was, then, to have a child! I got to re-read all my favorite books out loud, meet all my old friends again, make some new ones. Again, that idea haunts me: Give something back.

I realized, in my late thirties, that nothing makes me happier than writing. Well, almost nothing. The books, they do stack up.