A Mime in Times Square

Everyone has a story. Now don’t mistake this for “true confessions of a peeping Jane,” but for years I’ve had this strange interest in looking at houses. I especially love the charming or grand homes--driving past them at night and seeing their lighted windows. Sometimes I'll catch a glimpse of the homeowner's décor or a flash of activity, and then imagine the stories going on within those illuminated windows. I’m also intrigued by mountain shacks you sometimes see all alone beside a stream, or curious little houses tucked away in a grove of trees. Who lives in those places? Perhaps a family of gnomes? A deranged killer, hiding out? An elderly lady who believes she owns any creature that crosses her property line? And if I lived there, what would my life be like? What would my story be? Years ago when I lived in New York City, I had that same lighted-window awareness. My apartment faced the Empire State Building, and I could see it standing in the distance. The surrounding buil...

This summer I must say goodbye to my childhood home in Claremont, California. My father has sold his house and will move away forever in two weeks. I feel like I'm reading the last few sentences of a cherished novel. My parents and I, along with my two younger sisters and brothers, moved to Claremont from Rolling Meadows, Illinois soon after the Chicago blizzard of ’76. It was a record-breaking storm that left snow piled so high you had to dig yourself out of your front door. For a kid my age, playing outside was like navigating an alien planet. You’d go out in your puffy astronaut attire, and your feet would begin to sink all the way down to your waist. If you weren’t careful, you just might be sucked into a cold white, endless void and disappear. So Claremont was a foreign, but welcome place. As we arrived at the airport and headed toward our new home, the California palm trees beckoned us like pillars along a palace entrance. Dad had purchased a new house already, and it was emp...

I remember when I used to say, "If only I could get one story published--just one--that's all I'd ever need. One book on the shelves. One publication. If I could get a single book published, I'd be satisfied for the rest of my life." Well, that's a big fat load of hogslop. After I learned that COOL DADDY RAT had been purchased by Putnam, it started all over again. "If I could just get one more book published, I'd be a legitimate author. I'm only a one-hit wonder with one book. Anybody can do it once. One's a fluke. I've got to have two to be real." Another enormous lie. Three is still not enough. So I write and submit and wait. Write, submit, wait. A torturous undertaking, but I'm hopelessly compelled. It's not that my previous books don't matter, because I am delighted to see each one in print. It's a rewarding thing when those illustrations arrive, smelling like crisp paper and ink, and I get to meet my characters f...