Ava and Taco Cat

by Carol Weston

  If Mr. Ramirez had asked for just a quick reaction, I might have said, “Bravo!” and “Well done!” and that would be that.

  But since Mr. Ramirez asked me about “the possibility of publication,” I feel I should let you know that the marketplace for picture books is very tight, and most editors are not keen on rhyming books. The Cat in the Hat aside, successful rhymes are deceptively difficult. There’s also the question of the audience for Alphabet Fish. Do most children care about mudskippers or queen triggerfish? Can they relate? (A stickler might question whether a jellyfish is a fish at all.)

  I’m looking forward to working with your grade next Tuesday and Friday, and we will talk more about writing then. For now, Ava, think about what inspires you. Is it fish? Or might there be another subject closer to your heart? And can you come up with a real story someday, one with a beginning, middle, and end? Is there something you are ardent about?

  I hope you don’t find my candor discouraging. I like the way you use words, and I admire your ambition.

  Respectfully yours,

  Jerry Valentino

  I showed the letter to Mr. Ramirez. “Aren’t I too young to get a rejection letter?” I asked.

  “He’s an author, not an editor, so technically, it’s not a rejection letter,” he said, reading it. “And it’s very respectful, even though, okay, he doesn’t think you hit a home run your first time at bat.” (Mr. Ramirez was using a baseball metaphor.) “Look, maybe he should be taking me to task for putting thoughts into your young heads.”

  “Pip was excited,” I confessed. “And his ‘candor’ is ‘discouraging.’”

  “Can you break it to her gently?” Mr. Ramirez said. “Or do you want me to?”

  “I will.”

  At home, I showed Dad the letter. He was making ratatouille, which is a hard spelling word as well as a gross vegetarian dish. Dad read the letter all the way through. “Publication at this stage probably wasn’t a very realistic expectation,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “But hard work is its own reward. And you and Pip had fun doing it, right?”

  “Most of the time,” I said and made a face.

  Dad smiled because he knows that Pip and I don’t allllllways get along any more than he and Uncle Patrick allllllways got along. “You’re talented, Ava,” he said. “And you’re disciplined. If you want to write a book or a play someday, I have no doubt you’ll do it.”

  “I don’t want to write a play,” I said, because Dad’s the playwright, not me. I almost added, “But I do want to write a book.” I didn’t though, because I’m not ready to say that out loud, not even to Dad.

  “Want to slice veggies with me?” Dad asked.

  “Sure,” I said, and he showed me how small he wanted the pieces. I swear, sometimes it seems as if Meatless Mondays come way more than once a week!

  We chopped and chopped, and when I cut into an onion, my eyes got teary, and I pretended it was because of the rejection letter.

  Dad knew I was kidding, but when Pip came home, I showed her the letter, and it was obvious that she really was disappointed. She tried to hide it, but at dinner she was almost as quiet as she used to be. When I think about it, Pip had spent way more time on the fish drawings than I had on the rhymes.

  Just now, we were brushing our teeth, and Pip said, “I wish he’d liked it.”

  At first I said, “What?” (Actually, I said, “Whaaa?” because my mouth was full of toothpaste.) But then I said, “Me too.”

  “And I wish we could reject his rejection letter,” she added.

  I nodded and spat and said that at least Jerry Valentino hadn’t said anything bad about her illustrations, just about my words. Which was true, but also nice and unselfish of me to point out.

  Ava, Altruistic (that means nice and unselfish)

  1/25

  in bed

  Dear Diary,

  Pip knocked on my door and said, “I might make a flower alphabet book called Z is for Zinnia. It could be all pictures, no rhymes.”

  “Great idea!” I said because I didn’t want her to ask me to write twenty-six flower rhymes.

  Truth is, I think Pip likes working by herself as much as she likes collaborating. In school, I often like working by myself more than doing “teamwork” or “group work” too. (Exception: I like when Chuck and I switch spelling tests.)

  Anyway, I just read an Aesop fable, but it was so scary that I feel like knocking on Mom and Dad’s door. But I haven’t done that in a long time.

  The story is called “The One-Eyed Doe” and goes like this:

  A deer that had lost an eye was grazing on a high cliff near the sea. She liked grazing there because she could keep her good eye toward the land and be on the lookout for hunters, and keep her blind eye toward the sea where she assumed she was safe. One day, however, a sailor on a ship noticed how beautiful she was and took his bow and arrow and shot her dead. As she drew her last breath, she realized (and this is the moral): “Trouble can come from where you least expect it.”

  After reading that unhappy ending, I did not want to turn my light off, so I reread Jerry Valentino’s letter one more time, and it got me thinking: What subjects are close to my heart? What am I “ardent” about? (“Ardent” is when you care a lot about something.)

  Ava, Ardent

  1/26

  first thing in the morning

  Dear Diary,

  Did Taco sense that I’d gotten bad news and read a bad fable? Last night he jumped onto my bed and instead of staying by my feet or knees, he nestled right up in the crook of my arm. He didn’t face my face, but he waved his tail once so that the soft white tip brushed the bottom of my chin. It tickled and was so sweet. I didn’t think cats could do that.

  Then he did something even sweeter: he purred! In the dark with me!

  It was the first time he’d ever purred in my bed, and it made me happy—especially since that bummer letter had bummed me out and that creepy fable had given me the creeps! Everything was silent in my room except for Taco’s rumble bumble rumble bumble. It sounded louder than ever, but also warm and comforting and peaceful and…hypnotizing.

  For the first time, he also pressed his paws against my side, first one then the other, one then the other. It was like he was giving me a massage and a message. Was he saying, “I love you”?

  Mom once told me that what some people call “kneading,” others call “making biscuits.”

  Then, all of a sudden, for absolutely no reason, Taco stopped and ran off.

  That’s how he rolls.

  Still, it was nice while it lasted!

  Pip likes to go to sleep with a book, but me, I’d rather go to sleep with a cat.

  Ava, About to Be Late to School

  1/26

  bedtime

  Dear Diary,

  I don’t know how much I can write tonight because we wrote a ton in school today, and there’s only so much writing a hand can…handle!

  Besides, I’m not Ava the Ambidextrous—I’m Ava the Rightie. If I were ambidextrous, maybe I could switch hands whenever my writing hand got tired. (Then again, brains get tired too.)

  So here’s what happened:

  Jerry Valentino came to our classroom. He’s as tall and skinny as ever, but his straggly hair is longer than it was in October, and this time he wore it in a ponytail. I bet Principal Gupta was shocked that our school’s special guest had a ponytail, but I guess there’s no dress code for grown-ups.

  Anyway, Mrs. Lemons introduced Jerry Valentino and lifted up our class copy of Campfire Nights. It had been read, reread, and rereread so many times that someone should have ordered a new one by now. The book is missing a corner of its cover!

  Well, I was worried that Jerry Valentino might say out loud what he’d said in his letter (that my rhymes were lame and who cares about fish?). But he didn’t. He
just looked out at us all, including Maybelle, Zara, Chuck, Riley, and the three Emilys, and said he wanted to help us become better writers. He talked about his six best writing tips and we copied them down. Here they are:

  Creative Writing Tips

  1. Write from the heart: write about what you care about.

  2. Use your head: think about beginning, middle, and end.

  3. Show, don’t just tell: it’s better to reveal than to explain.

  4. Use your senses: sight, smell, sound, taste, touch.

  5. Provide details: paint pictures with words.

  6. Read your work aloud: listen to the rhythm and music of the words.

  Next he said he was going to give us a “prompt.”

  “What’s a prompt?” Riley asked.

  Jerry Valentino said it was a word or phrase that he hoped would “spark ideas” and inspire us. He said we would write for five minutes, and afterward, we’d go around the room and share our work aloud, and everyone would say something positive.

  “Only positive?” Zara asked.

  “Only positive,” Jerry Valentino said.

  “You mean we can’t hold our noses and say, ‘P.U. That stinks!’?” Chuck joked.

  “Chuck, please.” Mrs. Lemons scowled at him. Chuck gave me a tiny smile, so I gave him a tiny smile back.

  Jerry Valentino said, “Is everyone ready?”

  Amir said, “Should we use lined paper?”

  Mrs. Lemons said yes.

  Zara said, “Can I sharpen my pencil?”

  Mrs. Lemons said, “Make it quick.”

  Emily Jenkins said, “Can I go to the bathroom?”

  Mrs. Lemons looked exasperated. “Can’t you wait five minutes?”

  Finally, Jerry Valentino gave us the first prompt. It was: “my grandfather’s hands.”

  At first, everyone looked confused, but then everyone (except me) wrote and wrote and wrote until he said to stop.

  Soon everyone shared their writing out loud, and he didn’t let anyone apologize ahead of time even though Emily Sherman started to say she didn’t get to finish.

  He said she could finish at home if she wanted and not to worry because what we were doing was more like “sketching with words” than “creating polished prose.”

  Well, Chuck was the first to read out loud. He wrote about how his grandfather taught him to box with big brown soft gloves. I said, “That was really good” because it was.

  Zara wrote that her grandfather’s hands are rough and calloused and “have dirt under the fingernails.” Riley said, “Dirt is a good detail.”

  Emily LaCasse wrote about how her grandfather used to play the piano, but now his hands have spots on them and one pinkie bends the wrong way. Jerry Valentino said, “Nice!” which was weird because it was not nice that his pinkie bends the wrong way and is funny-looking, but I guess Jerry Valentino meant that he liked the detail.

  Maybelle wrote about how her grandfather was “a card shark” whose hands always “held an ace.” Jerry Valentino said her writing was “very clever.”

  I wrote just one sentence saying that I’d never gotten to meet either of my grandfathers and that this was a shame. Chuck said that was sad. But Jerry Valentino said I should have asked for a different prompt.

  That made me mad because how was I supposed to know? Everyone had been scribbling away, and the classroom was so pin-drop quiet that I thought I was doing the right thing by not interrupting.

  Fortunately, he gave us a brand-new prompt. He said to write about something “warm and comforting.”

  Everyone started writing a mile a minute, including me.

  Later, we went around the room again. Emily Sherman wrote about hot chicken soup after a snowball fight. Emily LaCasse wrote about how her baby blanket had been washed so many times it was “the size of a dish rag.” Emily Jenkins wrote about the “gentle sound of summer rain” on the roof of her camp cabin. Riley wrote about her pony’s sweaty neck. Maybelle wrote about the gingerbread her great aunt used to make, back when Maybelle used to help push her around in a wheelchair. And Chuck wrote about his stuffed animal, Buffalo Billy, and how he used to sleep with it when he was little, but it always ended up on the floor, and then he’d feel bad, so now Buffalo Billy sits on a shelf. Chuck seemed embarrassed after reading that aloud, but I said it was sweet.

  Mostly everyone said good things about everyone else’s words, and I think the exercise helped us all get to know each other better—even though most of us (besides Zara) had already known each other for years.

  Guess what I wrote about?

  Correct! Taco Cat and his warm and comforting rumbly bumbly purring!

  Jerry Valentino said we’d all done “fine work” and if anyone wanted to take the prompt home and develop it into a longer story, he’d be happy to take a look on Friday. I think most people (like Chuck and Jamal) thought, “No way,” because this was extra credit, not homework. But I was thinking, “Way!”

  I also felt a little shift happening inside me. Or maybe a big one?

  It was like, deep inside my body, for three or four seconds, everything went totally still because I was making a decision. No, I was making a plan. No, I was making a…commitment! (That’s a bonus word that’s like a promise.)

  In his letter, Jerry Valentino had asked if there might be another subject closer to my heart. Obviously, my cat is closer to my heart than angelfish, bumblebee fish, or catfish—combined. (For a while, maybe Taco really was my “primary topic of conversation.”)

  My hand shot up into the air. “Can I try to turn what I wrote into a children’s book?”

  “May I, not can I,” he corrected. “And sure, you may.”

  I wanted to say, “I’m glad I may and I hope I can!” But I didn’t. Besides, my brain was already busy thinking about the story I wanted to write. It kept coming up with ideas and I kept taking notes.

  Now I’m yawning and yawning, so I am calling it a night.

  Ambitious Ava, Inspired but Tired

  P.S. Should I ask Pip to draw a cover for the new book? I don’t think so. She might be better at fish and flowers than cats and people anyway.

  1/28

  bedtime

  Dear Diary,

  I didn’t write in you yesterday because I’d already spent a zillion hours writing and rewriting a picture book I’m calling “The Cat Who Wouldn’t Purr.” I tried to use my heart and my head, to show not just tell, to use senses and details, and to think about the rhythm and music of words.

  I also employed alliteration and onomatopoeia and poetic license. And I made Pip a character (sort of). I even read my work aloud before pressing print, which Dad says real writers do.

  It was not easy. It was work. But it was fun work (which seems like an oxymoron but might not be).

  What I mean is: I liked feeling so focused. Instead of my mind being in lots of places, it was in just one place. And I was in charge. In real life, I don’t have that much control over my cat or my friends or my family, but I guess I do have control over my work, or at least what words I put on what page.

  Like, you can’t 100 percent count on other people, but if you do your best, maybe you can count on yourself.

  Last year, Mrs. (Bright) White said that if you have talent, you “owe it to yourself and others to put it to good use.”

  Well, I tried anyway.

  I am now stapling one copy here, and tomorrow I will give a copy to Jerry Valentino. I hope he likes it more than Alphabet Fish. I revised this story so many times, I don’t know if this is the fifteenth draft—or fiftieth. I kept thinking, “Ta-da! I’m done!” but then I kept making changes.

  And now, without further ado, ta-da! Here’s:

  The Cat Who Wouldn’t Purr

  by Ava Wren, Age Eleven

  Once upon a time, two sisters brought home
a cat.

  At first, the cat was very shy and very scared.

  For three days, he hid in the dark under the sofa.

  On day four, he crept out, whiskers first.

  He found many things he liked to do.

  He liked to nibble the tops of tulips.

  He liked to drink water from the faucet.

  He liked to burrow in brown bags.

  And he liked to nap by the fireplace.

  But he would not purr.

  He liked to smell shoes that came in from outside.

  He liked to watch movies on TV.

  He liked to chase string and ping-pong balls and laser lights.

  And he liked to nap on folded clothes, warm from the dryer.

  But he would not purr.

  He liked to hunt for flies.

  He liked to sprawl on books.

  He liked to step on keyboards and type mmmms and zzzzs and jwfqs.

  And he liked to nap in a corner of the closet, by the slippers.

  But he would not purr.

  The two sisters began to feel impatient,

  But they tried to keep the faith and

  Respect their cat’s inner nature.

  Because you can’t force a cat to do anything—

  Especially purr!

  One morning, after nibbling and chasing and hunting,

  The cat found a rhombus of sunshine on the rug.

  He licked himself, yawned, and tucked in his tail.

  He put one paw over his eyes and curled up for a catnap.

  Did he purr?

  No, he did not.

  The younger sister began to brush the cat’s fur.

  She brushed slowly and gently, slowly and gently.

  After a while, a long, long, long while,

  She heard a funny, soft sound coming from deep inside the cat:

  rumble bumble rumble bumble rumble bumble